"Where, perhaps, some beauty lies,
The cynosure of neighbouring eyes."--_L'Allegro._
In a comfortably furnished parlour a family party were gathered, and
about to sit down to their breakfast. The urn was hissing cheerily, as
if inviting them to hasten to the repast. A handsome girl, perhaps
eighteen years of age, presided over the tea-making, and was apparently
too busily engaged to give much attention to the assiduous addresses of
a young officer who sat on her right hand. In the window a boy of
fifteen was aiding his younger sister in mastering her French lesson,
while the head of the family stood with his back to the blazing fire,
and read the papers. A pretty Skye terrier, looking wistfully into his
master's face, as if to remind him he too was waiting for his morning
supply of milk, completed the picture.
"Do come to your breakfast, Johnny and Maude," said Ellen.
"In one minute, we are almost finished," answered her brother.
"No, come at once, or you will be late for your school."
Both silently obeyed, and took their seats at table.
"Is there any news, papa?" continued Ellen Ravensworth.
"No, love, none at all, except the arrival of the Earl of Wentworth at
Dun Edin Towers."
"Ha! are they come?" asked the young officer. "Is Captain de Vere of the
party?"
"Let's see--there's the Earl, Francis de Vere, his brother, and the
Ladies Edith and Florence--no mention of the Captain; but stay, here he
is--'Captain the Hon. de Vere, accompanied by the Marquis of Arranmore,
is expected to join the noble family in a few days; _on dit_ that the
young Marquis is shortly to lead the beautiful and accomplished Lady
Edith de Vere to the hymeneal altar.'"
"Ah! I knew that before," remarked Captain L'Estrange; "you know De Vere
is my senior officer in the 7th Hussars."
"Then you know him, I suppose?" asked Ellen.
"I should think I do just, we are great chums."
"What is he like?" asked Ellen.
"Always the same question, Nelly. Well, he has a dashing, soldierly
look, as fierce as a Turk; curiously enough, I am thought rather like
him by some of our fellows, though I hope I am not such a wild slip."
"That's as much as to say _you_ are a dashing, soldierly-looking man,"
said Ellen, smiling maliciously.
"No, no, not exactly; but talking of handsome men, the Earl is a
good-looking fellow if you like it, and his sisters were quite the
belles in town last season. The Prince Regent swears there is nothing
like them. Are they to remain long North, Mr. Ravensworth?"
"It doesn't say, but I fancy they will stay over Christmas. But I shall
be late--is the tea ready, Ellen?--let us sit down, and we can talk
about them as we drive in to Edinburgh."
"Look, papa, how it snows," said Maude; "we shall have a cold drive;
isn't it early for snow in November?"
"Yes, love, but eat your breakfast, and talk after."
Leaving them to do justice to their capital Scotch breakfast, we take
this opportunity of making our readers better acquainted with the
Ravensworth family.
Mr. Ravensworth was a tall, gentlemanly-looking man of about fifty; much
anxiety had prematurely whitened his hair, and sorrow ploughed the lines
deep in his brow with her "burning share." He had been born to large
property, but had suddenly lost his fortune, and almost immediately
afterwards his partner in life, leaving him to contend against poverty
at his very door with four infant children, of whom the eldest was
barely seven and the youngest an infant in arms. Mr. Ravensworth then
entered the Bar, and being an uncommonly clever, and, what was more, a
working man, soon began to rise in his profession, and was able to build
and furnish a pretty villa on the seashore, some miles from Edinburgh,
where he practised, and to educate his children well and live at least
in comfort. As he had prospects too, being next heir to a fine property
in Haddington, he was not without hopes of being able to raise his
family to the position they had formerly occupied in society, and see
his house once more on the top of the fickle wheel that had crushed him
so low. He did not spend his time in unavailing lament over parted
grandeur, but strove by hard and steady labour to launch on the tide,
"that, taken at its height, leads on to fortune." His eldest son George
entered the army when only seventeen, and was rapidly rising in his
profession, when again the hand of death snatched another victim, and
the father's hopes seemed once more shattered. Still beaten down, but
not conquered, he lived and laboured for his family. Ellen, now his
eldest child, was a remarkably fine-looking girl; she was much above the
average height, and built on a large scale, with a commanding look, and
seemed born, as her flatterers told her, to be a duchess. Nature had
given her a lavish abundance of fair brown hair, which, confined by the
frail net that scarcely held its prisoner, rolled half way down her back
and contrasted sadly with the garb of woe she still wore for her soldier
brother. Her blue eyes were full of soul and expression. It has been
said that when a Scotch girl is pretty she is something quite unusual,
and if ever there was a perfect beauty it was Ellen; whatever you looked
on was matchless, whether it was her eyes beaming like the mirror of an
innocent heart--or her white Grecian nose--pearly teeth--or again the
well-developed contour of her form--her round white arm or well-turned
and small foot and ankle. Each was perfect--nothing that we could have
wished altered. Her still face perhaps gave her the appearance of being
a year or two older than she really was, a fault--if we may so call
it--not uncommon with Scotch beauties; but the moment she opened her
lips, or smiled, the illusion vanished. Johnny, as her younger, and now
only, brother used to be always called, was an open-faced, good-looking
boy of fifteen, and promised to grow up like his father. Of Maude we
need only say with Lord Byron, she was--
"A lovely being, hardly formed or moulded,
A rose, with all its brightest leaves yet folded."
The village in which they resided was situated some few miles from the
modern Athens. Seaview, as its name implied, faced the sea, and was one
of many similar villas that had sprung up around them since Mr.
Ravensworth had fixed on it as a residence, in order that his children
might have the benefit of country and sea air, and yet be sufficiently
near the northern metropolis to enable him to pursue his vocation, and
give them the education of which Edinburgh afforded such first-rate
means.
Seaview was enclosed in a small garden with a lawn running down in
front to the terrace that overlooked the sands. From the front windows
they had a fine view of the Firth of Forth--the Fife hills opposite to
the right, the large bay bounded by Berwick Law and Bass amid the
waters, and to the left the upper course of the Forth. The dining-room
and hall door, which were at the back, looked out on the champaign
country stretched between the Pentlands and Lammermoors. Arthur's Seat
rose like an island from its sea of woods, or, more fancifully still,
like a lion couched among the brushwood. A broad carriage road running
to London one way, and Edinburgh the other, passed their door.
Mr. Ravensworth kept a four-wheel and one horse, in which he every day
drove to Edinburgh, leaving Johnny and Maude at their respective
schools, and, after his day's attendance at the Parliament houses,
calling for them again on his way home. Accordingly, breakfast finished,
he and his two children started for Town, as they called Edinburgh,
leaving Ellen and L'Estrange to amuse themselves as they best could.
The peculiar circumstances of Ellen's life tended much to develop her
character. Left at an early age without a mother, and thrown almost
entirely on her own resources, and afterwards taken much into her
father's confidence--young as she was, she already knew more of the
world than many whose years doubled hers. The management of Mr.
Ravensworth's house, and the bringing up of Johnny and Maude were left
almost entirely to her control, and we must do her the justice to say
that the manner in which she conducted herself at the head of her
father's table, and the strict and excellent bringing up of her brother
and sister, were past all praise. During the long hours she was left
alone whilst the children were at school and her father at his duties,
she was naturally thrown much on herself, and we believe these hours of
loneliness were her best taskmasters.
When Israel required to be trained as a peculiar race, the desert was
chosen as their abode, and some of the most lofty minds are those which
are longest schooled in solitude. But it has also its disadvantages and
dangers, this solitary bringing up. The mind forced to look inwards--to
recall the past too much--becomes sad, and is inclined to brood over its
miseries, fancied or real; and Ellen, young as she was when the smile of
fortune ceased to fling its radiance, was not too young to remember that
times had once been better, happier than now; that there was a day when
wealth had made them many friends; a day when they had lived in
splendour, with carriages and horses, manservants and maidens; and when
she contrasted it with their present life it was apt to make her
discontented. She had been too well brought up by her father, who was a
truly excellent man, not to know how wrong this was--and she often tried
to banish the thoughts from her mind: but they would recur, and every
time she encouraged them they became deeper rooted and more difficult to
eradicate. Poetry and romance were Ellen's favourite subjects, and
neither tended much to fill the aching void. They fed, without
satisfying her craving, and like water to a thirsty soul only increased
her thirst.
The poems of Lord Byron, and the novels of Sir Walter Scott, and other
stars of the Georgian era, were her constant companions; she felt how
much harm they were doing, yet had not the moral strength to resist
their fascination. She began to live in a world of fiction--real life
was tame and insipid, and she soon created in her mind some prince in
disguise, some knight of romance, destined to lift her from the low
estate she then groaned in, to the scenes she was born to grace. Ellen
knew--how could she help knowing?--that she was very beautiful. Proud,
but not vain, of her beauty, she felt that, living in a position beneath
her due, this beauty might yet raise her to her dreamland heights. It
was to no purpose that day after day declined without bringing the
realization of her hopes--she still hoped on, without considering that
the hours most precious were stealing silently away, and yet she was
tracing nothing worthy of remembrance on her sands of life. These day
dreams "when nearest and most inviting" were often rudely broken by the
stern realities of life, and left her more and more discontented, harder
and harder to be pleased; and the proud beauty felt as feels the eagle
when, with ruffled wing, he beholds through the bars of his cage that
heaven he has so often soared to, but to which he can return no more.
Such were Ellen's feelings as she was roused by the voice of L'Estrange
asking her to take a walk in the country, as the day had broken off
fine. She felt vexed at the interruption, and hastily answered she could
not--she had a headache, and wished to remain quiet. Her heart smote her
as she heard him turn away with mournful step, and the word quivered on
her lips which recalled him--but pride smothered the unborn sound; the
old weakness returned, and she allowed her dream to run on instead of
awaking herself--shaking off the fatal habit--and rising a real woman to
combat the trials of life. The conversation during breakfast had
awakened an old train of thought. Often had she been told she was only
fit for a peeress--and now within ten miles of her was one who could
raise her to the height of her ambition--young, rich, handsome. Could
she catch his eye? could she make a conquest of the young Earl's heart?
She looked at herself in the mirror, Pride whispered she _could_! But
then came a chilling thought--L'Estrange. For nearly a year had he paid
her the most untiring homage. Pleased at first, flattered by her powers,
she had led him on--led him on till he had proposed for her hand--been
accepted too--ha! dreadful truth, accepted! She had loved him once--but
now--did she love him? no, no, he had her friendship--he had her
affection--but not her love! And who was her love? The phantom of her
mind's creation, the unreal knight of her dreams. And now the phantom of
her imagination was near, she had never seen him even--but L'Estrange
said he was splendidly handsome! He knew him too--why should not she?
Would he come up to her model? Could she make the conquest? Something
whispered "Yes." But she was engaged--again that voice said, "Never
mind." Was this her evil genius? Then were sown the seeds of that blight
doomed to destroy a plant bards have called "too frail to bloom below."
Ellen was a well-brought-up girl, and her better thoughts recoiled from
the very idea of thus jilting her first love. She was a sensible girl,
and her better senses told her how foolish were her thoughts. Perhaps
the Earl might not even look at her, if she saw him; perhaps, and still
more likely, she might never see him; perhaps he might have some other
mistress of his heart.
On the other hand L'Estrange loved her as his own soul; she knew and
felt that: he had no other lady of his affections, she knew that; and
here, in spite of all, she was going to chance the reality for the
shadow--chance all on a wild throw, and perhaps--most probably--lose
both. So spoke the still, small voice within; but pride, false pride
choked its utterances, drowned its whispers, and in her heart she
resolved to make the trial, and as if to aid her in her thoughts came
the lines into her memory--
"He either rates his life too high,
Or his deserts too small,
Who fears to cast in on the die
To win, or lose, it all."
She would hazard all on a blind toss! she had passed the Rubicon!
however foolish the step it was now too late! Such were Ellen's thoughts
as she lounged on the sofa, while poor L'Estrange plodded his solitary
way to Arthur's Seat through the snow, thinking on Ellen, and wondering
at her changed behaviour of late.