After dispatching this laconic reply, the Earl went to Ellen's
dressing-room. Laura had just left her; Jane only was with her: at the
moment he entered, Ellen was reading a note, which, when she saw him,
she hastily folded together, and put within the bosom of her morning
dress: she seemed a little agitated, and the tears stood in her eyes,
but hastening to meet him, she said:--
"My dear St. Aubyn, they told me you were gone out."
"No, my love," said St. Aubyn, a little surprized at the hasty manner in
which she spoke; "but I am going out soon."
"Shall you take the barouche or the chariot?"
"Neither; I shall walk to Sir Edward Leicester's: but why; are _you_
going out?"
"Yes--by and bye; I think a little air will do me good."
"Had you not better keep quiet? You know my aunt particularly requested
you would do so; she will be here soon: do not go till you have seen
her, nor then unless she advises it."
"But I assure you, my Lord, I am perfectly well, and I am sure a little
air will be of service."
"Well, do as you please," said St. Aubyn, a little surprized at her
adhering so determinately to her idea of going out; for, in general,
half a word from him guided her; "but you will not go alone?"
"Oh--no, Laura will go with me."
"Very well, my love; don't fatigue yourself. Where are you going?"
"I don't know exactly: I want to do some shopping."
St. Aubyn then wished her good-morning, and repeating his request that
she would take care of herself, left her.
The real fact was this--Jane, who was Ellen's almoner, and brought to
her knowledge many cases of distress, of which she would otherwise have
been ignorant, had the night before, while her lady was at the play,
received a petition from an officer's widow, who stated herself to be
living in a small lodging in ---- Street; that she had several children,
of whom the youngest was an infant not a month old, born under
circumstances of the most acute distress, a few months after its father
had fallen in the field of battle; the eldest, a girl of sixteen, in a
deep decline: these circumstances, she said, prevented her from waiting
herself on Lady St. Aubyn, of whose goodness she had heard much from an
old blind lady, her neighbour, whom, in fact, Ellen had supported for
some time past, and whom she had visited two or three times with Jane
only.
Ellen, warm-hearted and benevolent, was extremely anxious to see this
unfortunate family: Jane had given her the letter just before St. Aubyn
came into her room, and fearing if she declared her purpose he would
oppose it, lest her health should be injured by the emotion she must
necessarily feel from the sight of this unhappy mother and her children,
she concealed the letter, and did not exactly tell him why she wished so
much to go out, though aware that she must appear unusually
pertinacious; but she had set her heart with all the fervor of youth on
her object: above all, she desired to see the poor little infant, for
Ellen, always fond of children, had, since she knew herself likely to
become a mother, felt a peculiar interest in young children, and
ardently wished to see and provide for one who had so many claims to
the compassion of a tender heart; and having really some purchases to
make, she gave without consideration _that_ as her only motive for going
out. Never before had she departed for an instant from the singular
sincerity of her character, and the perfect confidence which she reposed
in her husband; dearly did she soon repent of having done so now.
On asking Laura to go with her, she unexpectedly declined it, having a
bad head-ache, and tried to persuade Ellen not to go herself, but to
send Jane, and go some other time: but Ellen was so unusually fixed on
her point, and her imagination was so impressed with the idea of the
_poor little infant_, that, for a wonder, she was not to be prevailed
on; and fearing, lest Lady Juliana should come and prevent her, she
ordered the carriage directly, and set out.
She drove first to ---- Street, where she found the distrest family in
all the poverty and affliction which had been described to her--the
unfortunate mother, still weak, and scarcely able to support herself,
obliged to act as nurse, not only to the infant, but to her eldest
daughter, who, pale and languishing, seemed ready every moment to
breathe her last, while two or three other children were playing in the
room, distracting by their unconscious noise the poor invalids.
The tender and compassionate Ellen felt her heart opprest at this
melancholy sight, and hastened as much as possible to relieve it: she
held herself the baby in her arms, while she sent Jane to seek a nurse
for the poor girl, and to the woman of the house where they lodged, to
whom she spoke herself; and requested she would take charge of the other
children, till the mother was more able to do so. She gave the widow an
ample supply of money to procure every thing necessary for her herself
and family, and after promising to send a physician to attend the poor
girl, and kissing the baby, she departed, followed by thanks and
blessings, "not loud but deep," and went to see the poor old blind lady,
who, always delighted to hear her sweet voice and kind expressions,
detained her as long as she could.
Returning home, rejoicing in the good she had done, feeling herself
animated by the purest pleasure, and quite well in health, Ellen
suddenly recollected that she was close by the street where Mrs. Birtley
lived, with whom she had lodged the first time she was in London; and
she thought she would just stop at the door, and ask for the book she
had left there, for which Jane had, as she said, always forgotten to
call: it was that very volume of Gray which Mordaunt had given her, and
as his first gift she was really anxious to recover it. Meaning merely
to stop at the door, and send Jane in for it, she pulled the check, and
ordered the coachman to drive down that street, and stop at No. 6, and
told Jane for what purpose she was going.
"Oh, my Lady," said the talkative girl, "I shall be rejoiced that Mrs.
Birtley should see you in all your grandeur: she will be surprized after
all she had the impertinence to say."
"Indeed," said Ellen, "I never thought of that: she will wonder to see
me under such a different appearance, and perhaps say something in the
hearing of the servants. I will not go."
"Oh, my Lady," answered Jane, "she need not know who you are: only ask
for the book, and come away directly: she will not know a bit the more
what your Ladyship's real name is; and I suppose she is not enough
amongst the grand people to know the livery or carriage."
"True," said Ellen: "well, you shall go in and ask for the book, but do
not explain any thing to her."
"Oh, no, indeed, my Lady," said Jane; "so far from it, I shall enjoy
seeing her puzzle----"
While they spoke, the carriage stopped at the door of Mrs. Birtley.
Ellen, who half repented having come, sat back in the carriage, and told
Jane to go in and ask for the book, and not to say she was there, for
she would not alight: but notwithstanding Ellen's caution, Mrs. Birtley,
having been drawn to the window by seeing such an elegant equipage stop
at her door, caught a glimpse of her as the footman opened the door of
the chariot for Jane to alight, came to the side of the carriage, and
with civility asked her if she would not walk in. Ellen, feeling more
and more the absurdity of which she had been guilty in coming to the
door of a woman who she knew entertained of her a doubtful opinion, and
to whom she could not explain herself, coldly declined the offer; but
the coachman said he feared the horses would not turn very well, as the
street was rather narrow, and that it would be better if her Ladyship
pleased to alight for a moment, lest she should be alarmed.
Mrs. Birtley stared at the "_Ladyship_" as much as she had done at the
_coronetted carriage_ and fine horses; for she was not quite so ignorant
of _grand people_, as Jane, in the plenitude of her own newly-acquired
knowledge, had supposed her.
Ellen, vexed at her own folly in coming thither, was now obliged to get
out of the carriage; and several people passing by, staring first at the
carriage, and then at Ellen, she thought it would be better to go for an
instant into the house. Mrs. Birtley shewed her into the parlour, and
requesting she would be seated, added, "My lodger is gone out, and will
not, I suppose, be back till dinner-time: he is generally out all the
morning. I believe he knows something of you, Ma'am."
"Of me!" repeated Ellen, surprized.
"Yes, Ma'am: for when he came here about a week ago, he saw, by
accident, that book Mrs. Jane has in her hand; and some writing there
was in it seemed to put him into a great passion. He made me tell him
how I came by the book, and asked me a thousand questions about you:
what was the name of the gentleman you came with, if you were young and
handsome, and I don't know what; and I believe what I told him put him
into a great rage, for he stampt and swore like a madman."
Ellen, vexed and astonished, sorry she had come there, and feeling a
certain dread of she hardly knew what stealing over her, now turned
extremely pale; and Jane exclaimed, "Oh, my Lady will faint: get some
water!"
"Your _Lady_! Why she is Mrs. Mordaunt, is not she, _or calls herself
so_?" asked Mrs. Birtley with some contempt.
"Don't stand there asking questions," said the impatient Jane: "but
fetch some water. Lord, I wish we were at home: if my Lady should be
ill, how Lady Juliana will scold, and my Lord."
"Grant me patience," said Mrs. Birtley, as she left the room to fetch
some drops and water: "the girl makes me mad with her Lords and Ladies.
Poor fool, I suppose they have imposed upon her too finely."
Not one minute had she been gone, when Ellen finding herself better, and
not meaning to wait Mrs. Birtley's return, and farther questions, had
risen, and by Jane's help almost reached the door to go to the carriage,
which through the window she saw drawing up, when that door opened, and
Charles Ross entered the room: amazed beyond the power of words to
describe, he saw her standing--saw Ellen in his apartment! And
forgetting every thing but that he had once dearly loved her, he rushed
towards, and would have caught her in his arms, but she evaded his
grasp; and catching hold of Jane (who, frightened, gave a sudden
scream), said, "He here! Oh, how I am terrified!"
"Terrified, Ellen!" he wildly repeated: "_once_ you were not terrified
by my appearance."
"No, Sir," she replied, with as much spirit as she could assume: "for
once I should have expected friendship and protection, not insult."
"Ah, wretched girl!" he exclaimed: "once you deserved and wished for my
friendship and protection; but now, that fine gaudy carriage, this
elegant dress, the jewels, in which I saw you last night, all tell a
dreadful tale--all speak of your shame, of your ruin."
"Of my shame! of my ruin! what, oh, what do you mean?"
"Aye, what indeed!" said the enraged Jane: "let my Lady pass,
impertinent fellow, and don't stand there talking in that insolent
manner. Do, my Lady, let me call the footmen. I wish my Lord was here:
he would soon teach you better manners."
"Cease, Jane," said Ellen, shaking like a leaf: "cease this shocking
altercation. Of your insulting language, Mr. Ross, I know not the
meaning: it is well for you Lord St. Aubyn does not hear you thus
address his wife."
"His wife! his wife! Is it possible? Have I wronged both him and you?
Stay, Ellen, a moment, for heaven's sake--for St. Aubyn's--for my
father's: you know not the mischief one word of explanation may
prevent."
She stopped, she turned: he seized her hands to detain her. Oh,
unfortunate Ellen!
At that moment St. Aubyn himself entered the room. He rushed impetuously
forward, exclaiming, "Dissembling woman! Was it for this you left your
home--to meet this villain--to come to his very lodging in search of
him?"
"Oh, no! oh, no!" sobbed Ellen, as she sunk at his feet in a swoon so
deep, so death-like, that it seemed as if her life had left her.
"Oh, you have killed my Lady!" cried Jane: "my dear Lady! Oh, my Lord,
we came here for a book, and not----"
"Peace, peace!" sternly interrupted St. Aubyn: "I will not hear a word.
Is she dead?"
"Oh, Lord, I hope not! How can your Lordship talk so shockingly? Oh,
Mrs. Birtley, for God's sake help my Lady--call assistance!"
Between them they raised her: for Charles, confounded, shocked, and half
distracted, dared not, and St. Aubyn, gloomy, cold, and stern, would not
assist her. At length returning life mantled on her cheek, and her first
incoherent words were, "St. Aubyn, dear St. Aubyn, save me!"
St. Aubyn, somewhat calmer, and fearing he might have been too rash,
struggled with the jealous pangs which rent his heart, and approaching
her, said, "How is it, Ellen--are you better?"
"Yes, better, my love; but sick, oh, sick at heart!"
"Compose yourself; all is well."
A little revived, she looked up, but was too languid to discern the
expression of his countenance, which contradicted the kindness of his
words; for St. Aubyn felt there was much, very much to be explained,
before she could be to him again the Ellen she had been--if, indeed, the
perfect confidence he once felt in her could ever be restored; yet
fearing quite to destroy her, he constrained himself. Mrs. Birtley, now
convinced how unjust had been her suspicions, and Jane, eagerly
endeavoured to explain how Lady St. Aubyn came to be there; but
motioning with an air of proud dignity to them to be silent, he said,
"Enough, I am satisfied!" But his gloomy looks contradicted his words,
and turning to Ross, he said, in a low voice, "You and I, Sir, shall
meet again." Then, with Jane's assistance, he raised Ellen, and lifting
her into the carriage, and putting Jane in, followed himself.
"Home!" fiercely exclaimed St. Aubyn, and home they went; but oh, to a
home how different from that of the day before!