One of the house servants had gone out, and was opening the fly door. A gentleman's hand threw out a light overcoat; a gentleman himself leaped out after it, and turned to get something from the seat. Tall and slender, Ellen thought it was Captain Bohun: the light coat was exactly like his.
And the terrible suspense was over! She should now know what the mystery had been. He had written most likely, and the letter had miscarried: how stupid she was not to have thought of that before! She heard his footsteps in the passage: in another instant she should be in his arms, feel his kisses on her lips. It was a moment's delirium of happiness: neither more nor less. Ellen stood gazing at the door, her colour coming and going, her nervous hands clasped one within the other.
But the footsteps passed the sitting-room. There seemed to be some talking, and then the house subsided into silence. Where was he? Whither had he gone? Not into the dining-room, as Ellen knew, for Mrs. Cumberland might not be awakened. Gradually the idea came creeping in, and then bounded onwards with a flash that, after all, it might not have been Captain Bohun. A faint cry of despair escaped her, and she put her hands up as if to ward off some approaching evil.
But the suspense at least must be put an end to; it was too great to bear; and she rang the bell. Ann, who chiefly waited on them, answered it.
"For lights, Miss Ellen?"
"Yes. Who has just come here in a fly?"
"It's the landlady's son, miss. A fine, handsome man as ever was seen!"
When Mrs. Cumberland entered, Ellen sat, pale and quiet, on the low chair. In truth the inward burden was becoming hard to bear. Mrs. Cumberland remarked that Captain Bohun had neither come nor written, and she thought it was not good behaviour on his part. And, with that, she settled to her evening newspaper.
"Why, Ellen! Here's the death of James Bohun," she presently exclaimed. "He died the day after Arthur left us. This accounts for the delay, I suppose."
"Yes," murmured Ellen.