The tide came rippling up on the sea-shore with a monotonous, soothing murmur. There were no waves to-day; the air was densely still; but in the western sky little black clouds were rising, no bigger yet than a man\'s hand; and as the weatherwise old fishermen glanced to the spot, they foretold a storm.
Two people, pacing the beach side by side, regarded neither the sea nor the threatened storm. Need you be told that they were Arthur Bohun and Ellen Adair. What were the winds and the waves to them in their happiness? Amidst the misery that was soon to set in for both, the recollection of this short time spent at Eastsea, these few weeks since their love had been declared, and their marriage was approaching, would seem as an impossible dream.
The private marriage, consented to by Mrs. Cumberland, must not be confounded with a secret marriage. It was to be kept from the world in general: but not from every friend they possessed. Mrs. Cumberland intended to be present as Ellen\'s guardian; and she very much urged that some friend of Arthur\'s should also attend. He acquiesced, and fixed on Richard North. Captain Bohun purposed to tell his aunt, Miss Bohun, his friend in every way: but not until the wedding was over: he would trust no one beforehand, he said, excepting Mrs. Cumberland and Dick. Even Dick he did not trust yet. He commanded Dick\'s presence at Eastsea, telling him that his coming was imperative: there must be no refusal. Finding Dick did not respond, Arthur wrote again; but still only mysteriously. The first letter was the one put aside by Miss Matilda North, the second was that opened by madam.
But there were moments when, in spite of his happiness, Arthur Bohun had qualms of conscience for his precipitation: more especially did they press upon him immediately after the marriage was decided upon. For, after all, he really knew nothing, or as good as nothing, of Mr. Adair\'s position: and the proud Bohun blood bubbled up a little, as a thought crossed him that it was just possible he might find too late that, in point of family, hers was not fitting to have mated with his.
The human heart is treacherous: given over to self-deception, and to sophistry. So long as a thing is coveted, when it seems almost unattainable, we see nothing but the advantages of gaining it, the happiness it must bring. But, let this desire be attained, and lo! we veer round, and repent our haste. Instantly every argument that could bear against it, true or false, rises up within us with mocking force, and we say, Oh that I had waited before doing this thing! It is that deceitful heart of ours that is in fault, nothing else; placing upon all things its own false colouring.
At first, as they sat together under cover of the rocks, or on the more open benches on the sands, or wandered to the inland walks and the rural lanes, his conversation would turn on Mr. Adair. But Ellen seemed to know as little of her father as he did.
"It is strange you don\'t remember more of him, Ellen!" he suddenly said on one occasion when he was alone with her at Mrs. Cumberland\'s.
"Strange! Do you think so?" returned Ellen, turning from the bay window where she was standing. "I was sent to Europe at eight years old, and children at that age so soon forget. I seem to recollect a gentleman in some sort of white coat, who cried over me and kissed me, and said mamma was gone to live in heaven. His face was a pleasant one, and he had bright hair; something the colour of yours."
She thought Arthur had alluded to personal appearance. But he had not meant that.
"I remember another thing--that papa used to say I was just like my mother, and should grow up like her," resumed Ellen. "It seems ages ago. Perhaps when I see him I shall find that my memory has given me an ideal father, and that he is quite different from what I have pictured him."
"You know none of your Scotch relatives, Ellen?"
"None."
"Or where they live?"
"No."
"Why does not Mr. Adair come home?"
"I don\'t know. He has been thinking of it for some years; and that\'s why I am with Mrs. Cumberland instead of going out to him again. I am sure he must have a very high opinion of Mrs. Cumberland," added Ellen, after a pause. "His letters prove it. And he often mentions her late husband as his dear friend and chaplain. I will show you some of his letters, if you like. Would you care to see them? I keep all papa\'s letters."
Arthur Bohun\'s face lighted up at the proposition. "Yes," he said with animation. "Yes. As many as you please."
She crossed the room to her desk, took out three or four letters indiscriminately from a bundle lying there, and brought them to him. He detained the pretty hands as well as the letters, and took some impassioned kisses from the blushing face, turned up unconsciously to his. Sweeter kisses than Arthur Bohun would ever impress upon any other face in afterlife. Ellen had almost learned not to shrink from them in her maiden modesty; he vowed to her that they were now his best right and privilege.
But the letters told him nothing. They were evidently a gentleman\'s letters; but of the writer\'s position or family they said not a word. Arthur returned them with a half-sigh: it was of no use, he thought, to trouble himself any more about the matter. After all, his own father and Mr. Adair had been close friends in India, and that was a sort of guarantee that all must be right. This decided, he delivered himself up to his ideal happiness: and the wedding day was finally settled.
This afternoon, when they were pacing the beach, unobservant of the little clouds rising in the west, was the marriage eve. It is the last day they need thus walk together as mere formal acquaintances: for at that little church whose spire is not a stone\'s-throw away, they will tomorrow be made man and wife. A strange light sits on Arthur Bohun\'s cheek; the light of intense happiness. The day and the hour are drawing near to its realization: and not so much as a thought has crossed his mind that any untoward fate can arise to mar it.
Ah, might not those dark clouds have read him a lesson? Just as the small circlets out there might gather into an overwhelming storm, before which both man and beast must bow their heads, so might be rising, even then, some threatening wave in the drama of his life. And it was so: though he suspected it not. Even now, as they walked, the clouds were increasing! just as the unseen thunderstorm was about to descend upon their lives and hearts. Suddenly, in turning to face the west, Arthur noticed the altered aspect of the sky.
"Look at those clouds, getting up! I hope the weather\'s not going to change for us tomorrow, Ellen. What does that mean?" he asked of a man who was doing something to his small boat, now high and dry upon the beach.
The sailor glanced up indifferently.
"It means a storm, master."
"Shall we get it here, do you think?"
"Ay, sir. Not till tomorrow, maybe. I fancy we shall, though"--giving a look round, as if he could see the storm in the air. "I knowed there was going to be a change."
"How did you know it?"
"Us fishermen sees a storm afore it comes, master. My foot tells it me besides. I got him jammed once, and he have had the weather in him ever since."
They walked on. "That will be two untoward events for us," remarked Captain Bohun; but he spoke with a smile, as if no untoward events could mar their happiness. "We want a third to complete it, don\'t we, Ellen?"
"What are the two?"
"The bad weather threatened for tomorrow; and Dick\'s non-arrival is the other. I am vexed at that."
For, on this same morning, Mrs. Cumberland had received a letter from her son. Amidst other items of news, Dr. Rane mentioned that Richard North was absent: it was supposed in Belgium, but no one knew positively where. This explained Richard\'s silence to Captain Bohun, and put an end to the hope that Richard would be at the wedding. Dr. Rane also stated another thing, which was anything but pleasant news: that beyond all doubt fever was breaking out at Dallory, though it was not yet publicly known. The doctor added that he feared it would prove of a malignant type, and he felt glad that his mother was away. Bessy was well, and sent her love.
"Will you rest a little before going in?"
They were passing the favourite old seat under the rocks. Ellen acquiesced, and they sat down. The black clouds grew larger and higher: but, absorbed in their own plans, their own happiness, had the heavens become altogether overshadowed it would have been as nothing to them. In low tones they conversed together of the future; beginning with the morrow, ending they knew not where. Their visions were of the sweetest rose-colour; they fully believed that bliss so great as their own had never been found on earth. His arm was round Ellen as they sat, her hand lay in his, her head seemed resting against his heart. To all intents and purposes they seemed as entirely alone in this sheltered nook as they could have been in the wilds of the desert. The beach was shingly; footsteps could not approach without being heard: had any one passed, they would have been seen sitting as decorously apart as though they had quarrelled: but the shore seemed deserted this afternoon.
The arrangement for the marriage was as follows:--At half-past eleven o\'clock, Arthur, Ellen, and Mrs. Cumberland would enter the little church by a private door, and the ceremony would take place. Richard North was to have given her away, but that was over now. Arthur held the licence; he had made a friend of the clergyman, and all would be done quietly. He and Ellen were to go away for a few days; she would then return home with Mrs. Cumberland, and be to the world still as Miss Adair. After that, Arthur would take his own time, and be guided by circumstances for declaring the marriage: but he meant, if possible, to at once introduce Ellen to his aunt, Miss Bohun.
And Ellen Adair? Not a scruple rested on her mind, not a doubt or hesitation on her heart; her father had given his cordial approbation--as expressed in the letter to Mrs. Cumberland--and she was full of peace.
"Did you feel that, Ellen?"
A faint, qui............