with visitors. Then the darker shades of Vernon’s character became
apparent. He was as jealous as an Italian. His disposition was sombre
and averse to sociable pleasures. God knows grief sat too heavy at my
heart to allow me to be very vivacious; still, I wished to please my
uncle, and thought that I had no right to cloud the good-humour of the
company; and added to this was the elastic spirit of youth, which sprung
eagerly and spontaneously from the gloom and mystery of Vernon’s
artifices into the more congenial atmosphere of friendly intercourse. He
saw me unlike anything he had ever seen in me before—sprightly, and
ready to share the amusement of the hour. He groaned in bitterness of
spirit. He reproached—reprehended—and became a very taskmaster. I was
naturally timid and docile—in vain did my spirit revolt from his
injustice: he gained and kept complete ascendency over me. Yet my soul
was in arms against him even while I submitted to his control, and
dislike began to develop itself in my bosom. I tasked myself severely
for my ingratitude. I became in appearance kinder than ever; but every
internal struggle and every outward demonstration had unfortunately one
result—to alienate my affections more and more from my lover-cousin.
Our guests left us. My uncle went up to town. He told me he hoped I
would accompany him there as soon as Lady Hythe returned to chaperon me.
But I was more averse than ever to visiting London. Bound to Vernon by
my promises, and wishing to keep my faith with him, I did not like to
expose myself to the temptation of seeing others I should like better.
Besides, the memory of my father was still unfaded, and I resolved not
to appear in public till the year of mourning was expired. Vernon
accompanied his father to town, but returned again to us almost
immediately. We appeared to revert to our former mode of life; but the
essence of it was changed. He was moody—I anxious. I almost ventured to
accuse him of ill-temper and tyranny, till, reading in my own heart its
indifference, I was inclined to consider myself the cause of his
discontent. I tried to restore his complacency by kindness, and in some
degree succeeded.
One day Sir Richard suddenly appeared at Beech Grove. He seemed
surprised to find Vernon, and care and even anxiety clouded his usual
hilarity. He told us that he expected Clinton daily, and should
immediately on his arrival bring him down to Hampshire.
“To celebrate my birthday?” asked Vernon, with a sardonic smile; “I am
of age on Friday.”
“No,” said his father; “he will not be here so soon.”
“Nor I so honoured,” said Vernon; “Clinton’s coming of age was
celebrated by tumultuous rejoicings; but he is the Elder Son.”
Sir Richard gave Vernon, who spoke sneeringly, a quick glance—an
indescribable expression of pain crossed his countenance.
“Have you been staying here since Christmas?” he asked at last. Vernon
would have replied evasively, but Marianne said,—
“Oh yes! he is always here now.”
“You appear to have become very fond of Beech Grove of a sudden,”
continued his father. I felt that Sir Richard’s eye was fixed on me as
he spoke, and I was conscious that not only my cheeks, but my temples
and neck were crimsoned with blushes. Some time after I saw my uncle in
the shrubbery; he was alone, and the want of society was always so
painful to him, that I thought it but a mark of duteous kindness to join
him. I wondered, as I approached, to see every token of haggard care on
a face usually so smiling. He saw me, and smoothed his brow; he began
talking of London, of my elder cousin, of his desire that I should
conquer my timidity, and consent to be presented this spring. At length
he suddenly stopped short, and scrutinizing me as he spoke, said,—
“Pardon me, dear Ellen, if I annoy you; but I am your guardian, your
second father—am I not? Do not be angry, therefore, if I ask you, are
you attached to my son Vernon?”
My natural frankness prompted one reply, but a thousand feelings,
inexplicable but powerful, hung on my tongue. I answered, stammering:
“No—I believe so—I like him.”
“But you do not love him?”
“What a question, dear uncle!” I replied, covered with confusion.
“Is it even so?” cried Sir Richard; “and is he to succeed in all?”
“You mistake,” I said; for I had a horror of confessing an attachment
which, after all, I did not feel, and so of making our engagement more
binding. But I blushed deeply as I spoke, and my uncle looked
incredulous, and said,—
“Yet it would make you very unhappy if he married another.”
“Oh no!” I cried, “he has my free leave. I should wish him joy with all
my heart.”
The idea—the hope that he was playing me false, and might release me
from my trammels, darted through my mind with a quick thrill of delight.
Sir Richard saw that I was in earnest, and his countenance cleared.
“What a strange thing is maiden coyness,” he observed; “you blushed so
prettily, Ellen, that I could have sworn you had given your heart to
Vernon. But I see I was mistaken; I am glad of it, for he would not suit
you.”
No more was said, but I felt conscience-stricken and miserable. I had
deceived my uncle, and yet I had not. I had declared that I did not love
him to whom I had pledged my hand; and the whole was a mystery and an
entanglement that degraded me in my own eyes. I longed to make a full
confession; yet then all would be over—we should both be inextricably
bound. As it was, some caprice might cause Vernon to transfer his
affection to another, and I could give him entire freedom, without any
human being knowing how foolishly I had acted.
We had no guests at dinner; Sir Richard was to leave us early the next
morning. After dinner I speedily retired to the drawing-room, leaving
father and son together; they remained two hours. I was on the point of
withdrawing to my own room, to avoid a meeting which alarmed me, I knew
not why, when they entered. It seemed as if, in the interval of my
absence, they had received sudden intelligence of a dear friend’s death;
and yet not quite so, for though Vernon looked absorbed in thought, his
gloom was strangely interspersed with glances of swelling triumph; his
smiles were no longer sneers—yet they did not betray a sunshine of the
heart, but rather joy on a bad victory. He looked on me askance, with a
kind of greedy satisfaction, and at his father with scorn. I trembled,
and turned to my uncle; but sadness and confusion marked his features—he
was stamped as with disgrace, and quailed beneath my eye; though
presently he rallied, drew a chair near, and was kinder than ever. He
told me that he was going up to town on the morrow, and that Vernon was
to accompany him; he asked me if there was anything he could do for me,
and testified his affection by a thousand little attentions. Vernon said
nothing, and took leave of me so coldly, that I thought his manner
implied that he expected to see me in the morning. Thinking it right to
indulge him, I rose early; but he did not come down till long after Sir
Richard, who thanked me for my kindness in disturbing myself on his
account. They went away immediately after breakfast, and Vernon’s formal
adieu again struck me with wonder. Was it possible that he was indeed
going to marry another? This doubt was all my comfort, for I was
painfully agitated by the false position in which I had entangled
myself, by the mystery that enveloped my actions, and the falsehood
which my lips perpetually implied, if they did not utter.
I was habitually an early riser. On the third morning after the
departure of my relations, before I rose, and while I was dressing, I
thought that pebbles were thrown at my window; but my mind was too
engrossed to pay attention, till at last, after my toilette had been
leisurely completed, I looked from my window, and saw Vernon below, in
the secluded part of the park which it overlooked. I hurried down, my
heart palpitating with anxiety.
“I have been waiting for you these two hours,” he said angrily; “did you
not hear my signal?”
“I know of no signal,” I replied; “I am not accustomed to clandestine
appointments.”
“And yet you can carry on a clandestine engagement excellently well! You
told Sir Richard that you did not love me—that you should be glad if I
married another.”
An indignant reply was bursting from my lips, but he saw the rising
storm and hastened to allay it. He changed his tone at once from
reproach to tender protestations.
“It broke my heart to leave you as I did,” he said, “but I could do no
less. Sir Richard insisted on my accompanying him—I was obliged to
comply. Even now he believes me to be in town. I have travelled all
night. He half-suspected me, because I refused to dine with him to-day;
and I was forced to promise to join him at a ball to-night. I need not
be there till twelve or one, and so can stay two hours with you.”
“But why this hurried journey?” I asked. “Why do you come?”
He answered by pleading the vehemence of his affection, and spoke of the
risk he ran of losing me for ever. “Do you not know,” he said, “that my
father has set his heart upon your marrying my brother?”
“He is very good,” I replied disdainfully. “But I am not a slave, to be
bought and sold. My cousin Clinton is the last person in the world whom
you need fear.”
“Oh, Ellen, how much do you comfort—transport me, by this generous
contempt for wealth and rank! You ask why I am here—it were worth the
fatigue, twice ten thousand times told, to have these assurances. I have
trembled—I have feared—but you will not love this favoured of
fortune—this elder son!”
I cannot describe Vernon’s look as he said this. Methought envy, malice,
and demoniac exultation were all mingled. He laughed aloud—I shrunk from
him dismayed. He became calmer a moment after.
“My life is in your hands, Ellen,” he said;—but why repeat his glossing
speeches, in which deceit and truth were so kneaded into one mass, that
the poison took the guise of the wholesome substance, while the whole
was impregnated with destruction. I felt that I liked him less than
ever; yet I yielded to his violence. I believed myself the victim of a
venial but irreparable mistake of my own. I confirmed my promises, and
pledged my faith most solemnly. It is true that I undeceived him as much
as I could with regard to the extent of my attachment; at first he was
furious at my coldness, then overwhelmed me with entreaties for
forgiveness—tears even streamed from his eyes—and then again he
haughtily reminded me that I forfeited every virtue of my sex, and
became a monument of falsehood, if I failed him. We separated at last—I
promised to write every day, and saw him ride away with a sensation as
if relieved from the infliction of the torture.
A week after this scene—my spirits still depressed, and often weeping my
dear father’s death, which I considered the root of every evil—I was
reading, or rather trying to read, in my dressing-room, but in reality
brooding over my sorrows, when I heard Marianne’s cheerful laugh in the
shrubbery, and her voice calling me to join her. I roused myself from my
sad reverie, and resolved to cast aside care and misery, while Vernon’s
absence afforded me a shadow of freedom; and, in fulfilment of this
determination, went down to join my young light-hearted cousin. She was
not alone. Clinton was with her. There was no resemblance between him
and Vernon. His countenance was all sunshine; his light-blue eyes
laughed in their own gladness and purity; his beaming smile, his
silver-toned voice, his tall, manly figure, and, above all, his
open-hearted engaging manners, were all the reverse of his dark
mysterious brother. I saw him, and felt that my prejudices had been
ridiculous; we became intimate in a moment. I know not how it was, but
we seemed like brother and sister—each feeling, each thought, being laid
bare to the other. I was naturally frank, but rendered timid by
education; so that it charmed me doubly when the unreserve of another
invited me to indulge in the unguarded confidence of my disposition. How
speedily the days now flew! they contained but one drawback, my
correspondence with my cousin—not that I felt myself unfaithful towards
him; my affection for my new-found relation did not disturb my
conscience—that was pure, undisguised, sisterly. We had met from across
the ocean of life—two beings who formed a harmonized whole; but the
sympathy was too perfect, too untinged by earthly dross, to be compared
with the selfish love given and exacted by Vernon. Yet I feared that his
jealousy might be awakened, while I felt less inclined than ever to
belie my own heart; and with aversion and hesitation penned letters
containing the formula of affection and engaged vows.
Sir Richard came down to Beech Grove. He was highly pleased to see the
cordial friendship that subsisted between his son and me.
“Did I not tell you that you would like him?” he said.
“Every one must,” I replied; “he is formed to win all hearts.”
“And suits you much better than Vernon?”
I did not know what to answer; it was a tender string that he touched;
but I resolved not to feel or think. Sir Richard’s were all flying
visits; he was to leave us in the evening. He had, during the morning, a
long conversation with Clinton; and immediately after he sought for an
opportunity to talk to me.
“Ellen,” he said, “I have not been a wise but I am a fond father. I have
done Clinton many injuries, of which he, poor fellow, is wholly
unconscious; and I have wished to compensate for all in giving him a
wife worthy of him. His temper is generous; his spirit clear and noble.
By my soul, I think he has every virtue under heaven; and you alone
deserve him. Do not interrupt me, I beseech you; hear me this once. I
confess that ever since you became my ward this has been my favourite
project. There have been several obstacles; but the most serious ones
seem to vanish. You have seen each other, and I flatter myself have each
discovered and appreciated the good qualities of the other. Is it so,
Ellen? I know not whence my fears arise, and yet they intrude
themselves. I fear, while I have been endeavouring to secure my boy’s
happiness, I may have been adding to the ruin already heaped on his head
by my means. I have talked with him to-day. He has no disguise in his
nature, and he avows that he loves you. I know that this confession
would come better from himself; but your fortune, your beauty, make him
fear to be misinterpreted. Do not mistake—he is wholly unaware of my
intention of speaking to you. I see your distress, dear Ellen; have
patience but for one word more—do not trifle with Clinton’s feelings, as
sometimes—forgive me—it has appeared to me that you have trifled with
Vernon’s—do not foster hopes not to be fulfilled. Be frank, be honest,
despite the bashfulness and coquetry of your sex.”
After these words, fearful of having offended—overcome by more agitation
than I could have imagined him capable of feeling—my uncle drew me
towards him, pressed me convulsively to his bosom, and then rushed from
the room.
I cannot describe the state in which he left me—a spasm of pain passed
through my frame; I became sick and faint, till a flood of tears
relieved my bursting heart. I wept long—I sobbed in agony—I felt the
veriest wretch that ever trod the earth.
My uncle had rent the veil that concealed me from myself. I loved
Clinton—he was the whole world to me—all the world of light and joy, and
I had shut myself out from him for ever. And he also was my victim. I
beheld his dear face beaming with hope; I heard his thrilling voice
harmonized by love; and saw the fearless cordiality of his manners,
which bespoke his confidence in my sympathy; while I knew that I held a
poisoned dagger which I was about to plunge into his heart. Sometimes I
thought to treat him coldly, sometimes—oh! I cannot tell the various
imaginations that haunted me—some self-sacrificing, others wicked and
false—all ended in one way. My uncle departed; we were left together,
our full hearts beating to respond to each other without any division or
reserve. I felt that every moment might cause Clinton to open his soul
to me, and to seek in mine for a feeling too truly and too fondly alive
there, but which was sinful and fatal to both. To prevent his
confession, my own preceded it. I revealed to him my engagement to
Vernon, and declared my resolve not to swerve from my faith. He
commended me. I saw despair at losing me painted in his countenance,
mingled with horror at supplanting his brother; and alarm that he, the
elder born, gifted by fortune with every blessing, should be suspected
of the intention of stealing the sole remaining good, which Vernon had
won by his diligence, perhaps by his deserts. Forbid it, Heaven! I saw
in the clear mirror of his expressive countenance the struggle of
passion and principle, and the triumph of honour and virtue exalted over
the truest love that ever warmed man’s breast.
Our gaiety was flown; our laughter stilled. We talked sadly and
seriously together, neither lamenting our fate nor acknowledging our
sufferings; tamed to endurance, and consoling each other by such
demonstrations of affection as were permitted to our near relationship.
We read clearly each other’s hearts, and supported each other in the
joint sacrifice; and this without any direct acknowledgment. Clinton
talked of returning to the Continent; I of my seclusion and tranquillity
at Beech Grove. The time was distant—two years was an eternity at our
age—before Vernon could claim my hand; and we did not advert to that
fatal consummation. We gave up each other; and that single misery
sufficed without a more cruel addition. I was calm, pale, and tearless.
I had brought it all on myself, and must submit. I could not cast aside
the younger son to select the elder; and if in my secret thoughts I
cherished a hope to induce Vernon to forego his claims, that very
circumstance would the more entirely divide me from Clinton. As my
brother-in-law, I might see him—in some sort, our fortunes were shared;
but as a rival to Vernon, a stream of blood separated us for ever.
The hours of sad sympathy which we passed were very dear to us. We knew
that they were brief. Clinton had fixed the day and hour of his
departure—each moment it drew nearer. We should never meet again till
after my marriage; but till the hour of separation, for two short days,
we were all in all to each other, despite the wall of adamant which was
raised between us. We tried each to pretend to think and talk of
indifferent subjects; and we _never_ spoke of that nearest our
hearts;—but how superfluous are words as interpreters between lovers! As
we walked or rode, and spent hours in each other’s society, we exchanged
thoughts more intimately during long periods of absolute silence, than
Vernon with his vehemence and eloquence could have conceived. Had we
spoken folio volumes, we could have said no more. Our looks—the very
casting down of our eyes and mutual tacit avoidance, told our resolve to
fulfil our duties and to conquer our love; and yet how, by a glance or a
faltering word, when the future was alluded to, did we promise never to
forget, but to cherish mutual esteem and tenderness as all that was left
of the paradise from which we were so ruthlessly driven! Now and then a
playful expression on his part, or a blush on mine, betrayed more
feeling than we considered right; the one was checked by a sigh, the
other by an assumption of indifference.
I had been spending many hours in tears and anguish, when, resolved to
overcome my weakness, and to recover an appearance of serenity before my
cousin returned from his ride, I went into Marianne’s schoolroom and
took up a book. The exhaustion of weeping had calmed me; and I thought
of my kinsman—his endearing qualities, and of the tie between us, with
softened feelings. As I indulged in reverie, my head resting on my hand,
my book falling from my fingers, my eyes closed, I passed from the
agitated sense of life and sorrow into the balmy forgetfulness of sleep.
Clinton had wished to make a portrait of me, yet had not ventured to ask
me to sit—he came in at this moment; Marianne, whispering, told him not
to disturb me. He took her drawing materials, and made a hasty sketch,
which genius and love united to render a perfect likeness. I awoke and
saw his work; it was beyond our contract; I asked him for it; he felt
that I was right, and gave it. This sacrifice on his part proved that he
did not palter with his sense of right. On the morrow we were to part;
and he would preserve no memorial beyond a remembrance which he could
not destroy.
That morrow came. Clinton asked me and his sister to walk through the
park with him, to join his chariot at the farther lodge. We consented;
but, at the moment of going, Marianne, who knew nothing certainly, but
who darkly guessed that all was not right, excused herself. I joined him
alone. There was something in his person and manner that so promised
protection and tenderness, that I felt it doubly hard to be torn from
him. A dignified reserve, foreign to his usual nature, founded on a
resolve to play only the brother’s part, checked me somewhat; yet I
loved him the more for it; while I would have laid down my existence so
that it had only been permitted us to throw aside the mask but for one
short hour, and to use the language of nature and troth. It could not
be; and our conversation was upon indifferent subjects. When we
approached the lodge, we found that the chariot had not come, and we
retreated a little, and sat down on a turfy bank; then Clinton said a
few words, the only ones that at all revealed the agitation he was
enduring.
“I have a little more experience than you, Ellen,” he said; “and,
besides, I am haunted by strange presentiments; we seem to know what we
ought to do, and what we are to do, and act accordingly—yet life is a
strange, wild thing. I wish to ensure for you a friend more willing and
active than Sir Richard. I have a sister to whom I am fondly attached;
she is now on the Continent, but I shall hasten to her, and entreat her
to afford you a friendship you so richly deserve. You will love Lady
Hythe for her own sake as well as for mine.”
I was desirous of thanking him for this mark of kindness, but my voice
failed me, and I burst into tears, overcome by the excess of anguish
that deluged my heart I tried to conceal my tears—I could not.
“Do not, Ellen, dear Ellen, I beseech you—command yourself.”
Clinton spoke in a voice so broken, so full of misery, that he inspired
me at once with fear and courage. The tread of a horse roused us—a horse
at swift gallop. I raised my eyes, and uttered a shriek; for, reining in
the animal with a sudden strong pull, Vernon halted close to us. The
most violent passions convulsed his countenance. He threw himself from
the horse, and, casting the bridle from him, came up. What he meant to
say or do I cannot tell; perhaps to conceal the workings of his
heart—and the quick departure of Clinton would have smoothed all; but I
saw the barrel of a pistol peep from the pocket of his coat. I was
seized with terror—I shrieked aloud. Clinton, terrified at my alarm,
would have supported me, but Vernon pushed him rudely away.
“Dare not to approach or touch her, as you value your life!” he cried.
“My life! you talk idly, Vernon. I value her security—one moment of
peace to her—far more.”
“You confess it!” exclaimed Vernon; “and you, too, false and treacherous
girl! Ha! did you think to betray me, and be unpunished? Do you think,
if I so chose it, that I would not force you to look on till the blood
of one of the brothers flowed at your feet? But there are other
punishments in store for you.”
The expressions of menace used towards myself restored my courage, and I
exclaimed, “Beware that you do not break the tie that binds us—at least,
that bound us a moment ago—perhaps it is already broken.”
“Doubtless,” he cried, grinding his teeth with rage, “it is broken, and
a new one created to bind you to the elder son. Oh yes! you would fain
cast aside the poor, miserable beggar, who has vainly fawned on you, and
madly loved—you would take the rich, the honourable, and honoured Sir
Clinton! Base, hollow-hearted fool!”
“Vernon,” said Clinton, “whatever your claims are on our cousin, I
cannot stand by and see her insulted. You forget yourself.”
“The forgetfulness, sir, is on your part; proud in your seniority, to
rival your brother, to drive him from his all, has been a May-game for
you; but know, proud fool, or villain—take which name you will—your hour
is passed by—your reign at an end! Your station is a fiction, your very
existence a disgrace!”
Clinton and I both began to think that Vernon was really mad—a suspicion
confirmed by his violent gestures. We looked at each other in alarm.
“Stay!” exclaimed the infuriated man, seizing my arm with a fierce
grasp; while, fearful to induce Clinton’s interference, I yielded.
“Stay, and listen to what your lover is—or shall I wound your delicate
ears? There are soft phrases and silken words to adorn that refuse of
the world—a bastard!”
“Vernon, dare not!—beware, sir, and begone!”
Clinton’s face crimsoned; his voice, his majestic indignation almost
forced the ruffian to quail; he threw my arm from him.
“Take him, fair Ellen! it is true you take what I say—a natural son. Do
you think that my information is not correct? Ask our father, for he is
yours, Clinton, and our mother is the same; you are the first-born of
Richard Gray and Matilda Towers; but I am the eldest son of Mr. and Mrs.
Gray.”