Sir Nash had been as much struck with the wonderful beauty of Ellen Adair as strangers generally were. That she was one of those unusually sweet girls, made specially4 to be loved, he could not fail to see. In the moment of their first arrival, he had not noticed her: there were so many besides her to be greeted; and the appearance of Miss Dallory amongst them was a most unexpected surprise. Not until they were assembling for dinner, did Sir Nash observe her. His eyes suddenly rested on a most beautiful girl in a simple black silk evening dress, its low body and sleeves edged with white tulle, and a black necklace on her pretty neck. He was wondering who she could be, when he heard Richard North speak of her as Ellen Adair. Sir Nash drew Arthur Bohun to the far end of the drawing-room, ostensibly to look at a rare Turner hanging on the walls.
"Arthur, who is she? It cannot be Adair's daughter?"
"Yes, sir, it is."
"Mercy be good to her!" cried Sir Nash in dismay. "What a calamity5! She looks absolutely charming; fitted to mate with a prince of the blood-royal."
"And she is so."
"To have been born to an inheritance of shame!" continued Sir Nash. "Poor thing! Does she know about it?"
"No, I am sure she does not," replied Arthur warmly, his tone one of intense pain. "She believes her father to be as honourable6 and good as you are yourself, sir."
For the very fact of Ellen's having put out her hand to him in the hall with that bright and confiding7 smile, had convinced Arthur Bohun that at present she knew nothing.
It made his own position all the worse: for, to her, his behaviour must appear simply infamous8. Yet, how tell her? Here they were, living in the same house; and yet they could only be to each other as strangers. An explanation was due to Ellen Adair; but from the very nature of the subject, he could not give it. If he had possessed9 the slightest idea that she was attributing his behaviour to a wrong cause--an engagement with Miss Dallory--he would at least have set that right. But who was likely to tell him? No one. Madam and Matilda, be very sure, would not do so: still less would Ellen herself. And so the complication would, and must, go on; just as unhappy complications do sometimes go on. But there is this much to be said--that to have set straight the only point on which they were at cross purposes would not have healed the true breach10 by which the two were hopelessly separated.
And Sir Nash Bohun never once entered into any sort of intercourse11 with Ellen Adair. He would not, had he known it beforehand, have taken up his sojourn12 under the same roof with one whose father had played so fatal a part with his long-deceased brother: but circumstances had brought it about. In herself the young lady was so unobjectionable--nay, so deserving of respect and homage--that Sir Nash was won out of his intended coldness; and he would smile pleasantly upon her when paying her the slight, unavoidable courtesies of everyday life. But he never lingered near her, never entered into prolonged conversation: a bow or two, a good-morning and goodnight, comprised their acquaintanceship. He grew to pity her; almost to love her; and he relieved his feelings at least once a day in private by sending sundry13 unorthodox epithets14 after the man, William Adair, for blighting15 the name held by this fair and sweet young lady.
It was not a very sociable16 party, taken on the whole. Sir Nash had a sitting-room17 assigned him, and remained much in it: his grief for his son was not over, and perhaps never would be. Mr. North was often shut up in his parlour, or walking with bent18 head about the garden paths. Madam kept very much aloof19, no one knew where; Matilda was buried in her French and English novels, or chattering20 above to madam's French maid. Richard was at the works all day. Ellen Adair, feeling herself a sort of interloper, kept her chamber21, or went to remote parts of the garden and sat there in solitude22. As to Arthur Bohun, he was still an invalid23, weak and ill, and would often not be seen until luncheon24 or dinner-time. There was a general meeting at meals, and a sociable evening closed the day.
Madam had not allowed matters to take their course without a word from herself. On the day after Sir Nash and Arthur arrived, she came, all smiles and suavity25, knocking at Ellen's chamber-door. She found that young lady weeping bitter tears--who stammered26 out, as she strove for composure, some excuse about feeling so greatly the sudden death of Mrs. Cumberland. Madam was gracious and considerate; as she could be when it pleased her: she poured some scent27 on her own white handkerchief, and passed it over Miss Adair's forehead. Ellen thanked her and smoothed her hair back, and dried her tears, and rose up out of the emotion as a thing of the past.
"I am sorry it should have happened that Sir Nash chose this time for his visit," spoke28 madam; "you might just now have preferred to be alone with us. Captain Bohun is still so very unwell that Sir Nash says he could but bring him."
"Yes," mechanically replied Ellen, really not knowing what she was assenting29 to.
"And Arthur--of course he was anxious to come; he knew Miss Dallory would be at home again," went on madam, with candour, like a woman without guile30. "We are all delighted at the prospect31 of his marrying her. Before he was heir to the baronetcy, of course it did not so much matter how he married, provided it was a gentlewoman of family equal to the Bohuns. But now that he has come into the succession through poor James's death, things have changed. Did you know that Sir Nash has cut off the entail33?" abruptly34 broke off madam.
Ellen thought she did. The fact was, Arthur had told Mrs. Cumberland of it at Eastsea: but Ellen did not understand much about entails35, so the matter had passed from her mind.
"Cutting off the entail has placed Arthur quite in his uncle's hands," continued madam. "If Arthur were to offend him, Sir Nash might not leave him a farthing. It is fortunate for us all that Mary is so charming: Sir Nash is almost as fond of her as is Arthur. And she is a great heiress, you know: she must have at the very least three or four thousand a-year. Some people say it is more; the minority of the Dallory children was a long one."
"It is a great deal," murmured Ellen.
"Yes. But it will be very acceptable. I'm sure, by the way affairs seem to be going on with Mr. North and Richard, it seems as though Arthur would have us all on his hands. It has been a great happiness to us, his choosing Miss Dallory. I don't believe he thought much of her before his illness. She was staying with us in town during that time, and so--so the love came, and Arthur made up his mind. He had the sense to see the responsibility that James Bohun's death has thrown upon him, the necessity for making a suitable choice in a wife."
Ellen had learnt a lesson lately in self-control, and maintained her calmness. She did not know madam--except by reputation--quite as well as some people did, and believed she spoke in all sincerity36. One thing she could not decide--whether madam had known of the projected marriage at Eastsea. She felt inclined to fancy that she had not done so, and Ellen hoped it with her whole heart. Madam lingered yet to say a few more words. She drew an affecting picture of the consolation37 this projected union brought her; and--as if she were addressing an imaginary audience--turned up her eyes and clasped her hands, and declared she must put it to the honour and good feeling of the world in general not to attempt anything by word or deed that might tend to mar32 this happy state of things. With that she kissed Ellen Adair, and said, now that she had apologized for their not being quite alone at the Hall and had explained how it happened that Sir Nash had come, she would leave her to dress.
The days went on, and Mary Dallory came on a visit to the Hall. Her brother Frances left home to join a shooting party, and madam seized the occasion to invite his sister. She came, apparently38 nothing loth; and with her a great trunkful of paraphernalia39. Matilda North had once said, when calling Mary Dallory a flirt40, that she would come fast enough to the Hall when Richard and Arthur were there. At any rate, she came now. After this, Arthur Bohun would be more downstairs than he was before; and he and she would be often together in the grounds; sitting on benches under the evergreens41 or strolling about the walks side by side. Sometimes Arthur would take her arm with an invalid's privilege; his limp at the present time more perceptible than it ever had been; and sometimes she would take his. Ellen Adair would watch them through the windows, and press her trembling fingers on her aching heart. She saw it all: or thought she did. Arthur Bohun had found that his future prospects43 in life depended very much upon his wedding Miss Dallory, or some equally eligible44 young lady; and so he had resolved to forget the sweet romance of the past, and accept reality.
She thought he might have spoken to her. So much was certainly due to her, who had all but been made his wife. His present treatment of her was simply despicable; almost wicked. Better that he had explained only as madam had done: what was there to prevent his telling her the truth? He might have said, ever so briefly45: "Such and such things have arisen, and my former plans are frustrated46, and I cannot help myself." But no; all he did was to avoid her: he never attempted to touch her hand; his eyes never met hers if he could help it. It was as though he had grown to despise her, and sought to show it. Had he done so? When Ellen's fears suggested the question--and it was in her mind pretty often now--she would turn sick with despair, and wish to die.
The truth was really this. Arthur Bohun, fearing he should betray his still ardent47 love, was more studiously cold to Ellen than he need have been. A strange yearning48 would come over him to clasp her to his heart and sob49 out his grief and tenderness: and the very fear lest he might really do this some day, lest passion and nature should become too strong for prudence50, made him shun51 her and seem to behave, as Ellen felt and thought, despicably. He knew this himself; and he called himself far harder names than Ellen could have called him: a coward, a knave52, a miserably-dishonoured man. And so, in this way things went on at Dallory Hall: and were likely to continue.
One afternoon, a few days after Mrs. Cumberland had been interred53, Ellen went to see her grave. Madam, Miss Dallory, Matilda, and Sir Nash had gone out driving: Arthur had been away somewhere since the morning, Mr. North was busy at the celery-bed with his head gardener. There was only Ellen: she was alone and lonely, and she put her things on and walked through Dallory to the churchyard. She happened to meet three or four people she knew, and stayed to talk to them. Mrs. Gass was one; the widow of Henry Hepburn was another. But she made way at last, feeling a little shy at being out alone. When walking as far as Dallory Mrs. Cumberland had always caused a servant to attend her.
The grave was not far from Bessy Rane's. Ellen had no difficulty in distinguishing the one from the other, though as yet there was no stone to mark either. Mrs. Cumberland's was near that of the late Thomas Gass; Bessy's was close to Edmund North's. A large winter tree, an evergreen42, overshadowed this corner of the churchyard, and she sat down on the bench that encircled the trunk. Bessy's grave was only a very few yards away.
She leaned her face on her hand, and was still. The past, the present, the future; Mrs. Cumberland, Bessy Rane, Edmund North; her own bitter trouble, and other things--all seemed to be crowding together tumultuously in her brain. But, as she sat on, the tumult54 cleared a little, and she lost herself in imaginative thoughts of that heaven where pain and care shall be no more. Could they see her? Could Mrs. Cumberland look down and see her, Ellen Adair, sitting there in her sorrow? A fanciful idea came to her that perhaps the dead were the guardian55 angels appointed to watch the living: to be "in charge over them, to keep them in all their ways." If so, who then was watching her?--It must be her own mother, Mary Adair. Could these guardian angels pray for them?--intercede with the mighty56 God and the Saviour57 that their sins here might be blotted58 out? How long Ellen was lost in these thoughts she never knew: but she wound up by crying quietly to herself, and she wondered how long it would be before she joined them all in heaven.
Some one, approaching from behind the tree, came round with a slow step and sat down on the bench. It was a gentleman in mourning; she could see so much, though he was almost on the other side of the tree, and had his back to her. Ellen found she had not been observed, and prepared to leave. Twilight59 had fallen on the dull evening. As she stooped to pick up her handkerchief, which had fallen, the intruder turned and saw her. Saw as well the tears on her face. It was Captain Bohun. He got up more quickly than he had sat down, intending no doubt to move away. But in his haste he dropped the stick that he had used for support in walking since his illness--and it fell close to Ellen's feet. She stooped in some confusion to pick it up, and so did he.
"Thank you--I beg your pardon," he said, with an air of humiliation60 so great that it might have wrung61 a tender heart to witness. And then he felt that he could not for very shame go off without some notice, as he had been attempting to do. Though why he stayed to speak and what he said, it might have puzzled him at the moment to tell. Instinct, more than reason, prompted the words.
"She was taken off very suddenly."
Though standing62 close to Bessy's grave, Ellen thought he looked across at Mrs. Cumberland's. And the latter had been last in her thoughts.
"Yes. I feared we should not get her home in time. And I feel sure that the journey was fatal to her. If she had remained quiet, she would not have died quite so soon."
"It was of Bessy I spoke."
"Oh--I thought you alluded63 to Mrs. Cumberland. Mrs. Cumberland's death has made so much difference to me, that I suppose my mind is much occupied with thoughts of her. This is the first time I have been here."
Both were agitated64 to pain: both could fain have pressed their hearts tightly to still the frightful65 beating there.
"Ellen, I should like to say a word to you," he suddenly exclaimed, turning his face to her for a moment, and then turning it away again. "I am aware that nothing can excuse the deep shame of my conduct in not having attempted any explanation before. To you I cannot attempt it. I should have given it to Mrs. Cumberland if she had not died."
Ellen made no answer. Her eyes were bent on the ground.
"The subject was so intensely painful and--and awkward--that at first I did not think I could have mentioned it even to Mrs. Cumberland. Then came my illness. After that, whilst I lay day after day, left to my own reflections, things began to present themselves in rather a different light; and I saw that to maintain silence would be the most wretched shame of all. I resolved to disclose everything to Mrs. Cumberland, and leave her to repeat it to you if she thought it well to do so--as much of it, at least, as would give you some clue to my strange and apparently unjustifiable conduct."
Ellen's eyes were still lowered, but her hands trembled with the violence of her emotion. She did not speak.
"Mrs. Cumberland's death, I say, prevented this," continued Captain Bohun, who had gathered a little courage now that the matter was opened: "and I have felt since in a frightful dilemma66, from which I see no escape. To you I cannot enter on any explanation: nor yet am I able to tell you why I cannot. The subject is altogether so very painful----"
Ellen lifted her head suddenly. Every drop of blood had deserted67 her face, leaving it of an ashen68 whiteness. The movement caused him to pause.
"I know what it is," she managed to say from between her white and trembling lips.
"You--know it?"
"Yes. All."
Alas69 for the misapprehensions of this world. He was thinking only of the strange disclosure made to him concerning Mr. Adair; she only of his engagement to Miss Dallory. At her avowal70 a multitude of thoughts came surging through his brain. All! She knew all!
"Have you known it long?" he questioned in low tones.
"The time may be counted by days."
He jumped to the conclusion that Mrs. Cumberland had disclosed it to her on her death-bed. And Ellen's knowledge of it improved his position just a little. But, looking at her, at her pale sweet face and downcast eyes, at the anguish71 betrayed in every line of her countenance72, and which she could not conceal73, Arthur Bohun's heart was filled to overflowing74 with a strange pity, that seemed almost to reach the point of breaking. He drew nearer to her.
"Thank God that you understand, Ellen--that at least you do not think me the shameless scoundrel I must otherwise have appeared," he whispered, his voice trembling with its deep emotion. "I cannot help myself: you must see that I cannot, as you know all. The blow nearly killed me. My fate--our fate, if I may dare still so far to couple your name with mine--is a very bitter one."
Ellen had begun to shiver. Something in his words grated terribly on her ear: and pride enabled her to keep down outward emotion.
"You left the ring and licence with me," she abruptly said, in perhaps a sudden bitterness of temper. "What am I to do with them?"
"Burn them--destroy them," he fiercely replied. "They are worthless to us now."
But he so spoke only in his anguish. Ellen interpreted it differently.
"God help us both, Ellen! A cruel fate has parted us for this world: but we may be permitted to be together in the next. It is all my hope now. Heaven bless you, Ellen! Our paths in life must lie apart, but I pray always that yours may be a happy one."
Without further word, without touching75 her hand, thus he left her. Limping on to the broad path, and then down it towards the churchyard gate.
There are moments into which a whole lifetime of agony seems to be compressed. Such a moment was this for Ellen Adair. Darkness was coming on rapidly now, but she sat on, her head bent low on her hands. They were, then, separated for ever; there was no further hope for her!--he himself had confirmed it. She wondered whether the pain would kill her; whether she should be able to battle with it, or must die of the humiliation it brought. The pain and the humiliation were strong and sharp now--now as she sat there. By-and-by there stole again into her mind those thoughts which Captain Bohun's appearance had interrupted--the heavenly place of rest to which Bessy and Mrs. Cumberland had passed. Insensibly it soothed76 her: and imagination went roving away unchecked. She seemed to see the white robes of the Redeemed77; she saw the golden harps78 in their hands, the soft sweet light around them, the love and peace. The thoughts served to show her how poor and worthless, as compared with the joys of that Better Land, were the trials and pains of this world: how short a moment, even at the longest, they had to be endured: how quickly and surely all here must pass away! Yes, she might endure with patience for the time! And when she lifted her head, it was to break into a flood of violent yet soothing79 tears, that she could not have shed before.
"Father in heaven, Thou seest all my trouble and my agony. I have no one in the world to turn to for shelter--and the blast is strong. Vouchsafe80 to guide and cover me!"
But night was falling, and she rose to make her way out of the churchyard. In a sheltered nook that she passed, sat a man: and Ellen started a little, and quickened her pace. It was Captain Bohun. Instead of going away, he had turned back to wait. She understood it at once: at that hour he would not leave her alone. He wished to be chivalrous81 to her still, for all his utter faithlessness. In the very teeth of his avowed82 desertion, his words and manner had proved that he loved her yet. Loved her, and not another. It brought its own comfort to Ellen Adair. Of course it ought not to have done so, but it did: for the human heart at best is frail83 and faulty.
Captain Bohun followed her out of the churchyard, and kept her in sight all the way home, every feeling he possessed aching for her. He had seen the signs and traces of her weeping; he knew what must be the amount of her anguish. He might have been ready to shoot himself could it have restored her to peace; he felt that he should very much like to shoot Mr. Adair, whose bad deeds had entailed84 this misery85 upon them.
At the Hall gates he was overtaken by Richard, striding home hastily to dinner. Richard, passing his arm through Arthur's, began telling him that he feared he was going to have some trouble with his ex-workmen.
And as they, the once fond lovers, sat together afterwards at table, and in the lighted drawing-room, Arthur as far from her as he could place himself, none present suspected the scene that had taken place in the churchyard. Ellen Adair's eyes looked heavy; but that was nothing unusual now. It was known that she grieved much for Mrs. Cumberland.
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1
inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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bustle
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| v.喧扰地忙乱，匆忙，奔忙；n.忙碌；喧闹 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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calamity
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| n.灾害，祸患，不幸事件 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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confiding
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| adj.相信人的，易于相信的v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的现在分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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breach
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| n.违反，不履行；破裂；vt.冲破，攻破 | |
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intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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sojourn
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| v./n.旅居，寄居；逗留 | |
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sundry
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| adj.各式各样的，种种的 | |
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epithets
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| n.（表示性质、特征等的）词语( epithet的名词复数 ) | |
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blighting
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| 使凋萎( blight的现在分词 )； 使颓丧； 损害； 妨害 | |
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sociable
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| adj.好交际的，友好的，合群的 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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luncheon
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suavity
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stammered
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scent
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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assenting
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| 同意，赞成( assent的现在分词 ) | |
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guile
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prospect
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mar
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| vt.破坏，毁坏，弄糟 | |
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entail
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| vt.使承担，使成为必要，需要 | |
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abruptly
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entails
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| 使…成为必要( entail的第三人称单数 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
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sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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paraphernalia
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| n.装备；随身用品 | |
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flirt
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| v.调情，挑逗，调戏；n.调情者，卖俏者 | |
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evergreens
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| n.常青树，常绿植物，万年青( evergreen的名词复数 ) | |
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evergreen
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| n.常青树；adj.四季常青的 | |
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prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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eligible
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| adj.有条件被选中的；(尤指婚姻等)合适(意)的 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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frustrated
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| adj.挫败的，失意的，泄气的v.使不成功( frustrate的过去式和过去分词 )；挫败；使受挫折；令人沮丧 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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shun
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| vt.避开，回避，避免 | |
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52
knave
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| n.流氓；（纸牌中的）杰克 | |
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interred
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| v.埋，葬( inter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tumult
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| n.喧哗；激动，混乱；吵闹 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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saviour
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| n.拯救者，救星 | |
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blotted
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| 涂污( blot的过去式和过去分词 )； （用吸墨纸）吸干 | |
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59
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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alluded
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| 提及，暗指( allude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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dilemma
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| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
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deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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ashen
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| adj.灰的 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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overflowing
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| n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的，充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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76
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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redeemed
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| adj. 可赎回的，可救赎的 动词redeem的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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harps
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| abbr.harpsichord 拨弦古钢琴n.竖琴( harp的名词复数 ) | |
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79
soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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80
vouchsafe
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| v.惠予，准许 | |
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81
chivalrous
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| adj.武士精神的；对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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82
avowed
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| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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83
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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84
entailed
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| 使…成为必要( entail的过去式和过去分词 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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