"Ellen!"
She raised her hand from beneath the grey shawl--her favourite outdoor covering, for the shawl was warm--and passed it across her brow. In every movement there was a languor that spoke weariness of body or of spirit.
"When Mr. Adair comes home, if he found you had gone into 'some clergyman's family,' what would he think and say of us, Ellen?"
"I would tell him I went of my own accord."
"But, my dear, you cannot be allowed to do things of your own accord, if they are not wise. I and my father are appointed to take charge of you, and you must remain with us, Ellen, until Mr. Adair returns to England."
It was even so. Ellen's better judgment acknowledged it, in the midst of her great wish to be away. A wish: and not a wish. To be where Arthur Bohun was, still brought her the most intense happiness; and this, in spite of the pain surrounding it, she would not willingly have relinquished: but the cruelty of his conduct--of their estrangement--was more than she knew how to bear. It was making her ill, and she felt that it was. There was, however, no help for it. As Richard said, she had no friends to whom they could entrust her. The lady in whose house she was educated had recently died, and the establishment was being broken up.
Ten times a-day she longed to say to Arthur Bohun, "You are ungenerous to remain here. I cannot help myself, but you might." But pride withheld her.
"It may be months before papa arrives, Richard."
"And if it should be! We must try to make you happier with us."
"I think I must go in," she said, after a pause. "The day has been very fine, but it is growing cold now."