CHAPTER XXXII.

A NIGHT EXPEDITION.

Seven o'clock was striking out on a dark winter's night, as a hired

carriage with a pair of post-horses drew up near to the gates of

Dallory Hall. Apparently the special hour had been agreed upon as a

rendezvous; for before the clock had well told its numbers, a small

group of people might have been seen approaching the carriage from

different ways.

There issued out from the Hall gates, Mr. North, leaning on the right

arm of his son Richard. Richard had quitted his chamber to join in

this expedition. His left arm was in a sling, and he looked pale; but

he was fast progressing towards recovery; and Mr. Seeley,

confidentially consulted, had given him permission to go forth. Mrs.

Gass came up from the direction of Dallory; and Dr. Rane came striding

from the Ham. A red-faced, portly gentleman in plain clothes, standing

near the carriage, greeted them: without his official costume and in

the dark night, few would have recognized him for Inspector Jekyll,

who had been directing affairs in the churchyard the previous day.

Mrs. Gass, Mr. North and Richard, entered the carriage. The Inspector

was about to ascend the box, the postillion being on the horses, but

Dr. Rane said he would himself prefer to sit outside. So Mr. Jekyll

got inside, and the doctor mounted; and the carriage drove away down

Dallory Ham.

Peering after it, in the dark night, behind the gates, was Mrs. North.

Some one beside her--it was only a servant-boy--ran off, at a signal,

towards the stables with a message, as fast as his legs would carry

him. There came back in answer madam's carriage--which must have been

awaiting the signal---with a pair of fresh fleet horses.

"Catch it up, and keep it in sight at a distance," were her orders to

the coachman, as she stepped in. So the post-carriage was being

tracked and followed: a fact none of its inmates had the slightest

notion of.

In her habit of peeping and prying, of listening at doors, of glancing

surreptitiously into other people's letters, and of ferreting

generally, madam had become aware during the last twenty-four hours

that something unusual was troubling the equanimity of Mr. North and

Richard: that some journey, to be taken in secret by Mr. North, and

kept secret, was being decided upon. Conscience--when it is not an

easy one--is apt to suggest all sorts of unpleasant things, and

madam's whispered to her that this hidden expedition had reference to

herself; and--perhaps--to a gentleman who had recently arrived in

England--William Adair.

Madam's cheeks turned pale through rouge and powder, and she bit her

lips in impotent rage. She could have found means, no doubt, to keep

Mr. North within doors, though she had broken his leg to accomplish

it; she could have found means to keep Richard also, had she known he

was to be of the party: but of what avail? Never a cleverer woman

lived, than madam, and she had the sense to know that a meeting with

Mr. Adair (and she believed the journey had reference to nothing else)

could not thus be prevented: it must take place sooner or later.

A carriage was to be in waiting near the Hall gates after dark, at

seven o'clock--madam had learned so much. Where was it going to? In

which direction? For what purpose? That at least madam could

ascertain. She gave private orders of her own: and as night

approached, retired to her room with a headache, forbidding the

household to disturb her. Mr. North, as he dined quietly in his

parlour, thought how well things were turning out. He had been haunted

with a fear of madam's pouncing upon him, at the moment of departure,

with a demand to know the why and the wherefore of his secret

expedition.

Madam, likewise attired for a journey, had escaped from the Hall long

before seven, and taken up her place amidst the shrubs near the

entrance-gates, her position commanding both the way from the house

and the road without. On the stroke of seven, steps were heard

advancing; and madam strained her gaze.

_Richard!_ Who had not yet left his sick-room! But for his voice, as

he spoke to his father, madam would have thought the night was playing

tricks with her eyesight.

She could not see who else got into the carriage: but she did see Dr.

Rane come striding by; and she thought it was he upon the box when the

carriage passed. Dr. Rane? Madam, catching her breath, wondered what

private histories Mrs. Cumberland had confided to him, and how much he

was now on his way to bear witness to. Madam was altogether on the

wrong scent--the result of her suggestive conscience.

Almost in a twinkling, she was shut up in her own carriage, as

described, her coachman alone outside it.

The man had no difficulty in obeying orders. The post-carriage was not

as light as madam's. Keeping at a safe distance, he followed in its

wake, unsuspected. First of all, from the Ham down the back lane, and

then through all sorts of frequented, cross-country by-ways.

Altogether, as both drivers thought, fifteen or sixteen miles.

The post-carriage drew up at a solitary house, on the outskirts of a

small hamlet. Madam's carriage halted also, further away. Alighting,

she desired her coachman to wait: and stole cautiously along under

cover of the hedge, to watch proceedings. It was then about nine

o'clock.

They were all going into the house: a little crowd, as it seemed to

madam; and the post-carriage went slowly away, perhaps to an inn. What

had they gone to that house for? Was Mr. Adair within it? Madam was

determined to see. She partly lost sight of prudence in her

desperation, and was at the door just as it closed after them. Half a

minute and she knocked softly with her knuckles. It was opened by a

young girl with a broad country face, and red elbows.

"Law!" said she. "I thought they was all in. Do you belong to 'em?"

"Yes," said Mrs. North.

So she went in also, and crept up the dark staircase, after them,

directed by the girl. "Fust door you comes to at the top." Madam's

face was growing ghastly: she fully expected to see William Adair.

The voices alone would have guided her. Several were heard talking

within the room: her husband's she distinguished plainly: and, she

thought, madam certainly thought, he was sobbing. Madam went into a

heat at the sound. What revelation had Mr. Adair been already making?

He had lost no time apparently.

The door was not latched. Madam cautiously pushed it an inch or two

open so as to enable her to see in. She looked very ugly just now, her

lips drawn back from her teeth with emotion, something like a hyena's.

Madam looked in: and saw, not Mr. Adair, but--Bessy Rane.

Bessy Rane. She was standing near the table, whilst Dr. Rane was

talking. Standing quite still, with her placid face, her pretty curls

falling, and wearing a violet-coloured merino gown, that madam had

seen her in a dozen times. In short, it was just like Bessy Rane in

life. On the table, near the one solitary candle, lay some white work,

as if just put out of hand.

In all madam's life she had perhaps never been so frightened as now.

The truth did not occur to her. She surely thought it an apparition,

as Jelly had thought before; or that--or that Bessy had in some

mysterious manner been conveyed hither from that disturbed grave. In

these confused moments the mind is apt to run away with itself.

Madam's was not strong enough to endure the shock, and be silent. With

a piercing shriek, she turned to fly, and fell against the whitewashed

chimney that the architect of the old-fashioned house had seen fit to

carry up through the centre of it. The next moment she was in

hysterics.

Bessy was the first to run to attend her. Bessy herself, you

understand, not her ghost. In a corner of the capacious old room,

built when ground was to be had for an old song, was Bessy's bed; and

on this they placed Mrs. North. Madam was not long in recovering her

equanimity: but she continued where she was, making believe to be

exhausted, and put a corner of her shawl up to her face. For once in

her life that face had a spark of shame in it.

Yes: Bessy was not dead. Humanly speaking, there had never been any

more probability of Bessy's demise than there was of madam's at this

moment. Dr. Rane is giving the explanation, and the others are

standing to listen; excepting Mr. North, who has sat down in an

old-fashioned elbow-chair, whilst Richard leans the weight of his

undamaged arm behind it. Mrs. Gass has pushed back her bonnet from her

beaming face; the inspector looks impassive as befits his calling, but

on the whole pleased.

"I am not ashamed of what I have done," said Dr. Rane, standing by

Bessy's side; "and I only regret it for the pain my wife's supposed

death caused her best friends, Mr. North and Richard. I would have

given much to tell the truth to Mr. North, but I knew it would not be

safe to trust him, and so I wished it to wait until we should have

left the country. For all that has occurred you must blame the

tontine. That is, blame the Ticknells, who obstinately, wrongfully,

cruelly kept the money from us. There were reasons--my want of

professional success one of them--why I wished to quit Dallory, and

start afresh in another place; I and my wife talked of it until it

grew, with me, into a disease; and I believe Bessy grew to wish for it

at last almost as I did."

"Yes, I did, Oliver," she put in.

"Look at the circumstances," resumed Dr. Rane, in his sternest tones,

and not at all as though he were on his defence. "There was the sum of

two thousand pounds belonging to me and my wife conjointly, and they

denied our right to touch it until one of us should be dead and gone!

It was monstrously unjust. You must acknowledge that much, Mr.

Inspector."

"Well--it did seem hard," acknowledged that functionary.

"I know _I_ thought it so," said Mrs. Gass.

"It was more than hard," spoke the doctor passionately. "I used to say

to my wife that if I could get it out of the old trustees' hands by

force, or stratagem, I should think it no shame to do it. Idle talk!

never meant to be anything else. But to get on. The fever broke out in

Dallory, and Bessy was taken ill. She thought it was the fever, and so

did I. I had fancied her a little afraid of it, and was in my heart

secretly thankful to Mr. North for inviting her to the Hall. But

for putting off her visit for a day--through the absence of Molly

Green--what happened later could never have taken place."

Dr. Rane paused, as if considering how he should go on with his story.

After a moment he resumed it, looking straight at them, as he had been

looking all along.

"I wish you to understand that every word I am telling you--and shall

tell you--is the strict truth. The truth, upon my honour, and before

Heaven. And yet, perhaps, even after this, you will scarcely credit me

when I say--that I did believe my wife's illness was the fever. All

that first day--she had been taken ill during the night with sickness

and shivering--I thought it was the fever. Seeley thought it also. She

was in a very high state of feverishness, and no doubt fear for her

served somewhat to bias our judgment. Bessy herself said it was the

fever, and would not hear a word to the contrary. But at night--the

first night, remember--she had nearly an hour of sickness; and was so

relieved by it, and grew so cool and collected, that I detected the

nature of the case. It was nothing but a bad bilious attack,

accompanied by an unusual degree of fever; but it was not _the_ fever.

'You have cheated me, my darling,' I said jestingly, as I kissed her,

'I shall not get the tontine money.'--Here she stands by my side to

confirm it," broke off Dr. Rane, but indeed they could all see he was

relating the simple truth. "'Can you not pretend that I am dead?' she

answered faintly, for she was still exceedingly ill; 'I will go away,

and you can say I died.' Now, of course Bessy spoke jestingly, as I

had done: nevertheless the words led to what afterwards took place.

_I_ proposed it--do not lay the blame on Bessy--that she really should

go away, and I should give it out that she had died."

A slight groan from the region of the bed. Dr. Rane continued.

"It seemed very easy of accomplishment--very. But had I foreseen all

the disagreeable proceedings, the artifice, the trouble, that must

inevitably attend such an attempted deceit, I should never have

entered upon it. Had I properly reflected, I might of course have

foreseen it: but I did not reflect. Nearly all that night Bessy and I

conversed together: chiefly planning how she should get away and where

she should stay. By morning, what with the fatigue induced by this

prolonged vigil, and the exhaustion left by her illness, she was

thoroughly worn out. It had been agreed between us that she should

simulate weariness and a desire to sleep, the better to avert a

discovery of her restoration; but there was no need for simulation;

she was both sleepy and exhausted."

"I never was so sleepy before in all my life," interrupted Bessy.

"The day went on. At ten o'clock, when Phillis left, I went up to my

wife's room, and told her the time for acting had come," pursued Dr.

Rane. "Next I crossed over to Seeley's with the news that my wife was

gone: and I strove to exhibit the grief I should have felt had it been

true. Crossing to my home again, I saw Frank Dallory, and told him.

'The play has begun,' I said to Bossy when I went in--and then I went

forth to Mr. North's; and then on to Hepburn's. Do you remember,

sir, how I tried to soothe your grief?--speaking persistently of

hope--though of course you could not see that any hope remained,"

asked Dr. Rane, turning to Mr. North. "I dared not speak more plainly,

though I longed to do so."

"Ay, I remember," answered Mr. North.

"The worst part of all the business was the next; bringing in the

shell," continued the doctor. "Worse, because I had a horror of my

wife seeing it. I contrived that she did not see it. Hepburn's men

brought it up to the ante-room: Bessy was still in bed in the

front-room, and heard them: I could not help that. When they left, I

put it down by the wall with the trestles, threw some coats carelessly

upon it, and so hid it out of sight. It was time then for Bessy to get

up. Whilst she was dressing, I went round to the stables, where the

horse and gig I use are kept, to make sure that the ostler had gone to

bed--for he had a habit sometimes of sitting up late. It was during

this absence of mine that Bessy went to the landing to listen whether

or not I had come in. The chamber-door was open, so that light shone

on to the landing. It happened to be at that moment that Jelly was at

the opposite window, and--later--thought it was Mrs. Rane's ghost that

she had seen."

Mrs. Gass's amused face was something good to witness. She nodded in

triumph.

"I thought it might have been the effects of beer," said she. "I told

Jelly what an idiot she was. I knew it was no ghost!"

"Bessy made herself ready, took some refreshment, and I brought the

gig to the garden-door and drove my wife away. The only place open at

that time of night--or rather morning--would be some insignificant

railway-station. We fixed on Hewley. I drove her there; and there left

her sitting under cover in solitary state--for I had to get back with

the horse and gig before people were astir. As soon as the morning was

pretty well on, Bessy walked to Churchend, about five miles' distance,

and took a lodging in this very house--this very same room. Here she

has been ever since--and it is a great deal longer time than we either

of us ever anticipated. Poison my wife!" added Dr. Rane, with some

emotion, as he involuntarily drew her towards him, with a gesture of

genuine affection. "She is rather too precious to me for that. _You_

know; don't you, my darling."

The happy tears stood in her eyes as she met his. He stooped and

kissed her, very fondly.

"If my wife were taken from me, the Ticknells might keep the tontine

money, and welcome; I should not care for it without Bessy. It was

chiefly for her sake that my desire to possess it arose," he added

emphatically. "I could not bear that she should be reduced to so poor

a home after the luxury of Dallory Hall. Bessy constantly said that

she did not mind it, but _I_ did; minded it for her and for her

alone."

"Couldn't you have managed all this without the funeral?" asked

Richard North, speaking for the first time.

"How could I?" returned Dr. Rane. "It was not possible. When my wife

was given out as dead, she had to be buried, or Mr. Inspector Jekyll,

there, might have been coming in to ask the reason why. Had I properly

thought of all that must be done, I should, as I say, never have

attempted it. It was hateful to me; and I declare that I don't know

how I could, or did, carry it through. Once or twice I thought I must

give in, and confess, to my shame, that Bessy was living--but I felt

that might be worse, of the two, than going on with it to the end. I

hope the Ticknells will suffer for what they have cost me."

"Jelly says she saw the ghost twice," observed Mrs. Gass,

"Ah! that was Bessy's fault," said Dr. Rane, shaking his head

at his wife, in mock reproval, as we do at a beloved child when

it is naughty. "She was so imprudent as to come home for a few

hours--walking across country by easy stages and getting in after

nightfall. It was about her wardrobe. I have been over twice at

night--or three times, is it not, Bessy?--and brought her things

each time. But Bessy said she must have others; and at last, as I tell

you, she came over herself. I think the clothes were nothing but an

excuse--eh, Bessy?"

"Partly," acknowledged Bessy. "For, oh! I longed for a sight of

home. Just one more sight as a farewell. I had quitted it in so

bewildered a hurry. It again led to Jelly's seeing me. I was at my

large chest-of-drawers, papa," she continued, addressing Mr. North.

"Oliver had gone round for the gig to bring me back again; I thought I

heard him come in again, and went to the landing to listen. It was not

he, but Jelly; and we met face to face. I assure you she frightened me

quite as much as I frightened her."

"And Bessy, my dear, what have the people here thought about it, all

the time?" inquired Mrs. North. "Do they know who you are?"

"Why of course not, papa. They think I am a lady in bad health;

staying here for the sake of country air--and I did feel and look very

ill when I came. An old widow lady has the house, and the girl you saw

is her servant. They are not at all inquisitive. They know us only as

Mr. and Mrs. Oliver, and think we live at Bletchley. I want to know

who pushed matters to extremities in regard to these proceedings

against my husband," added Mrs. Rane, after a pause. "It was not you,

papa: and Richard was doing his best to hush it all up. Richard had

known the truth since an interview he held with Oliver. Who was it,

papa?"

Madam tumbled off the bed, moaning a little, as if she were weak and

ill. Bessy had not the slightest idea that madam had been the culprit.

"Who was it, Mr. Jekyll?" continued Bessy.

The Inspector looked up to the ceiling and down to the floor; and then

thought the candle wanted snuffing. Which it certainly did. Madam

cried in a shrill voice as he was putting down the snuffers, that she

must depart. If the others chose to stay and countenance all this

unparalleled iniquity, _she_ could not do so.

She stood, upright as ever, tossing back her head, all her impudence

returning to her. Dr. Rane quietly put himself in her path as she was

gaining the door.

"Mrs. North, pardon me if I request you to give me a little

information ere you depart, as it is probably the last time we shall

ever meet. What has been the cause of the long-continued and

persistent animosity you have borne towards me?"

"Animosity towards _you!_" returned madam, flippantly. "I have borne

none."

The coolness of the avowal, in the very face of facts, struck them as

almost ludicrous. Mr. North raised his head and gazed at her in

surprise.

"You have pursued me with the most bitter animosity since the first

moment that I came to Dallory, madam," said Dr. Rane, quietly and

steadily. "You have kept practice from me; you have done what you can

to crush me. It is you who urged on this recent charge against me--a

very present proof of what I assert. But for you it might never have

been made."

Madam was slightly at bay: she seemed just a little flurried.

Rallying her powers, she confronted Dr. Rane and told him that she

did not think him skilful and did not personally like him; if she had

been biassed against him, the feeling must have taken its rise in

that--there was nothing else to cause it.

Another of her shuffling untruths--and they all knew it for one. But

they would get nothing better from her.

The fact was this. Madam had feared that Mrs. Cumberland could, and

perhaps would, throw light on a certain episode of the past years: a

contingency madam had dreaded above anything earthly: for this she had

wished and hoped to drive Mrs. Cumberland from the place, and had

thought that if she could drive away Oliver Rane, his mother would

follow him. That was the actual truth: but no living person, excepting

madam, suspected it.

She quitted the room with the last denial, conscious that she did not

just now appear to advantage--for the sneaking act of tracking them

this night, madam, with all her sophistry, could not plead an excuse.

They let her go. Even the Inspector did not pay her the courtesy of

opening the door for her, or of lighting her down the crooked old

wooden stairs. It was Bessy who ran to do it.

"When you found things were going against you, sir, why did you not

declare the truth?" asked the Inspector of Dr. Rane.

"I knew that the moment I declared the truth, all hope of the tontine

money would be at an end; I should have done what I had done for

nothing," answered Dr. Rane. "Richard North undertook to give me

timely notice if things went too far; but he was disabled, you know,

and could not do so. Until they were in the act of disturbing the

grave, I had no warning of it whatever."

A silence followed the answer. Dr. Rane resumed.

"Ill-luck seems to have attended it from the first. Perhaps nothing

else was to be expected. Jelly's having seen my wife was a great

misfortune. And then look at the delay as to the tontine money! Had

the trustees paid it over at once, Bessy and I should have been safe

away long ago."

"Where gone?" asked Mrs. Gass.

"To America. It is where we shall go now, in any case. As I have not

the money to join Dr. Jones as partner, I dare say he will take me as

an assistant."

"See here," said Mrs. Gass. "I don't say that what you've done is

anything but very wrong, doctor; but it might have been worse: and,

compared to what a lot of fools were saying, it seems a trifle. I was

once about to make you an offer of money. Finding you couldn't get the

tontine paid to you and your wife; which, as I've told you, I thought

was a shame, all things considered; I resolved to advance it to you

myself. Mrs. Rane's death stopped me from doing it; I mean, her

reported death. You won't get it now, doctor, from the Ticknells--for

I suppose they'll have to be told the truth: and so you shall have it

from me. Two thousand pounds is ready for you, at your command."

The red flush of emotion mounted to Dr. Rane's pale face. He gazed

eagerly at Mrs. Gass, as if asking whether it could be true.

"It's all right, doctor. You are my late husband's nephew, you know,

and all the money was his. You'll find yourself and your wife

substantially remembered in my will; and as two thousand pounds of it

may do you good now, it shall be advanced to you."

Bessy stole round to Mrs. Gass, and burst into tears on her bosom.

Happy, grateful tears. The doctor, the flush deepening on his face,

took Mrs. Gass's hand and clasped it.

"And I wish to my very heart I had made no delay in the offer at

first," cried Mrs. Gass. "It'll always be a warning to me not to put

off till tomorrow what should be done to-day. And so, doctor, there's

the money ready; and Bessy, my dear, I don't see why you and he need

banish yourselves to America. You might find a good practice, doctor,

and not go further than London."

"I must go to America; I must," said the doctor, hastily. "Neither I

nor Bessy would like now to remain in England."

"Well, perhaps you may be right," acquiesced Mrs. Gass.

"But it's a long way off," said Mr. North.

"It may not be for ever, sir," observed Dr. Rane, cheerfully. "I know

I shall do well there; and when I have made a fortune perhaps we may

come back and live in London. Never again in Dallory. The old and the

new world are brought very near each other now, sir."

Is it of any use pursuing the interview to its close? When they went

out again, after it was over, madam's carriage was only then driving

off. Madam's coachman had put up his horses somewhere; and neither he

nor they could readily be found. There was apparently no house open in

the primitive village, and madam had the pleasure of undergoing an

hour or two's soaking in a good, sound, down-pouring rain.

"I shall have to make things right with the authorities; and I suppose

Hepburn may keep the coffins for his pains," quaintly remarked Mr.

Inspector Jekyll.

But the carriage took back one less than it had brought. For Dr. Rane

did not return again to Dallory.

PART THE THIRD

CHAPTER I.

IN GROSVENOR PLACE.

A well-spread dessert-table glittered under the rays of the chandelier

in the dining-room of Sir Nash Bohun's town-house. Sir Nash and his

nephew Arthur were seated at it, a guest between them. It was General

Strachan; an old officer, Scotch by birth, who had just come home,

after passing the best part of his life in India.

The winter was departing. Arthur Bohun looked better, Sir Nash pretty

well. In a month or two both intended to depart for the German springs

that were to renovate Sir Nash's life.

General Strachan had been intimate with Sir Nash Bohun in early life,

before he went out to India. After he had gone out he had been equally

intimate with Major Bohun: but he was only Captain Strachan in those

days.

"And so you think Arthur like his father," observed Sir Nash, as he

passed the claret.

"His very image," replied the general. "I'm sure I should have known

him for Tom Bohun's son had I met him accidentally in the street.

Adair saw the likeness, too."

"What Adair's that?" carelessly asked Sir Nash.

"William Adair. You saw him with me at the club-door this morning. We

were going in at the moment you came up."

Perhaps Sir Nash was a little struck by the name. He called to mind a

good-looking, slender, gentlemanly man, who had been arm-in-arm with

the general at the time mentioned.

"But what Adair is it, Strachan?"

"What Adair? Why, the one who was in India when--when poor Tom died.

He was Tom's greatest friend. Perhaps you have never heard of him?"

"Yes I have, to my sorrow," said Sir Nash. "It was he who caused poor

Tom's death."

General Strachan apparently did not understand. "Who caused poor Tom's

death?"

"Adair."

"Why, bless me, where could you have picked that up?" cried the

general in surprise. "If Adair could have saved Tom's life by any

sacrifice to himself he'd have done it. They were firm friends to the

last."

Sir Nash seemed to be listening as though he heard not. "Of course we

never heard the particulars of my brother's death, over here, as we

should have heard them had we been on the spot," he remarked. "We were

glad, rather, to hush it up for the sake of Arthur. Poor Tom fell into

some trouble or disgrace, and Adair led him into it. That's what we

were ever told."

"Then you were told wrong, Bohun," said the general somewhat bluntly.

"Tom fell into debt, and I don't know what all, but it was not Adair

who led him into it. Who could have told you so?"

"Mrs. Bohun, Tom's widow."

"Oh, she," returned the general, in accents of contempt that spoke

volumes. "Why she--but never mind now," he broke off, suddenly

glancing at Arthur as he remembered that she was his mother. "Let

bygones be bygones," he added, sipping his claret; "no good recalling

them. Only don't continue to think anything against William Adair. He

is one of the best men living, and always has been."

Arthur Bohun, who had sat still as a stone, leaned his pale face a

little towards the general, and spoke.

"Did not this Mr. Adair, after my father's death, get into disgrace,

and--and undergo its punishment?"

"Never. Adair got into no disgrace."

"Has he not been a convict?" continued Arthur in low, clear tones.

"A WHAT?" cried the general, putting down his glass and staring at

Arthur in amazement. "My good young fellow, you cannot know of whom

you are speaking. William Adair has been a respected man all his life:

he is just as honourable as your father was--and the world knew pretty

well what poor Tom's fastidious notions of honour were. Adair is a

gentleman amongst gentlemen; I can't say better of him than that,

though I talked for an hour. He has come into all the family honours

and fortune; which he never expected to do. A good old Scotch family

it is, too; better than mine. There; we'll drop the subject now; no

good reaping up things that are past and done with."

Sir Nash asked no more: neither did Arthur. Some instinct lay within

both that, for their own sakes, it might be better not to do so.

But when the general left--which he did very soon, having an evening

engagement--Arthur went out with him. Arthur Bohun knew, as well as

though he had been told, that his wicked mother--he could only so

think of her in that moment--had dealt treacherously with him; to

answer some end of her own she had calumniated Mr. Adair. Cost him

what pain and shame it might, he would clear it up now.

"Will you give me the particulars that you would not give to my

uncle," began Arthur in agitation, the moment they were out of the

house, as he placed his hand on the general's arm. "No matter what

they are, I must know them."

"I would give them to your uncle, and welcome," said the plain old

soldier. "It was to you I would not give them."

"But I must learn them."

"Not from me."

"If you will not give them to me, I shall apply to William Adair."

"William Adair can give them to you if he pleases. I shall not do so.

Take advice, my dear young friend, and don't inquire into them."

"I will tell you what I suspect--that if any one had a hand in driving

my father to--to do what he did do, it was his wife; my mother. You

may tell me now."

"No. Because she is your mother."

"But I have the most urgent reason for wishing to arrive at the

particulars."

"Well, Arthur Bohun, I would rather not tell you, and that's the

truth. If poor Tom could hear me in his grave, I don't think he would

like it, you see. No, I can't tell you. Ask Adair, first of all,

whether he'd advise it, or not."

"Where is he staying?"

"In Grosvenor Place. He and his daughter are in a furnished house

there. She is very delicate."

"And--you say--I beg your pardon, general," added Arthur in agitation,

detaining him as he was going away--"You say that he is honoured, and

a gentleman."

"Who? Adair? As much so as you or I, my young friend. You must be

dreaming. Goodnight."

In his mind's tumult any delay seemed dreadful, and Arthur Bohun

turned at once to the house in Grosvenor Place. He asked if he could

see Mr. Adair.

The servant hesitated. "There is no Mr. Adair here, sir," he said.

Arthur looked up at the number. "Are you sure?" he asked of the man.

"I was informed by General Strachan that Mr. Adair had taken this

house, and was living here."

"The general must have said Sir William, sir. Sir William Adair lives

here."

"Oh--Sir William," spoke Arthur, "I--I was not aware Mr. Adair had

been knighted."

"Knighted, sir! My master has not been knighted," cried the man, as if

indignant at the charge. "Sir William has succeeded to the baronetcy

through the death of his uncle, Sir Archibald."

What with one thing and another, Arthur's senses seemed deserting him.

Sir Archibald Adair had been well known to him by reputation: a proud

old Scotch baronet, of a grand old lineage. And so this was Ellen's

family! And he had been deeming her not fitting to mate with him, a

Bohun!

"Can I see Sir William? Is he at home?"

"He is at home, sir. I think you can see him."

In his dining-room sat Sir William Adair when Arthur was shown

in--some coffee on a stand by his side, a newspaper in his hand. He

was a slight man of rather more than middle height, with an attractive

countenance. The features were good, their expression noble and

pleasing. It was impossible to associate such a face and bearing with

anything like dishonour.

"I believe my name is not altogether strange to you, sir," said Arthur

as the servant closed the door. "I hope you will pardon my

intrusion--and especially that it should be at this late hour."

Sir William had risen to receive him. He could but mark the agitation

with which the words were spoken. A moment's hesitation, and then he

took Arthur's hand and clasped it within his own.

"If I wished to be distant with you I could not," he said warmly.

"For, to me, you appear as your father come to life again. He and I

were fast friends."

"And did you wish to be distant with me?" asked Arthur.

"I have felt cold towards you this many a year. More than that."

"But why, Sir William?"

"Ah--why. I cannot tell you. For one thing, I have pictured you as

resembling another, more than my lost friend."

"You mean my mother."

Sir William looked at Arthur Bohun before replying. "Yes, I do. Will

you take a seat: and some coffee?"

Arthur sat down, but it may be questioned whether he as much as heard

that coffee was mentioned. Sir William rang the bell and ordered it to

be brought in. Arthur leaned forward; his blue eyes solemnly earnest,

his hand a little outstretched. Sir William almost started.

"How strangely like!" he exclaimed. "The look, the gesture, the voice,

all are your father's over again. I could fancy that you were Thomas

Bohun--as I last saw him in life."

"You knew him well--and my mother? You knew all about them?"

"Quite well. I knew you too when you were a little child."

"Then tell me one thing," said Arthur, his emotion increasing. "Was

she my mother?"

The question surprised Sir William Adair. "She was certainly your

mother, and your father's wife. Why do you ask it?"

"Because--she has so acted--that I--have many a time wished she was

not. I have almost hoped it. I wish I could hope it now."

"Ah," cried Sir William. It was all he said.

"Did you care much, for my father, Sir William?"

"More than I ever cared for any other man. I have never cared for one

since as I cared for him. We were young fellows then, he and I; not

much older than you are now; but ours was a true friendship."

"Then I conjure you, by that friendship, to disclose to me the whole

history of the past: the circumstances attending my father's death,

and its cause. Speak of things as though my mother existed not. I wish

to Heaven she never had been my mother!"

"I think you must know something of the circumstances," spoke Sir

William. "Or why should you say this?"

"It is because I know part that I must know the whole. My mother

has--has _lied_ to me," he concluded, bringing out the word with a

painful effort. "She has thrust a false story upon me, and--I cannot

rest until I know the truth."

"Arthur Bohun, although you conjure me by your late father: and for

his sake I would do a great deal: I fear that I ought not to do this."

"General Strachan bade me come to you. I begged him to tell me all,

but he said no. Does he know all?" broke off Arthur.

"Every tittle. I think he and I and your mother are nearly the only

three left who do know it. There were only some half-dozen of us

altogether."

"And do you not think that I, Major Bohun's only son, should at least

be made acquainted with as much as others know? Tell me all, Sir

William: for my lost father's sake."

"The only difficulty is--that you must hear ill of your mother."

"I cannot hear worse of her than I already know," impetuously returned

Arthur. "Perhaps it was less bad than I am imagining it may have

been."

But Sir William held back. Arthur seemed on the brink of a fever in

his impatience. And, whether it was that, or to clear the memory of

Major Bohun, or that he deemed it a righteous thing to satisfy Major

Bohun's son, or that he yielded to overpersuasion, Sir William Adair

at last spoke out.

They sat very close together, only the small coffee-table between

them. Whether the room was in light or darkness neither remembered. It

was a miserable tale they were absorbed in; one that need not be

elaborated here.

William Adair, when a young man, quarrelled with his family, or they

with him, and an estrangement took place. His father and mother were

dead, but his uncle, Sir Archibald, and other relatives, were left.

He, the young man, went to the Madras Presidency, appointed to some

post there in the civil service. His family made a boast of discarding

him; he, in return, was so incensed against them, that had it been

practicable, he would have abandoned the very name of Adair. Never a

word did he breathe to any one of who or what his family was; his

Scotch accent betrayed his country, but people knew no more. That he

was a gentleman was apparent, and that was sufficient.

A strong friendship ensued between him and Major Bohun. During one hot

season it happened that both went up in search of health to the Blue

Mountains, as Indians call the beautiful region of the Neilgherry

Hills. Mrs. Bohun accompanied her husband; Mr. Adair was not married.

There they made the acquaintance of the Reverend George Cumberland,

who was stationed at Ootacamund with his wife. Ootacamund was at that

time filled, and a good deal of gaiety was going on; Mrs. Bohun was

noted for it. There was some gambling nightly: and no votary joined in

it more persistently than she. Major Bohun removed with her to a

little place at a short distance, and a few others went also; the

chaplain, George Cumberland, was one of them.

There came a frightful day for Major Bohun. Certain claims suddenly

swooped down upon him; debts; promissory notes, bearing his signature

in conjunction with William Adair's. Neither understood what it meant,

for they had given nothing of the sort. A momentary thought arose to

Major Bohun--that his wife was implicated in it; but only so far as

that she might have joined in this high play; nothing worse. He had

become aware that she had a passion for gambling, and the discovery

had alarmed him: in fact, it was to wean her from undesirable

associates and pursuits that he had come away on this holiday; health,

the ostensible plea, was not the true one. But this was not known even

to his best friend, William Adair. "Let me deal with this," said the

major to Mr. Adair. But Mr. Adair, not choosing to allow a man to

forge his name with impunity--and he had no suspicion that it was a

woman--did not heed the injunction, but addressed himself to the

investigation. And a nest of iniquity he found it. He traced the

affair home to one Rabbetson--in all probability an assumed name--a

bad man in every way; no better than a blackleg; who had wormed

himself into society to prey upon it, and upon men and women's

failings. This man Mr. Adair confronted with Major Bohun: and

then--the fellow, brought to bay, braved it out by disclosing that his

helpmate was Mrs. Bohun.

It was even so. Mr. Adair sat aghast at the revelation. Had he

suspected this, he would have kept it to himself. How far she had

connected herself with this man, it was best not to inquire: and they

never did inquire, and never knew. One thing was certain--the man

could afford to take a high ground. He went out from the interview

bidding them do their worst--which with him would not be much, he

affirmed; for it was not he who had issued the false bills, but the

major's wife. And they saw that he spoke the truth.

Arthur Bohun listened to this now, motionless as a statue.

"I never saw any man so overcome as Bohun," continued Sir William

Adair. "He took it to heart; to heart. 'And she is the mother of my

child!' he said to me; and then he gave way, and held my hands in his,

and sobbed aloud. 'We will hush it up; we will take up the bills and

other obligations,' I said to him: though in truth I did not see how I

should do my part in it, for I was a poor man. He was poor also; his

expenses and his wife kept him so. 'It cannot be hushed up, Adair,' he

answered; 'it has gone too far.' Those were the last words he ever

said to me; it was the last time I saw him alive."

"Go on," said Arthur, without raising his head.

"Mrs. Bohun came into the room, and I quitted it. I saw by her face

that she knew what had happened; it was full of evil as she turned it

on me. Rabbetson had met her when he was going out, and whispered some

words in her ear. What passed between her and Major Bohun I never

knew. Before I had been five minutes in my rooms she stood before me;

had followed me down. Of all the vituperation that a woman's tongue

can utter, hers lavished about the worst on me. It was I who had

brought on the crisis, she said; it was I who had taken Rabbetson to

her husband. I quietly told her that when I took Rabbetson to Major

Bohun, I had not the remotest idea that she was mixed up with the

affair in any way; and that if I had known it, known what Rabbetson

could say, I never should have taken him, but have striven to deal

with it myself, and keep it dark for my friend Bohun's sake. She would

hear nothing; she was as a mad woman; she swore that not a word of it

was true; that Rabbetson did not say it, could not have said it, but

that I and Major Bohun had concocted the tale between us. In short, I

think she was really mad for the time being."

"Stay a moment, Sir William," interrupted Arthur. "Who was she? I have

never known. I don't think my father's family ever did know."

"Neither did I ever know, to a certainty. A cousin, or sister, or

some relative of hers, had married a doctor in practice at Madras,

and she was out there on a visit to them. Captain Bohun--as he was

then--caught by her face and figure, both fine in those days, fell in

love with her and married her. He afterwards found that her father

kept an hotel somewhere in England."

So! This was the high-born lady who had set up for being above all

Dallory. But for the utmost self-control Arthur Bohun would have

groaned aloud.

"Go on, please," was all he said. "Get it finished."

"There is not much more to tell," returned Sir William. "I went

looking about for Bohun everywhere that afternoon; and could not find

him. Just before sun-down he was found--found as--as I dare say you

have heard. The spot was retired and shady, his pistol lay beside him.

He had not suffered: death must have been instantaneous."

"The report here was that he died of sunstroke," said Arthur, breaking

a long pause.

"No doubt. Mrs. Bohun caused it to be so reported. The real facts

transpired to very few: Cumberland, Captain Strachan, myself, and two

or three others."

"Did Mrs. Cumberland know them?" suddenly asked Arthur, a thought

striking him.

"I dare say not. I don't suppose her husband would disclose the

shameful tale to her. She was not on the spot at the time; had gone to

nurse some friend who was ill. I respected both the Cumberlands

highly. We made a sort of compact amongst ourselves, we men, never to

speak of this story, unless it should be to defend Bohun, or for some

other good purpose. We wished to give Mrs. Bohun a chance of redeeming

her acts and doings in her own land, for which she at once sailed.

Arthur, if I have had to say this to _you_, it is to vindicate your

dead father. I believe that your mother has dreaded me ever since."

Dreaded him! Ay! and foully aspersed him in her insane dread. Arthur

thought of the wicked invention she had raised, and passed his hands

upon his face as if he could shut out its remembrance.

"What became of Rabbetson?" he asked, in low tones.

"He disappeared. Or I think I should surely have shot him in his turn,

or kicked him to death. I saw him afterwards in Australia dying in the

most abject misery."

"And the claims?--the bills?"

"I took them upon myself; and contrived to pay all--with time."

"You left India for Australia?" continued Arthur, after a pause.

"My health failed, and I petitioned government to remove me to a

different climate. They complied, and sent me to Australia. I stayed

there, trying to accumulate a competency that should enable me to live

at home with Ellen as befitted my family: little supposing that I was

destined to become its head. My two cousins, Sir Archibald's sons,

have died one after the other."

Arthur Bohun had heard all he wished to know, perhaps all there was to

tell. If--if he could make his peace with Ellen, the old relations

between them might yet be renewed. But whilst his heart bounded with

the hope, the red of shame crimsoned his brow as he thought of the

past. Glancing at the timepiece on the mantel-shelf, he saw it was

only half-past nine; not too late yet.

"May I see your daughter, sir?" he asked. "We used to be good

friends."

"So I suppose," replied Sir William. "You made love to her, Arthur

Bohun. You would have married her, I believe, but that I stopped it."

"You--stopped it!" exclaimed Arthur, at sea: for he had known nothing

of the letter received by Ellen.

"I wrote to Ellen, telling her I must forbid her to marry you. I

feared at the time of writing that the interdict might arrive too

late. But it seems that it did not do so."

"Yes," abstractedly returned Arthur, letting pass what he did not

understand.

"You see, I had been thinking of you always as belonging to her--your

mother--more than to him. That mistake is over. I shall value you now

as _his_ son; more I dare say than I shall ever value any other young

man in this world."

Arthur's breath came fast and thick. "Then--you--you would give her to

me, sir!"

Sir William shook his head in sadness. Arthur misunderstood the

meaning.

"The probability is, sir, that I shall succeed my uncle in the

baronetcy. Would it not satisfy you?"

"You can see her if you will," was Sir William's answer, but there was

the same sad sort of denial in his manner. "I would not say No now for

your father's sake. She is in the drawing-room, upstairs. I will join

you as soon as I have written a note."

Arthur found his way by instinct. Ellen was lying back in an

easy-chair; the brilliant light of the chandelier on her face. Opening

the door softly, it--that face--was the first object that met his

sight. And he started back in terror.

Was it _death_ that he saw written there? All too surely conviction

came home to him.

It was a more momentous interview than the one just over. Explaining

he knew not how, explaining he knew not what, excepting that his love

had never left her, Arthur Bohun knelt at her feet, and they mingled

their tears together. For some minutes neither could understand the

other: but elucidation came at last. Arthur told her that the wicked

tale, the frightful treachery which had parted them was only a

concocted fable on his mother's part, and then he found that Ellen had

never known, never heard anything, about it.

"What then did you think was the matter with me?" he asked.

And she told him. She told him without reserve, now that she found how

untrue it was: she thought he had given her up for another. Madam had

informed her he was about to marry Miss Dallory.

He took in the full sense of what the words implied: the very abject

light in which his conduct must have appeared to her. A groan burst

from him: he covered his face to hide its shame and trouble.

"Ellen! Ellen! You could not have thought it of me."

"It was what I did think. How was I to think anything else? Your

mother had said it."

"Heaven forgive her her sins!" he wailed, in his despair. "It was

enough to kill you, Ellen. No wonder you look like this."

She was panting a little. Her breathing seemed very laboured.

"Pray Heaven I may be enabled to make it up to you when you are my

wife. I will try hard, my darling."

"I shall not live for it, Arthur."

His heart seemed to stand still. The words struck him as being so very

real.

"Arthur, I have known it for some time now. You must not grieve for

me. I even think that death is rather near."

"What has killed you? I?"

A flush passed over her wan face. Yes, he had killed her. That is, his

conduct had done so: the sensitive crimson betrayed it.

"The probability is that I should not in any case have lived long,"

she said, aloud. "I believe they feared something of the sort for me

years ago. Arthur, don't! Don't weep; I cannot bear it."

Sir William Adair had just told him how his father had wept in _his_

misery. And before Arthur could well collect himself, Sir William

entered.

"You see," he whispered aside to Arthur, "why it may not be. There

will be no marriage for her in this life. I am not surprised. I seem

to have always expected it: my wife, her mother, died of decline."

Arthur Bohun quitted the house, overwhelmed with shame and sorrow.

What regret is there like unto that for past mistaken conduct which

can never be remedied in this world?

CHAPTER II.

NO HOPE.

Once more the scene changes to Dallory.

Seated on a lawn-bench at Dallory Hall in the sweet spring

sunshine--for the time has again gone on--was Ellen Adair. Sir William

Adair and Arthur Bohun were pacing amidst the flower-beds that used to

be Mr. North's. Arthur stooped and plucked a magnificent pink

hyacinth.

"It is not treason, sir?" he asked, smiling.

"What is not treason?" returned the elder man.

"To pick this."

"Pick as many as you like," said Sir William.

"Mr. North never liked us to pluck his flowers. Now and then madam

would make a ruthless swoop upon them for her entertainments. It

grieved his heart."

"No wonder," said Sir William.

The restoration to the old happiness, the disappearance of the

dreadful cloud that had told so fatally upon her, seemed to infuse new

vigour into Ellen's shortening span of life. With the exception of her

father, every one thought she was recovering: the doctors admitted,

rather dubiously, that it "might be so." She passed wonderfully well

through the winter, went out and about almost as of old; and when more

genial weather set in, it was suggested by friends that she should be

taken to a warmer climate. Ellen opposed it; she knew it would not

avail, perhaps only hasten the end; and after a private interview Sir

William had with the doctors, even he did not second it. Her great

wish was to go back to Dallory: and arrangements for their removal

were made.

Dallory Hall was empty, and Sir William found that he could occupy it

for the present if he pleased. Mr. North had removed to the house that

had been Mrs. Cumberland's, leaving his own furniture: in point of

fact it was Richard's: at the Hall, hoping the next tenant, whoever

that might prove to be, would take to it. Miss Dallory seemed

undecided what to do with the Hall, whether to let it for a term

again, or not, But she was quite willing that Sir William Adair should

have it for a month or two.

And so he came down with Ellen, bringing his own servants with him.

This was only the third day after their arrival, and Arthur Bohun had

arrived. Sir William had told him he might come when he would.

The change seemed to have improved Ellen, and she had received a few

visitors. Mrs. Gass had been there; Mr. North had come down; and

Richard ran in for a few minutes every day. Sir William welcomed them

all; Mrs. Gass warmly; for she was sister-in-law to Mrs. Cumberland,

and Ellen had told him of Mrs. Gass's goodness of heart. She had

unfastened her bonnet, and stayed luncheon with them.

Mr. North was alone in his new home, and was likely to be so; for his

wife had relieved him of her society. Violently indignant at the

prospect of removal from such a habitation as the Hall to that small

home of the late Mrs. Cumberland's, madam went off to London with

Matilda, and took Sir Nash Bohun's house by storm. Not an hour,

however, had she been in it, when madam found all her golden dreams

must be scattered to the winds. Never again would Sir Nash receive her

as a guest or tolerate her presence. The long hidden truth, as

connected with his unfortunate brother's death, had been made clear to

him: first of all by General Strachan, next by Sir William Adair, with

whom he became intimate.

Of what use to tell of the interview between Arthur and his mother? It

was of a painful character. There was no outspoken reproach, no voice

was raised. In a subdued manner, striving for calmness, Arthur told

her she had wilfully destroyed both himself and Ellen Adair; her life,

for she was dying; his happiness for ever. He recapitulated all that

had been disclosed to him relating to his father's death; and madam,

brought to bay, never attempted to deny its accuracy.

"But that I dare not fly in the face of one of Heaven's Commandments,

I would now cast you off for ever," he concluded in his bitter pain.

"Look upon you again as my mother, I cannot. I will help you when you

need help; so far will I act the part of a son towards you; but all

respect for you has been forced out of me; and I would prefer that we

should not meet very often."

Madam departed the same day for Germany, Matilda and the maid Parrit

in her wake. Letters came from her to say she should never return to

Dallory; never; probably never set her foot again on British soil; and

therefore she desired that a suitable income might be secured to her

abroad.

And so Mr. North had his new residence all to himself--saving Richard.

Jelly had taken up her post as his housekeeper, with a boy and a maid

under her; and there was one outdoor gardener. She domineered over all

to her heart's content. Jelly was regaining some of her lost flesh,

and more than her lost spirits. Set at rest in a confidential

interview with Mr. Richard, as to the very tangible nature of the

apparition she had seen, Jelly was herself again. Mr. North thought

his garden lovely, more compact than the extensive one at the Hall; he

was out in it all day long, and felt at peace. Mrs. Gass came to see

him often; Mary Dallory almost daily: he had his good son Richard to

bear him company of an evening. Altogether Mr. North was in much

comfort. Dr. Rane's house remained empty: old Phillis, to whom the

truth had also been disclosed, taking care of it. The doctor's

personal effects had been sent to him by Richard.

"Ellen looks much better, sir," remarked Arthur Bohun, as he twirled

the pink hyacinth he had plucked.

"A little fresher, perhaps, from the country air," answered Sir

William.

"I have not lost hope: she may yet be mine," he murmured.

Sir William did not answer. He would give her to Arthur now with his

whole heart, had her health permitted it. Arthur himself looked ill;

in the last few months he seemed to have aged years. A terrible

remorse was ever upon him; his life, in its unavailing regret, seemed

as one long agony.

They turned to where she was sitting. "Would you not like to walk a

little, Ellen?" asked her father.

She rose at once. Arthur held out his arm, and she took it. Sir

William was quite content that it should be so: Arthur, and not

himself. The three paced the lawn. Ellen wore a lilac silk gown and

warm white cloak. An elegant girl yet, though worn almost to a shadow,

with the same sweet face as of yore.

But she was soon tired, and sat down again, Arthur by her side. One of

the gardeners came up for some orders, and Sir William went away with

him.

"I have not been so happy for many a day, Ellen, as I am now," began

Captain Bohun. "You are looking quite yourself again. I think--in a

little time--that you may be mine."

A blush, beautiful as the rose-flush of old, sat for a moment on her

cheeks. She knew how fallacious was the hope.

"I am nearly sure that Sir William thinks so, and will soon give you

to me," he added.

"Arthur," she said, putting her wan and wasted hand on his, "don't

take the hope to heart. The--disappointment, when it came, would be

all the harder to bear."

"But, my darling, you are surely better!"

"Yes, I seem so, just for a little time. But I fear that I shall never

be well enough to be your wife."

"It was so very near once, you know," was all he whispered.

There was no one within view, and they sat, her hand clasped in his.

The old expressive silence that used to lie between them of old,

ensued now. They could not tell to each other more than they had told

already. In the unexpected reconciliation that had come, in the bliss

it brought, all had been disclosed. Arthur had heard all about her

self-humiliation and anguish; he knew of the treasured violets, and

their supposed treachery: she had listened to his recital of the weeks

of despair; she had seen the letter, written to him from Eastsea, worn

with his kisses, blotted with his tsars, and kept in his bosom still.

No: of the past there was nothing more to tell each other; so far,

they were at rest.

Arthur Bohun was still unconsciously twirling that pink hyacinth in

his fingers. Becoming aware of the fact, he offered it to her. A wan

smile parted her lips.

"You should not have given it, to me, Arthur."

"Why?"

Ellen took it up. The perfume was very strong.

"Why should I not have given it to you?"

"Don't you know what the hyacinth is an emblem of?"

"No."

"Death."

One quick, pained glance at her. She was smiling yet, and looking

rather fondly at the flower. Captain Bohun took both flower and hand

into his.

"I always thought you liked hyacinths, Ellen."

"I have always liked them very much indeed. And I like the

perfume--although it is somewhat faint and sickly."

He quietly flung the flower on the grass, and put his boot on it to

stamp out its beauty. A truer emblem of death, now, than it was

before; but he did not think of that.

"I'll find you a sweeter flower presently, Ellen. And you know----"

A visitor was crossing the lawn to approach them. It was Miss Dallory.

She had not yet been to see Ellen. Something said by Mrs. Gass had

sent her now. Happening to call on Mrs. Gass that morning, Mary heard

for the first time of the love that had so long existed between

Captain Bohun and Miss Adair, and that the course of the love had been

forcibly interrupted by madam, who had put forth the plea that her son

was engaged to Miss Dallory.

Mary sat before Mrs. Gass in mute surprise, recalling facts and

fancies. "I know that madam would have liked her son to marry me; the

hints she gave me on the point were too broad to be mistaken," she

observed to Mrs. Gass. "Neither I nor Captain Bohun had any thought or

intention of the sort; we understood each other too well."

"Yet you once took me in," said Mrs. Gass.

Mary laughed. "It was only in sport: I did not think you were

serious."

"They believed it at the Hall."

"Oh, did they? So much the better."

"My dear, I am afraid it was not for the better," dissented Mrs. Gass

rather solemnly. "They say that it has killed Miss Ellen Adair."

"What?" exclaimed Mary.

"Ever since that time when she first went to the Hall after Mrs.

Cumberland's death, she has been wasting and wasting away. Her father,

Sir William, has now brought her to Dallory, not to try if the change

might restore her, for nothing but a miracle would do that, but

because she took a whim to come. Did you hear that she was very ill?"

"Yes, I heard so."

"Well, then, I believe it is nothing but this business that has made

her ill--Captain Bohun's deserting her for you. She was led to believe

it was so--and until then, they had been wrapt up in each other."

Mary Dallory felt her face grow hot and cold. She had been altogether

innocent of ill intention; but the words struck a strange chill of

repentance to her heart.

"I--don't understand," she said in frightened tones. "Captain Bohun

knew there was nothing between us; not even a shadow of pretence of

it: why did he not tell her so?"

"Because he and she had parted on another score; they had been parted

through a lie of madam's, who wanted him to marry you. I don't rightly

know what the lie was; something frightfully grave; something he could

not repeat again to Miss Adair; and Ellen Adair never heard it, and

thought it was as madam said--that his love had gone over to you."

Mary sat in silence, thinking of the past. There was a long pause.

"How did you get to know this?" she breathed.

"Ah, well--partly through Mr. Richard. And I sat an hour talking with

poor Miss Ellen yesterday, and caught a hint or two then."

"I will set it straight," said Mary; feeling, though without much

cause, bitterly repentant.

"My dear, it has been all set straight since the winter. Nevertheless,

Miss Mary, it was too late. Madam had done her crafty work well."

"Madam deserves to be put in the stocks," was the impulsive rejoinder

of Miss Dallory.

She went to the Hall there and then. And this explains her present

approach. Things had cleared very much to her as she walked along. She

had never been able to account for the manner in which Ellen seemed to

shun her, to avoid all approach to intimacy or friendship. That Mary

Dallory had favoured the impression abroad of Arthur Bohun's possible

engagement to her, she was now all too conscious of; or, at any rate,

had not attempted to contradict it. But it had never occurred to her

that she was doing harm to any one.

Just as Arthur Bohun had started when he first saw Ellen in the

winter, so did Miss Dallory start now. Wan and wasted? ay, indeed.

Mary felt half faint in thinking of the share she had had in it.

She said nothing at first. Room was made for her on the bench, and

they talked of indifferent matters. Sir William came up, and was

introduced. Presently he and Arthur strolled to a distance.

Then Mary spoke. Just a word or two of the misapprehension that had

existed; then a burst of exculpation.

"Ellen, I would have died rather than have caused you pain. Oh if I

had only known! Arthur and I were familiar with each other as brother

and sister: never a thought of anything else was in our minds. If I

let people think there was, why--it was done in coquetry. I had some

one else in my head, you see, all the time; and that's the truth. And

I am afraid I enjoyed the disappointment that would ensue for madam."

Ellen smiled faintly. "It seems to have been a complication

altogether. A sort of ill-fate that I suppose there was no avoiding."

"You must get well, and be his wife."

"Ay. I wish I could."

But none could be wishing that as Arthur did. Hope deceived him; he

confidently thought that a month or two would see her his. Just for a

few days the deceitful improvement in her continued.

One afternoon they drove to Dallory churchyard. Ellen and her father;

Arthur sitting opposite them in the carriage. A fancy had taken her

that she would once more look on Mrs. Cumberland's grave; and Sir

William said he should himself like to see it.

The marble stone was up now, with its inscription: "Fanny, widow of

the Reverend George Cumberland, Government Chaplain, and daughter of

the late William Gass, Esq., of Whitborough." There was no mention of

her marriage to Captain Rane. Perhaps Dr. Rane fancied the name was

not in very good odour just now, and so omitted it. The place where

the ground had been disturbed, to take up those other coffins, had

been filled in again with earth.

Ellen drew Sir William's attention to a green spot near, overshadowed

by the branches of a tree that waved in the breeze, and flickered the

grass beneath with ever-changing light and shade.

"It is the prettiest spot in the churchyard," she said, touching his

arm. "And yet no one has ever chosen it."

"It is very pretty, Ellen; but solitary."

"Will you let it be here, papa?"

He understood the soft whisper, and slightly nodded, compressing his

lips. Sir William was not deceived. Years had elapsed, but, to him, it

seemed to be his wife's case over again. There had been no hope for

her; there was none for Ellen.

CHAPTER III.

BROUGHT HOME TO HIM.

She lay back in an easy-chair, in the little room that was once Mr.

North's parlour. The window was thrown open to the sweet flowers, the

balmy air; and Ellen Adair drank in their beauty and perfume.

She took to this room as her own sitting-room the day she came back to

the Hall. She had always liked it. Sir William had caused the shabby

old carpet and chairs and tables to be replaced by fresh bright

furniture. How willingly, had it been possible, would he have kept her

in life!

Just for a few days had hope lasted--no more. The change had come

suddenly, and was unmistakable. She wore a white gown, tied round the

waist with a pink girdle, and a little bow of pink ribbon--her

favourite colour--at the neck. She wished to look well yet; her toilet

was attended to, her bright hair was arranged carefully as ever. But

the maid did all that. The wan face was very sweet still, the soft

brown eyes had all their old lustre. Very listless was the worn white

hand lying on her lap; loosely sat the plain gold ring on it--the ring

that, through all the toil and trouble, had never been taken off.

Ellen was alone. Sir William had gone by appointment to see over

Richard North's works.

A sound as of steps on the gravel. Her father could not have come back

yet! A moment's listening, and then the hectic flushed to her face;

for she knew the step too well. Captain Bohun had returned!

Captain Bohun had gone to London to see Sir Nash off on his projected

Continental journey to the springs that were to make him young again.

Sir Nash had expected Arthur to accompany him, but he now acknowledged

that Ellen's claims were paramount to his. Ellen had thought he might

have been back again yesterday.

He came in at the glass-doors, knowing he should probably find her in

the room. But his joyous smile died away when he saw her face. His

step halted: his hand dropped at his side.

"_Ellen!_"

In timid, wailing tones was the word spoken. Only three days' absence,

and she had faded like this! Was it a relapse?--or what had she been

doing to cause the change?

For a few minutes, perhaps neither of them was sufficiently collected

to know what passed. In his abandonment, he knelt by the chair,

holding her hands, his eyes dropping tears. The remorse ever gnawing

at his heart was very cruel just then. Ellen bent towards him, and

whispered that he must be calm--must bear like a man: things were only

drawing a little nearer.

"I should have been down yesterday, but I waited in town to make

sundry purchases and preparations," he said. "Ellen, I thought

that--perhaps--next month--your father would have given you over to

me."

"Did you?" she faintly answered.

"You must be mine," he continued, in too deep emotion to weigh his

words. "If you were to die first, I--I think it would kill me."

"Look at me," was all she answered. "See whether it is possible."

"There's no knowing. It might restore you. Fresh scenes, the warm pure

climate that I would take you to--we would find one somewhere--might

do wonders. I pointed this out to Sir William in the winter."

"But I have not been well enough for it, Arthur."

"Ellen, it must be! Why, you know that you were almost my wife.

Half-an-hour later, and you would have been."

She released one of her hands, and put it up to her face.

Captain Bohun grew more earnest in his pleading; he was really

thinking this thing might be.

"I shall declare the truth to Sir William--and I know that I ought to

have done so before, Ellen. When he knows how very near we were to

being man and wife, he will make no further objection to giving you to

me now. My care and love will restore you, if anything can."

She had put down her hand again, and was looking at him, a little

startled and her cheeks hectic.

"Arthur, hush. Papa must never know this while I live. Do as you will

afterwards."

"I shall tell him before the day's out," persisted Captain Bohun. And

she began to tremble with agitation.

"No, no. I say no. I should die with the shame."

"What shame?" he rejoined.

"The shame that--that--fell upon me. The shame of--after having

consented to a secret marriage, you should have left me as you did,

and not fulfilled it, and never told me why. It lies upon me still,

and I cannot help it. I think it is that that has helped to kill me

more than all the rest. Oh, Arthur, forgive me for saying this! But do

not renew the shame now."

Never had his past conduct been brought so forcibly home to him. Never

had his heart so ached with its repentance and pain.

"The fear, lest the secret should be discovered, lay upon me always,"

she whispered. "Whilst I was staying here that time it seemed to me

one long mental torment. Had the humiliation come, I could never have

borne it. Spare me still, Arthur."

Every word she spoke was like a dagger thrusting its sharp point into

his heart. _She_ was going--going rapidly--where neither pain nor

humiliation could reach her. But he had, in all probability, a long

life before him, and must live out his bitter repentance.

"Oh, my love, my love! I wish I could die for you!"

"Don't grieve, Arthur; I shall be better off. You and papa must

comfort one another."

He was unconsciously turning round the plain gold ring on her wasted

hand, a sob now and again breaking from him. How real the past was

seeming to him; even the hour when he had put that ring on, and the

words he spoke with it, were very present. What remained of it all?

Nothing, except that she was dying.

"I should like to give you this key now, whilst I am well enough

to remember," she suddenly said, detaching a small key from her

watch-chain. "It belongs to my treasure-box, as I used to call it at

school. They will give it you when I am dead."

"Oh, Ellen!"

"The other ring is in it, and the licence--for I did not burn it, as

you bade me that day in the churchyard; and the two or three letters

you ever wrote to me; and my journal, and some withered flowers, and

other foolish trifles. You can do what you like with them, Arthur;

they will be yours then. And oh, Arthur! if you grieve any more now,

like this, you will hurt me, for I cannot bear that you should suffer

pain. God bless you, my darling, my almost husband! We should have

been very happy with one another."

Lower and lower bent he his aching brow, striving to suppress the

anguish that well-nigh unmanned him. Her own tears were falling.

"Be comforted," she whispered; "Arthur, be comforted! It will not be

for so many years, even at the most; and then we shall be together

again, in heaven!"

* * * * *

And so she died. A week or two more of pain and suffering, and she was

at rest. And that was the ending of Ellen Adair--one of the sweetest

girls this world has ever known.

CHAPTER IV.

CONCLUSION.

The genial spring gave place to a hot summer; and summer, in its turn,

was giving place to autumn. There is little to record of the interval.

Dallory, as regards North Inlet, was no longer crowded. The poor

workmen, with their wives and families, had for the most part drifted

away from it; some few were emigrating, some had brought themselves to

accepting that last and hated refuge, the workhouse; and they seemed

likely, so far as present prospects looked, to be permanent recipients

of its hospitality. The greater portion, however, had wandered away to

different parts of the country, seeking for that employment they could

no longer find in their native place. Poole and the other conspirators

had been tried at the March assizes. Richard North pleaded earnestly

for a lenient sentence: and he was listened to. Poole received a term

of penal servitude, shorter than it would otherwise have been, and the

others hard labour. One and all, including Mr. Poole, declared that

they would not willingly have injured Richard North.

So, what with one thing and another, North Inlet had too much empty

space in it, and was now at peace. There was no longer any need of

special policemen. As to Richard, he was going on steadily and

quietly; progressing a little, though not very much. Five or six men

had been added to his number, of whom Ketler was one; Ketler having,

as Jelly said, come to his senses. But the works would never be what

they had been. For one thing, Richard had no capital; and if he had,

perhaps he might not now have cared to embark it in this manner.

Provided he could gain a sufficient income for expenses, and so employ

his time and energies, it was all he asked.

Madam lived permanently abroad. Mr. North--Richard in reality--allowed

her two hundred a-year; her son Arthur two; Sir Nash two. Six hundred

a-year; but it was pretty plainly intimated to madam that this income

was only guaranteed so long as she kept herself aloof from them. Madam

retorted that she liked the Continent too well to leave it for

disagreeable old England.

Matilda North had married a French count, whom they had met at

Baden-Baden. She, herself, made the announcement to her stepbrother

Arthur in a self-possessed letter, telling him that as the count's

fortune was not equal to his merits, she should depend upon Arthur to

assist them yearly. Sidney North had also married. Tired, possibly,

with his most uncertain existence, finding supplies from home were now

the exception rather than the rule, and not daring to show his face on

English soil to entreat for more, Mr. Sidney North entered into the

bonds of matrimony with a wealthy American dame a few years older than

himself; the widow of a great man who had made his fortune by the oil

springs. It was to be hoped he would keep himself straight now.

And Mr. North, feeling that he was freed from madam, was happy as a

prince, and confidentially told people that he thought he was growing

young again. Bessy wrote to him weekly; pleasant, happy letters. She

liked her home in the new world very much indeed; and she said Oliver

seemed not to have a single care. The new firm, Jones and Rane, had

more patients than they could attend to, and all things were well with

them. In short, Dr. and Mrs. Rane were evidently both prosperous and

happy. No one was more pleased to know this than Mrs. Gass. _She_

flourished; and her beaming face was more beaming than ever when seen

abroad, setting the wives of Richard North's workmen to rights, or

looking out from behind her geraniums.

Dallory Hall was empty again. William Adair had quitted it, his

mission there over. Richard North was thinking about removing the

furniture; but in truth he did not know what to do with it. There was

no hurry, for Miss Dallory said she did not intend to let it again at

present.

Perhaps the only one not just now in a state of bliss was Jelly. Jelly

had made a frightful discovery--Tim Wilks was faithless. For several

months--as it came out--Mr. Wilks had transferred his allegiance from

herself to Molly Green, whom he was secretly courting at Whitborough.

At least, he was keeping it from Jelly. The truth was, poor Tim did

not dare to tell her. Jelly heard of it in a manner that astounded

her. Spending a Sunday at Whitborough with Mrs. Beverage's servants,

Jelly went to morning service at one of the churches. "Pate" took her

to a particular church, she said. And there she heard the banns of

marriage read out, for the first time of asking, between Timothy

Wilks, bachelor, and Mary Green, spinster. Jelly very nearly shrieked

aloud in her indignation. Had the culprits been present, she might

have felt compelled to box their ears in coming out. It proved to be

true. Tim and Molly were going to be married, and Tim was furnishing a

pretty cottage at Whitborough.

And that is how matters at present stood in Dallory.

One autumn day, when the woods were glowing with their many colours,

and the guns might be heard making war on the partridges, Richard

North overtook one of his Flemish workmen at the base of a hill about

half-a-mile from his works. The man was wheeling a wheelbarrow that

contained sand, but not in the handy manner that an Englishman would

have done it, and Richard took it himself.

"Can't you learn, Snaude?" he said, addressing the man. "See here;

you should stoop: you must not get the barrow nearly upright. See how

you've spilt the sand."

Wheeling it along and paying attention to nothing else, Richard took

no notice of a basket-carriage that was coming down the opposite hill.

It pulled up when it reached him. Looking up, Richard saw Miss

Dallory. Resigning the wheelbarrow to the man, Richard took the hand

she held out.

"Yes," he said laughing, "you stop to shake hands with me now, but you

won't do it soon."

"No? Why not?" she questioned.

"You saw me wheeling the barrow along?"

"Yes. It did not look very heavy."

"I have to put my hands to all sorts of things now, you perceive, Miss

Dallory."

"Just so. I hope you like doing it."

"Well, I do."

"But I want to know what you mean by saying I shall soon not stop to

speak to you."

"When you become a great lady. Report says you are about to marry."

"Does it? Do you still think, sir, I am going to accept a Bohun?"

"There has been some lord down at your brother's place, once or twice.

The gossips in Dallory say that he comes for you."

"Then you can tell the gossips that they are a great deal wiser than I

am. Stand still, Gyp"--to the shaggy pony. "I would not have him; and

I'm sure he has not the remotest idea of having me. Why, he is hardly

out of his teens! I dare say he thinks me old enough to be his

godmother."

Miss Dallory played with the reins, and then glanced at Richard. He

was looking at her earnestly, as he leaned on the low carriage.

"That young man has come down for the shooting, Mr. Richard. Frank

takes him out every day. As for me, I do not intend to marry at all.

Never."

"What shall you do, then?"

"Live at Dallory Hall. Frank _is_ going to be married, to the lord's

sister. Now there's some information for you, but you need not

proclaim it. It is true. I shall remove myself and my chattels to the

Hall, and live there till I die."

"It will be very lonely for you."

"Yes, I know that," she answered sadly. "Most old maids are lonely.

There will be Frank's children, perhaps, to come and stay with me

sometimes."

Their eyes met. Each understood the other as exactly as though a host

of words had been spoken. She would have _one_ man for a husband, and

only one--if he would have her.

Richard went nearer. His lips were pale, his tones husky with emotion.

"Mary, it would be most unsuitable. Think of your money; your birth. I

told you once before not to tempt me. Why, you know--you _know_ that I

have loved you, all along, too well for my own peace. In the old days

when those works of ours"--pointing to the distant chimneys--"were of

note, and we were wealthy, I allowed myself to cherish dreams that I

should be ashamed to confess to now: but that's all over and done

with. It would never do."

She blushed and smiled; and turned her head away from him to study the

opposite hedge while she spoke.

"For my part, I think there never was anything so suitable since the

world was made."

"Mary, I cannot."

"If you will please get off my basket-chaise, sir, I'll drive on."

But he did not stir. Miss Dallory played with the reins again.

"Mary, how _can_ I? If you had nothing, it would be different. I

cannot live at Dallory Hall.

"No one else ever shall." But Richard had to bend to catch the

whisper.

"The community would cry shame upon me. Upon that poor working man,

Richard North."

"How dare you call yourself names, Mr. Richard? You are a gentleman."

"What would John and Francis say?"

"What they pleased. Francis likes you better than any one in the

world; better than--well, yes, sir--better than I do."

He had taken one of her hands now. She knew, she had known a long

while, how it was with him--that he loved her passionately, but would

never, under his altered circumstances, tell her so. And, moreover,

she knew that he was aware she knew it.

"But Mary, since--since before you returned from Switzerland up to

this hour, I have not dared to think the old hopes could be carried

out, even in my own heart."

"You think it better that I should grow into an old maid, and you into

an old bachelor. Very well. Thank you. Perhaps we shall both be

happier for it. Let me drive on, Mr. Richard."

He drew nearer to her; made her turn to him. The great love of his

heart shone in his face and eyes. A face of emotion then. She dropped

the reins, regardless of what the rough pony might do, and put her

other hand upon his.

"Oh, Richard, don't let us carry on the farce any longer! We have been

playing it all these months and years. Let us at least be honest with

each other: and then, if you decide for separation, why--it must be

so."

But, as it seemed, Richard did not mean to decide for it. He glanced

round to make sure that no one was in the lonely road: and, drawing

her face to his, left some strangely ardent kisses on it.

"I could not give up my works, Mary."

"No one asked you to do so, sir."

"It is just as though I had left the furniture in the Hall for the

purpose."

"Perhaps you did."

"Mary!"

"There's the pony going. Stand still, Gyp. I won't give up Gyp, mind,

Richard. I know he is frightfully ragged and ugly, and that you

despise him; but I won't give him up. He can be the set-off bargain

against your works, sir."

"Agreed," answered Richard, laughing. And he sealed the bargain.

Mary said again that she must drive on; and did not. How long they

would really have stayed there it was impossible to say, had not the

man come back from the works with the empty wheelbarrow for more sand.

* * * * *

When the next spring came round, Richard North and his wife were

established at Dallory Hall. Somewhere about the time of the marriage,

there occurred a little warfare. Mary, who owned a great amount of

accumulated money, wanted Richard to take it into his business.

Richard steadily refused. A small amount would be useful to him; that

he would take; but no more.

"Richard," she said to him one day, before they had been married a

week, "I do think you are more obstinate upon this point than any

other. You should hear what Mrs. Gass says about it."

"She says it to me," returned Richard, laughing. "There's not my equal

for obstinacy in the world, she tells me."

"And you know it's true, sir."

But the next minute he grew strangely serious. "I cannot give up

business, Mary; I have already said so----"

"I should despise you if you did, Richard," she interrupted. "I have

money and gentility--I beg you'll not laugh, sir; you have work, and

brains to work with; so we are equally matched. But I wish you would

take the money."

"No," said Richard. "I will never again enter on gigantic operations,

and be at the beck and call of the Trades' Unions. There's another

reason against it--that it would require closer supervision on my

part. And as I have now divided duties to attend to; I shall not add

to them. I should not choose to neglect my works; I should not choose

to neglect my wife."

"A wilful man must have his way," quoth Mary.

"And a wilful woman shall have hers in all things, excepting when I

see that it would not be for her good," rejoined Richard, holding his

wife before him by the waist.

"I dare say I shall!" she saucily answered. "Is that a bargain,

Richard?"

"To be sure it is." And Richard sealed it as he had sealed the other

some months before.

And so we leave Dallory and its people at peace. Even Jelly was in

feather. Jelly, ruling Mr. North indoors, and giving her opinion,

unasked, in a free-and-easy manner whenever she chose, as to the

interests of the garden: an opinion poor Mr. North enjoyed instead of

reproved, and grew to look for. Jelly had taken on another "young

man," in the person of Mr. Francis Dallory's head-gardener. He was a

staid young Scotchman; very respectful to Jelly, and quite attentive.

Mr. Seeley had moved into Dr. Rane's old house, and old Phillis was

his housekeeper; so that Jelly's neighbourly relations with the next

door were continued as of old.

On Arthur Bohun there remained the greatest traces of the past. Sir

Nash was restored to health; and Arthur, in his unceasing remorse,

would sometimes hope that he would marry again: he should almost hate

to succeed to the rank and wealth to which he had, in a degree,

sacrificed one who had been far dearer to him than life. Arthur's

ostensible home was with Sir Nash; but he was fond of coming to

Dallory. He had stayed twice with Mr. North; and Richard's home, the

Hall, would be always open to him. The most bitter moments of Arthur

Bohun's life were those that he spent with Sir William Adair: never

could he lose the consciousness of having wronged him, of having

helped to make him childless. Sir William had grown to love him as a

son, but it was only an additional stab to Arthur's aching heart.

And whenever Arthur Bohun came to Dallory, he would pay a visit to a

certain white tomb in the churchyard. Choosing a solitary evening for

it, after twilight had fallen, and remaining near it for hours, there

he indulged his grief. Who can tell how he called upon her?--who can

tell how he poured out all the misery of his repentant heart, praying

to be forgiven? Neither she nor Heaven could answer him in this world.

She was gone; gone: all his regret was unavailing to recall her: there

remained nothing but the marble stone, and the simple name upon it:

"ELLEN ADAIR."

THE END.

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