Pass we over the succeeding interview between Mordaunt and Ellen--its
general style may be easily imagined; and the particulars of scenes like
that seldom give pleasure, unless to those whom they immediately
concern. It will be needless to specify that Ellen modestly, though
frankly, confessed the influence he had obtained over her affections,
and consented to be his wife: one, only one, painful objection arose in
her mind--the probable distance she must be removed from her father, and
the doubtfulness of her seeing him again, at least for years. These
objections Mordaunt did his best to obviate, by reminding her that Powis
was yet in a green old age, and would be well able to visit them; and
that he would engage to revisit Llanwyllan with her, in the course of a
year or two. Here, however, Mordaunt sighed deeply, and his countenance
assumed that inexplicable gloom, with which reflexions on the past, or
anticipations of the future, seemed always to inspire him: recovering
himself a little, he added, "Remember, however, Ellen, this promise must
be in some measure conditional. There are circumstances in my situation,
which I have explained to Mr. Ross, which may affect my honour--almost
strike at my life. Say, Ellen, can you willingly encounter those storms
of adverse fate, which may assail, and, perhaps, make me an exile from
my native country for ever? Can you give me so much of your confidence
as to believe, whatever appearances may be, I am innocent?"
"Your words are full of mystery," said Ellen, in a faltering tone; "yet
my heart is so fully convinced of your honour and veracity, that I can
venture to promise no appearances shall ever shake my confidence in
either--and if Mr. Ross knows those circumstances to which you allude,
and yet is willing to join our hands, I have the best security that my
heart has not misled my judgment."
"Admirable creature!" exclaimed Mordaunt: "how, in this sequestered
situation, have you learnt so to temper the warmth of that innocent
heart by the nicest rules of modesty and discrimination? How good you
are, not to insist on my explaining all these mysteries!--Believe me,
Ellen, I only postpone it in order to avoid as much as possible giving
you pain. Perhaps, before any explanation becomes necessary, the clouds
which have so long hovered over me may be dispersed. There is a clue,
which (if the united efforts of myself and of the best of friends can
attain it) will yet be found, that will unravel all that makes against
me; and all will then be well." Here, for the present, the matter
rested; and though to suppose Ellen void of curiosity would be to
suppose her stupid, yet so entire was the confidence which she felt in
Mordaunt's affection, and Ross's judgment, that she was perfectly
satisfied to rest implicitly on them.
Mordaunt the next day made his application for Powis's consent to his
marrying Ellen. His surprize at the proposal was such as evidently
shewed it had never entered his imagination. After expressing his
astonishment, he hesitated, and then replied: "Why, look ye, Mr.
Mordaunt, you appear to be a gentleman, and I dare say have a good
income. I can give Ellen a few hundreds now, and a few at my death; and
I only want to be sure that you can maintain her in some sort of
comfort.--You must tell me a little more of your situation in life; and
though I like you very well, I should be glad to know from somebody who
knows you what sort of a character you bear. Now don't be angry--I am a
plain spoken man, and no more suspicious than another: but when you come
and ask me for my only child, and to take her away, God knows where,
into strange parts, I had need know whether you are likely to be kind to
her."
Mordaunt seemed a little confused at this harangue; but replied: "You
are very right, my good friend; I have already explained myself, my
situation in life, and all circumstances, to Mr. Ross, who is of opinion
I may marry your daughter, without doing her any injury in point of
fortune--for your farther satisfaction, however, I refer you to the Rev.
Doctor Montague, domestic chaplain to the Earl of St. Aubyn, at St.
Aubyn Castle, Northamptonshire--his Lordship is at present not in
England. That gentleman will give you every necessary detail respecting
me; and should his account be satisfactory, I may then hope all
obstacles are removed."
"You speak very handsomely, and like a gentleman, as I doubt not you
are: but you will excuse my being a little anxious about my
child--truth, to say, I do not like the notion of her going so far from
me; but if she likes you (and I suppose you are pretty well agreed, or
you would not come to me), I will never let my own comfort hinder her
happiness; yet I tell you honestly, I had rather she had married Charles
Ross, as I thought likely." At these words Mordaunt's countenance was
overcast: he feared there had been some attachment between the young
people; and such was the delicacy of his sentiments, that had he been
certain of it, all his love for Ellen, passionate as it certainly was,
would not have induced him to marry her; on this head, therefore, he was
determined to be satisfied. He wrote Doctor Montague's address for
Powis, and then went directly to the Parsonage, where Ellen still
remained. He found her alone; and though he looked delighted to see her,
she yet fancied she saw a little alteration in his manner, which
disturbed her. He told her he had seen her father, and a part of what
passed, omitting the mention of money concerns, which he thought would
distress her.
When he was silent, she said: "Tell me, Mr. Mordaunt, am I mistaken in
supposing you out of spirits to-day? I fear my father's rough manner has
vexed you."--"No, Ellen, not that." "Then there is something, I am
sure." "And do you already know me so well?" said Mordaunt. "I am
ashamed to confess how unreasonable I am when you are so good and so
confiding: but it is true--your father dropt a hint which alarmed me. He
spoke of Charles Ross in terms that--forgive me, Ellen--that led me to
fear, whatever might now be the case, he had not always been indifferent
to you."
Ellen blushed a little, and said, with a calm smile, "It is certainly
true, that Charles Ross professed a great attachment to me; and I
believe his friends and my father earnestly wished we should at some
time or other be married. Joanna, in particular, was very anxious, and
has within a few months been quite uneasy on this subject, and indeed
made me so too--for it was impossible----" She paused: then added, "I
certainly felt the regard of a sister for Charles, but never more. If I
had not--if you had never----" She hesitated, blushed, and said, with
some warmth, "I never could have loved him enough to marry him."
Charmed, and with every suspicion laid at rest by this frank avowal,
Mordaunt now was truly happy--for, till now, though hardly known to
himself, a lurking doubt of Charles had at times hung about him.
Mordaunt's former knowledge of the world had had the effect upon his
heart, which it too often has, of repressing its confidence, and making
it distrustful and suspicious. Great indeed had been his reasons for
hardly believing the existence of real virtue, till he knew Ellen: her
perfect innocence, her sweet simplicity, blended with the tenderest
sensibility and acutest discernment, had once more restored his faith,
and he now hoped and believed no future jealousies would cross his path.
Yet surely he was venturing on doubtful ground. Great indeed must have
been his risk in transplanting so fair a flower from the wildest part of
Wales into the polished interior of England, and, probably, into a
situation widely different from that she had hitherto filled! What could
have implanted in the mind of a man so prone to jealousy as Mordaunt
certainly was, so perfect a confidence in Ellen's veracity and virtue?
It was, that he had observed in her an exalted, though not enthusiastic
_piety_. Mordaunt, though a man of the world, was also a religious man;
and in conversing, as he had done, frequently with Ellen on the subject
of religion, he found her principles so fixed, and her mind so decidedly
made up, and on such reasonable grounds, that he hesitated not in
pronouncing her a Christian upon principle, and as such entitled to the
firm confidence he felt in her sincerity and virtue.
Mordaunt now told her he should be absent all the next day, for it was
necessary to write to one or two of his friends of the intended change
in his prospects; and that, as he did not like to trust his letters to
any common messenger, and indeed expected there were some of consequence
lying for him at Carnarvon, he should go thither himself to fetch them;
that as the distance was rather beyond what he liked to walk, especially
now the days were so much shortened, he should borrow Ross's pony, and
hoped to return in the evening. This scheme he executed accordingly; and
Ross, understanding from Powis the mode proposed for his gaining farther
intelligence of Mordaunt, thought, as Ellen was now returned to the
Farm, it would be as well if Mordaunt absented himself in those little
excursions he used so much to delight in, and restrained his visits to
her in some degree, till her father's scruples were finally removed. To
this, however, reluctantly they agreed; and Mordaunt accordingly spent
the greatest part of the next week in viewing the face of the country,
returning to his lodgings in the evening. Impatient of this vexatious
restraint, Mordaunt, after three or four days, proposed to Ross and the
girls an excursion to Snowdon, which, though he had seen, they had not,
though living within ten or twelve miles of it. Mrs. Ross, who had of
late greatly relaxed her vigilance respecting Ellen's industry, gave her
consent; and mounted on their little Welsh ponies, the happy party set
out with the day-break, a full moon promising to assist them on their
return.
Leaving their horses at Dolbaden Castle, and taking guides with
refreshments, each being armed with a spiked stick, they began the
toilsome ascent. Ross, being fatigued, remained half way seated on an
immense stone, till they should return. As they ascended the mountain,
they perceived that its summit was covered with clouds, though, when
they set out, it was perfectly clear, and the guides had assured them
the day would be favourable. They now, however, began to apprehend that
the thick clouds would prevent them from enjoying the reward of their
labours, by depriving them of the view from the top of the mountain. The
guides, notwithstanding, had still hopes that the day would ultimately
clear up, and the event justified their expectations; for when within
about half a mile of the summit, a fine breeze arose, and rolled the
clouds like a curtain "down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side,"
gradually disclosing its hollow apertures and broken precipices, with
every variety of mountain, valley, lake, and stream; and below them, in
every direction, a map of exquisite beauty, containing Carnarvon, the
county of Chester, part of the North of England and Ireland, the Isle of
Anglesea, and the Irish coast.
Here Mordaunt, sitting down with his fair companions, one on each side,
on a low wall, which was probably built by shepherds for the safety of
their flocks, but which now serves as a resting-place to travellers,
expatiated with rapture on this amazingly sublime prospect. The "Bard"
of Gray, and many of the beautiful passages of Mason's Elfrida and
Caractacus were familiar to him; and these, with every grace of voice
and action, he repeated, till the charmed and enthusiastic Ellen almost
fancied she saw the white-robed druids with their crowns of mistletoe
and golden harps pass in review before her. After having sufficiently
rested, and taken some refreshment, they cautiously descended; and
joining Ross, pursued the downward course of a mountain-stream of great
beauty, which was frequently hurried over low rocks, forming numerous
small but elegant cascades, till they reached the Castle, where they had
left their ponies, and then returned by moonlight to Llanwyllan.
The next four or five days were employed in similar excursions. Not
having been able on the day of their visit to Snowdon to extend their
ride to Beth-gelert, their next object was to see the grave of the
greyhound, and the romantic pass between Merioneth and Carnarvonshire,
called Pont Aberglaslyn. At the grave of the greyhound Mordaunt repeated
to his fair companions the interesting legend connected with it, and
Spencer's elegant poem on the subject:--that little tale is so
affecting, that, even at this remote period of time, no tender heart can
hear it without lamenting the fate of the faithful and ill-requited
Gelert. Ellen was not ashamed to drop a tear at the recital[1]. "Alas!"
cried Mordaunt: "such is too frequently the fatal consequence of
trusting to _appearances_! This excellent and unfortunate animal fell a
sacrifice to circumstances, which, however apparently conclusive, were
fallacious." He sighed, and fell for a few minutes into a gloomy
silence, from which the soft voice of Ellen alone had power to rouse
him.
[Footnote 1: It is probable most of my readers have heard the little
pathetic tale here alluded to, and which Mr. Spencer has told very
sweetly in his little poem, entitled Beth-gelert. For the advantage of
those who have not met with it, we insert the following account:
The tradition says, that Llewelyn the Great had a house at the place now
called Beth-gelert, and that being once from home, a wolf entered it. On
Llewelyn's return, his favourite greyhound, Gelert, came to meet him,
wagging his tail, but covered with blood. The prince was much alarmed,
and on entering the house, found the cradle of his infant overturned,
and the floor stained with blood. Imagining the dog had killed the
child, he instantly drew his sword, and killed the greyhound; but
turning up the cradle, found the babe asleep, and the wolf dead by its
side. Llewelyn deeply repented his rage, and built a tomb over his
ill-fated greyhound. Mr. Spencer has thus beautifully described the
event:
The hound all o'er was smear'd with gore,
His lips, his fangs, ran blood!
Llewelyn gazed with fierce surprize,
Unused such looks to meet:
His fav'rite check'd his joyful guise,
And crouch'd and lick'd his feet.
Onward in haste Llewelyn pass'd--
O'erturn'd his infant's bed he found,
With blood-stained covert rent!
And all around the walls and ground
With recent blood besprent!
He called his child, no voice replied;
He search'd with terror wild;
Blood, blood, he found on every side,
But no where found his child.
Llewelyn then passionately accuses and kills the greyhound.
Aroused by Gelert's dying yell,
Some slumbers waken'd nigh;
What words the parent's joy could tell,
To hear his infant's cry!
Conceal'd beneath a tumbled heap,
His hurried search had miss'd;
All glowing from his rosy sleep,
The cherub boy he kiss'd.
No scratch had he, nor harm, nor dread;
But the same couch beneath,
Lay a gaunt wolf, all torn and dead,
Tremendous still in death.
Ah! what was then Llewelyn's pain?
For then the truth was clear,
His gallant hound the wolf had slain,
To save Llewelyn's heir.
Vain, vain, was all Llewelyn's woe:
"Best of thy kind, adieu!
The frantic blow which laid the low,
This heart shall ever rue."
]
They next visited Pont Aberglass-lyn, the wild and sublime scenery of
which inspired them with awe. Its high grotesque rocks, surrounding like
an amphitheatre the romantic bridge (consisting of a single arch thrown
from one rough precipice to another), to which they approached by a road
winding along a narrow stony valley, where the rocks on each side
scarcely leave room for the road; and the dark impetuous stream, which
rolls at the side of it, filled them with astonishment at the grandeur
of the scene.
They visited also the little romantic village of Llanberis, with its
beautiful vallies and lakes, surrounded by bold and prominent rocks,
ascending almost abruptly from the edge of the water, and returned in
the evening to Llanwyllan, delighted with an excursion which had
afforded them so many beautiful views, and yet delightedly contrasting
their own native village, with the dirty hovels, and miserable
accommodations they had met with in their progress; for the exertions of
Ross and his wife, who were both English, and had in the early part of
their lives resided wholly in England, had introduced a degree of
neatness and comfort both in the houses and apparel of their
parishioners, which gave Llanwyllan the appearance of a comfortable
English village, and rendered it totally distinct from those near it;
where, as is often the case in Wales, extreme poverty, and its too
frequent concomitants, a total carelessness of comfort abound.
They also visited Carnarvon, which the girls found much altered since
they had seen it some years before, and were quite surprized at the
carriages, and smartly drest people in the streets. Of course they went
to the Castle, and saw the chamber where, it is said, the weak and
unfortunate Edward II. was born; though that fact, from the meanness of
its appearance, and inconvenient situation, appears extremeful doubtful,
if not improbable. In short, they seemed in a new world, so very
different were the scenes around them from those to which they were
accustomed.
"Ah, Ellen!" said Joanna, "all this will soon be as nothing to you: you
will see so many fine houses and great cities, you will wonder how you
could ever fancy Carnarvon a large place: and I shall remain in our
little quiet village, which, when you are gone, I shall think stupid,
and never go beyond it!"--"Do not think so," replied Ellen: "I hope, if
indeed I do leave Llanwyllan (for I consider nothing settled till Mr.
Montague's letter arrives), I hope it will not be long before I shall
have you with me--it will be one of my first wishes as soon as I find
myself at all accustomed to the change In my situation." Joanna seemed
much delighted with this promise; they slept that night at Carnarvon,
and returned the next day to Llanwyllan.
In the course of these journies much conversation took place between
Mordaunt and Ellen; but he with great generosity forbore as much as
possible from all particular topics, as he wished to leave her as much
unfettered as was now in his power till the arrival of Montague's
letter; for though he had no doubt of what the contents would be, yet
till he had obtained Powis's free consent, he could not exactly consider
her as his affianced bride; but for conversation they were never at a
loss--literary subjects furnished them with an inexhaustible fund of
delight; for Mordaunt's mind and memory were so well stored with
poetical and classical treasures, he scarcely needed books of reference;
the beautiful views which they also obtained of the heavenly bodies, in
their mountainous excursions, inspired Ellen with a desire to know
something of astronomy, and Mordaunt was thoroughly capable of being her
instructor. In this Ross assisted him; and two hours in the latter part
of the evening were sweetly past in this delightful study. Mordaunt was
also, though not a finished artist, yet very capable of taking sketches
from the surrounding country; and already Ellen began to use her pencil
also in slight attempts, which he both encouraged and directed--so happy
indeed was the life they now led, that the slight restraint thrown upon
their feelings seemed rather to give a zest to their meetings than to
destroy their pleasure: gladly, most gladly, would both have
relinquished all change of station, and remained for the rest of their
lives in the peaceful shades of Llanwyllan.
----What was the world to them?
Its pomp, its pleasure, and its nonsense all?
Who, in each other, saw whatever fair,
High fancy forms, or lavish hearts can wish:
Something than beauty dearer, should they look;
Or on the mind, or mind illumined face,
Truth, goodness, honour, harmony, and love,
The richest bounty of indulgent Heaven.