"Arthur! Good Heavens, how fortunate I am! Arthur Bohun! don't you see me?"
Every drop of blood in Arthur Bohun's veins seemed to stand still and turn to ice as he recognized his mother's voice and his mother's face. Madam, driven hastily from the railway-station, had come to bear him off bodily. That his wedding was over for that day, instinct at once told him: she would have gone to church and forbidden the banns. He stepped to the fly door.
In afterlife, he could never clearly recall these next few minutes. Madam spoke of the telegram that had been received at Dallory. She said--giving to matters her own colouring--that James Bohun was in extremity; that he only waited to see Arthur to die; that he was asking for him: not a moment was to be lost. She had hastened to London on receipt of the telegram, and had now come down to fetch him.
"Step in, Arthur. We must catch the quarter-to-twelve train."
"I--I cannot go," he answered.
"Not go!" screamed madam. "But I command you to go. Would you disobey the last wishes of a dying man?"
Well, no; he felt that he could not do that. "A quarter to twelve?" he said rather dreamily. "You must wait, madam, whilst I speak to Mrs. Cumberland. There's plenty of time."
He went in with his tale, and up to Mrs. Cumberland, as one in a dream. He was forced to go, he bewailed, but not for more than a day, when he should be back to complete the marriage. What could she answer? In her bewilderment, she scarcely understood what had happened. Leaping downstairs again, he closed the door of the sitting-room upon himself and Ellen, and clasped her to his heart.
"My darling! But for this, you would have been on your way to become my wife. Come what may, Ellen, I shall be down again within a few hours. God bless you, my love! Take care of these."
They were the ring and licence; he handed them to her lest he might lose them. Before Ellen could recover herself, whilst yet her face was glowing with his farewell kisses, he was being rattled away in the fly with madam to the station.