"As Heaven is my witness, No! If I could take you into my confidence--and perhaps I may do so one of these days, for I long to do it--you would see that I tell you the truth." "Why have you parted from Ellen Adair?--she and you _have_ parted? You have just said so." "We have parted for life. For ever." "You were on the point of marriage with her only a short time ago?" "No two people could have been nearer marriage than she and I were. We were within half-an-hour of it, Dick; and yet we have parted." "By your doing, or hers?" "By mine." "I thought so." "Dick, I have been _compelled_ to do it. When you shall know all, you will acknowledge that I could not do otherwise. And yet, in spite of this, I feel that to her I have been but a false-hearted knave, as you aptly style me: a despicable, dishonourable man. My father fell into dishonour--or rather had it forced upon him by another--and he could not survive it; he shot himself. Did you know it, Dick?" "Shot himself!" repeated Richard, in his surprise. "No, I never knew that. I thought he died of sunstroke." "My father shot himself," cried Arthur. "He could not live dishonoured. Dick, old fellow, there are moments when I feel tempted to do as he did." "What--because you have parted from Ellen?" "No. That's bitter enough to bear; but I can battle with it. It is the other thing, the dishonour. That is always present with me, always haunting me night and day; I know not how to live under it." "I do not understand at all," said Richard. "You are master of your own actions." "In this case I have not been: my line of conduct was forced upon me. I cannot explain. Don't judge me too harshly, my friend. I am bad enough, Heaven knows, but not quite as bad, perhaps, as you have been thinking me." And Arthur Bohun turned and went limping away, leaving Richard lost in wonder. He limped away to indulge his pain where no mortal eye could see him. Parted from Ellen Adair, the whole world was to him as nothing. A sense of dishonour lay ever upon him, the shame of his conduct towards her was present to him night and day. With all his heart he wished James Bohun had not died, that there might have been no question of his succession. He would then have gone somewhere away with her, have changed his name, and been happy in obscurity. But there was no place unfrequented by man; he could not change his wife's face; and she might be recognized as the daughter of Adair the convict. Besides, would it not be an offence against Heaven if he wedded the daughter of the man who had caused the death of his father? No; happiness could never be his. Look where he would, there was nothing around him but pain and misery. CHAPTER XXVII. ONCE AGAIN.