Produced by Daniel Fromont
[Transcriber's note: Lady Georgiana Fullerton (1812-1885),
_Ellen Middleton - a tale_ (1844), 1846 Tauchnitz edition]
COLLECTION
OF
BRITISH AUTHORS.
VOL. XCVIII.
ELLEN MIDDLETON BY LADY GEORGIANA FULLERTON.
IN ONE VOLUME.
ELLEN MIDDLETON.
A TALE.
BY
LADY GEORGIANA FULLERTON.
_COPYRIGHT EDITION_.
LEIPZIG
BERNH. TAUCHNITZ JUN.
1846.
"I have read of a bird which hath a face like, and yet will
prey upon, a man, who, coming to the water to drink, and
finding there by reflexion that he had killed one like
himself, pineth away by degrees, and never after enjoyeth
itself. Such was in some sort the condition of--. This
accident that he had killed one put a period to his carnal
mirth, and was a covering to his eyes all the days of his
life. Death was so sent to him as to allow him time to rise up
on his knees and to crie, 'Lord have mercy upon me.'"
Fuller's Worthies, vol. II. p. 17.
INTRODUCTION.
"From each carved nook, and fretted bend,
Cornice and gallery, seem to send
Tones that with Seraph hymns might blend.
"Three solemn parts together twine,
In Harmony's mysterious line,
Three solemn aisles approach the shrine.
"Yet all are one, together all,
With thoughts that awe but not appal,
Teach the adoring heart to fall."
CHRISTIAN YEAR.
"But let my due feet never fail
To walk the studious cloister's pale,
And love the high-embowered roof,
With antic pillars massy proof,
And storied windows richly dight,
Casting a dim religious light;
There let the pealing organ blow,
To the full voiced quire below,
In service high and anthems clear,
As may with sweetness through mine ear
Dissolve me into extasies,
And bring all Heaven before mine eyes."
MILTON.
"What child of sorrow
Art thou, that com'st wrapt up in weeds of sadness,
And mov'st as if thy steps were towards a grave?"
OTWAY.
It was on the 15th of October, 18--, that one of the best and
most respected clergymen in the town of--, and a canon of the
cathedral, turned his steps towards the western door of that
ancient pile. It was a little before the hour of evening
service; the rays of the declining sun were shining brightly
through the windows of painted glass, and producing that
mellow and chastened light that accords so well with the
feeling of religious awe, which a gothic edifice, the noblest
of the works of man, is calculated to inspire; a work where he
has been enabled to stamp on what is material an indelible
impress of that spirit of devotion, which unites the utmost
simplicity of faith with the highest sublimity of creed.
Mr. Lacy's attachment to this particular cathedral had grown
with his growth and strengthened with his years. In his youth
he had learnt to love its long deep aisles, its solemn arches,
its quaint carvings. During the pauses between the several
parts of divine service, his childish imagination would dwell
upon the topics of thought suggested by the histories of
saints and martyrs depicted in the glowing colours of the
stained glass windows, or in the intricate workmanship of the
minster screen. The swelling peal of the organ, the chaunting
of the choristers, awoke in his young mind strange and bright
imaginings of those things "which the eye of man has not seen,
nor his ear heard, and that it has not entered into his heart
to conceive."
To wander in the cloisters, and gather the flowers growing
there among the old tombstones, and to think the while of the
lilies of the field, which Solomon in all his glory could not
equal; or of the wilderness that blossomed like the rose, at
the word of the Lord; to collect in his own hands at Christmas
as much holly as his puny strength could carry, and add it to
the shining heap already standing at the cathedral door; to
follow it in, with timid steps, and watch with wondering eyes,
the adorning of the altar, the pulpit, the stalls, and the
pews; to observe with childish glee two tall branches, all
glowing with their coral berries, placed by the bench where he
knelt in church with his mother; to sit at home by that mother
of an evening, and with his Prayer Book on his knee, learn
from her lips how that glorious hymn which he so loved to
chaunt in church, and which spoke of angels and martyrs, of
saints and apostles, of Heaven and earth, uniting in one
concert of adoration, had been bequeathed to the holy church
universal by a saint who had served his Creator from the days
of his youth, and never wandered from the sacred shade of the
sanctuary; for the baptism of another, who, after straying far
and wide in the ways of sin and the maze of error, followed
the while by a mother's prayers and tears, returned at last to
the foot of the cross,* [* The Te Deum is supposed to have
been composed by St. Ambrose, Archbishop of Milan, for the
baptism of St. Augustine.]
"With that free spirit blest,
Who to the contrite can dispense
The princely heart of innocence;"
to hear her tell how the three solemn parts of his beloved
cathedral, all approaching the shrine in distinct majesty, and
in mystical union, were a type and an emblem of the "Holy,
Blessed, and Glorious Trinity," so devoutly worshipped in the
opening verses of the Litany; to be often reminded by her,
when the deep melodious bells of the old tower spoke their
loud summons to the house of God on festival and holiday, of
the time when the faith in Christ was a matter of danger and
of death, and the sanctuaries were laid among the vaults and
the tombs--when in darkness and in silence Christians knelt on
the cold stones, and a short hurried bell from the altar alone
warned them of the moment when the blessed pledges of
salvation were consecrated there. These were the joys of his
childhood. These were the thoughts and the feelings which
entwined themselves with his very being, and wound themselves
round his heart; blending the memory of the past with the
hopes of futurity. And when Mrs. Lacy, whose health had been
gradually declining, died soon after her son had received the
sacred rite of confirmation, and for the first time knelt by
her side at the altar; it was not before her trembling lips
had pronounced a blessing on the child, who, with her hand
locked in his, and his eyes fixed on hers with the steady gaze
of earnest, but, as far as this world was concerned, of
hopeless affection, had given her the assurance that her
people should be his people, and her God his God; that where
she had lived there would he live, there would he die, and
there also would he be buried.
As soon as his age warranted it he became a priest; and in the
course of time, a canon of the cathedral of--. What had been
the joys of his boyhood, became, afterwards, the safe-guards
of his manhood, and finally the support and comfort of his
declining years. The business of his life was prayer, and the
exercise of the most unwearied and ardent charity. Its ruling
principle, love to God, and to man. In the few hours of
relaxation which he allowed himself, he found his pleasures in
the study of ecclesiastical architecture, of the lives of
saints and martyrs, above all, of everything that was in any
way connected with the foundation, and the history of the
several parts of that minster which he loved with all the holy
love which men are wont to feel for the country of their birth
and for the home of their youth, and, moreover, with a feeling
akin to that which made Jacob exclaim, as he rose from his
resting-place at Bethel, "This is the house of God, and the
gate of Heaven!"
As I am not writing Mr. Lacy's history, it is unnecessary to
enter into further details respecting the events of his life,
if events they can be called, that chiefly consisted in the
casual opportunities vouchsafed to him, of soothing some
extraordinary sorrow; of recalling to the fold of Christ some
wandering sinner, and of performing works of mercy and
self-denial such as are seldom met with or even heard of in
this luxurious and self-indulgent age. I will, therefore,
revert to that hour of evening prayer which this chapter began
by describing, as it will introduce us at once to the subject
of this story.
Mr. Lacy had seated himself in his stall, and his eyes were
glancing over the small congregation that had gathered
together, on a week-day, for divine worship, when his
attention was attracted by a woman who was sitting on one of
the benches generally occupied by the poorest inhabitants of
the town. She was very simply dressed, in deep mourning; but
there was something about her attitude and countenance which I
plainly indicated that she belonged to the higher classes of
society. It was impossible to guess at her age; for although
the slightness of her figure and the delicate beauty of her
features gave her the appearance of youth, her face bore a
wild and haggard expression that we seldom see in those who
have not far advanced on their pilgrimage through life. Her
arm was thrown against one of the adjoining pillars, and just
before the beginning of the service she laid her head upon it,
and neither stirred nor looked up during the time the prayers
lasted. She neither knelt when others knelt, nor stood when
they stood. Once only, when the organ sounded the first notes
of one of the most beautiful anthems of our church, she rose
from her seat almost mechanically, and an instant after
resumed her former attitude. At the conclusion of the service,
when the worshippers had all left the cathedral, Mr. Lacy
passed near the place where the stranger still remained in a
state of apparent abstraction; the sound of his approaching
footsteps startled her; she hastily withdrew, and walked
rapidly out of the church, and down one of the small streets
that faced the entrance door. Two or three times during the
succeeding fortnight, Mr. Lacy noticed the same person
occupying the same place, and conducting herself in the same
manner. His interest was powerfully excited, but he neither
ventured to address her, nor could he succeed in ascertaining
from the vergers, or from one or two other persons whom he
questioned on the subject, anything respecting her. Chance,
however, as it often happens in such cases, threw the
information he sought in his way.
He was sitting one evening in his room, busily engaged in
preparing his sermon for the Feast of All Saints, which
occurred on the ensuing day, and on which it was his turn to
preach, when he was disturbed by a knock at the door, and the
subsequent entrance of an elderly woman, whom he had known for
many years, and who had been in the habit of consulting him
whenever any little scruple of conscience disturbed her in the
exercise of her line of business, which was no other than that
of lodging-letting. Mr. Lacy was so well acquainted with the
character of his old friend, and with the nature of the
difficulties usually submitted to him, that, after begging her
to sit down, and draw her chair close to the fire, (for the
last day of October was ushering in with suitable severity the
first of November,) he immediately began--
"Well, my good Mrs. Denley, any more drunken lodgers, whom you
keep on, for fear that no one but yourself would help them up
to their rooms, and see that they did not spend the night in a
less comfortable place than their beds? or are you still
doubting as to the propriety of giving notice to quit to the
gentleman who spoils your furniture, and never pays his rent,
thereby keeping you from sending Johnny to school, as you had
intended?"
"No, no, Sir; it has nothing to do with drunken lodgers, or
with poor dear Johnny's going to school, or with not getting
the rent paid, and all that, what's disturbing me now; but
only just the contrary."
As it was difficult to understand, without farther
explanation, how the contrary of these three things could be
disturbing Mrs. Denley's mind, Mr. Lacy looked at her
inquiringly, and she continued:
"You see, Sir, it is not exactly, as one might say, any
business of mine; and I mind well what is said in St. Paul's
Epistle to Timothy, that women should not be tattlers and
busy-bodies; but for all that, I hope it is no sin to wish a
young creature that's under one's roof, and that's dying by
inches--of something--the Lord only knows what--for Dr. Reid
doesn't. He saw her walking in, Sir, the other day, and I made
so bold as to ask her if she wouldn't speak to him, but she
wouldn't; and he says as how he can't guess what's the matter
with her; and if he can't, why, who should? Well, as I was
saying, Sir, I hope it isn't a sin to wish the poor young
thing not to die, without medicine for her body, or means of
grace for her soul."
"Assuredly, you are quite right in forming such a wish, and in
endeavouring to prevent so terrible an occurrence. But who is
the person you are alluding to?"
"She is my lodger, Sir, and has been for the last six weeks."
"What is her name?" inquired Mr. Lacy.
"Mrs. Rodney, Sir."
"Has she no friends that you know of? How came she to hear of
your lodgings?"
"Why, she stopped (on a Monday, I think it was) at the 'Rose,'
and she asked Mr. Chapman if he could tell her of a quiet kind
of respectable lodging in the town; now, Mr. Chapman is always
willing to do one a good turn. It was him, Sir, that sent
Johnny back to Ashby, on Tuesday last, in a return post-chaise,
after he had sprained his ancle. A very good man, and
a neighbourly, is Mr. Chapman; and, as I was saying, he likes
to do one a good turn; so that when the lady asked for decent
respectable lodgings, he said he knew of the very thing as
would suit her; and sure enough, the next morning she came to
see the rooms, and took them at once; and nothing would serve
her but to pay down at once the rent for six months; and when
I made so free as to say she had better not, for fear of
changing her mind about them, she grew quite savage like; for
all that she is a gentle-looking creature, and said as violent
as could be, 'It must be so--take the money.' Well, thought I
to myself, may be she fancies I don't like her for a lodger;
so I just said, in an easy kind of manner, 'Well, Ma'am, and I
hope, when the six months are past, that you may take them on
for another half-year.' But 'No,' says she; 'six months will
do,' which, to be sure, was a natural thing enough for her to
say; but I take it, that if you had been there, Sir, and had
heard her say it, you would not have thought it quite natural
either."
"Is this lady whom you are speaking of in deep mourning? and
does she occasionally attend the cathedral service?"
"She does. Sir; and is always dressed in black. She sits near
the pillar where Mrs. Jones used to sit, poor soul, when she
was alive."
"I have remarked her; she does indeed look both ill and
unhappy. Do you know anything of her history?"
"Not a word, Sir; she wears a wedding-ring, but her clothes
are marked with an E. and an M., for all that she calls
herself Mrs. Rodney."
"Does she ever enter into conversation with you?"
"Sometimes, a little. Last week, Joe Irving, the undergardener
at Clomley lodge, brought me, as a present, a large nosegay of
dahlias and china-asters. I carried them upstairs, and while
Mrs. Rodney was in church, I put them into jars, on the table,
and on the chimney-piece, and very bright and pretty they
looked. So when she came in, she noticed them and thanked me,
and spoke quite cheerful. As she was standing a-talking to me
about them, an insect ran out from between the leaves, and I
tried to kill it, but she caught my hand and stopped me; and
_her_ hand, Sir!--why it was more like one of those bits of
hot coal there, than the little white soil thing it looked
like, and when I looked at her face, there was a bright fever
spot on each cheek, and her lips were as white as could be.
"'You are very ill. Ma'am,' says I to her; 'your hand is
burning-hot.' She put it to her forehead and 'it does not feel
hot to me,' says she, and walks away to the window and opens
it, for all that it was almost as cold and raw as to-night.
But, now, and that's what I'm come about. Sir, she has taken
to her bed, and is in a very bad way indeed, I take it."
"What! and has not she seen the doctor?"
"No, indeed, Mr. Lacy; she won't as much as let him come into
the house. When she found herself so ill, that she could not
do for herself, she sent me to get one of the hospital nurses;
and as Mary Evans was to be had, the girl that you was so good
to last year when she broke her arm, I got her to come, and
she has been with her these two days."
"Has she never spoken of seeing a clergyman?"
"Why, to say the truth, Sir, I made so bold as to ask her on
it; it was yesterday when Mary Evans and I had been a-begging
of her to let us fetch the doctor. 'No, no,' says she, 'he can
do me no good;' and she fell to crying, which I had not seen
her do before. 'Well, Ma'am,' says I, 'if he can do you no
good, I know some one that would.' 'And who is that?' says
she, sitting up in her bed, and looking hard at me. 'Mr. Lacy,
Ma'am,' I said, 'the clergyman that read prayers last Sunday
afternoon.' She laid down again, disappointed like, and I went
on to say how you was quite a saint and a martyr, and a
luminary of the church, as Johnny's schoolmaster says..."
"Hush, hush, my good Mrs. Denley; take care how you apply, or
rather misapply, such names as those. But did Mrs. Rodney
decline seeing me, or any other clergyman?"
"She did, Sir, and begged me not to mention it again."
"This is, indeed, a sad case: a woman young, friendless--dying,
perhaps, and probably labouring under some mental affliction,
and yet refusing to have recourse to the consolations of
religion, and the ministry of the church," said Mr. Lacy,
speaking rather to himself than to Mrs. Denley. "Have you,"
added he, turning to her, "any reason to suppose that this
poor woman, notwithstanding her occasional attendance on the
cathedral service, is a dissenter?"
"No, Sir, I think not; she has a small prayer-book, which I
sometimes see lying on her table."
"Well, my dear Mrs. Denley," said Mr. Lacy, after a few
moments' reflection; "we must both pray that God, of his
infinite mercy, may dispose the heart of this young creature
to turn to Him, and to the means of grace, which He has
Himself appointed. To-morrow, when we kneel in the house of
God, rejoicing with joy unspeakable over the glory of the
church triumphant, and meditating on the blessedness of that
holy multitude
'Who climbed the steep ascent to Heaven
Through peril, toil, and pain,'
each in our place, we will bear in mind this suffering lamb of
the fold, and pray earnestly that to her, as well as to us,
"Grace may be given, to follow in their train.'"
"I will, Sir: I will," replied the good old woman, with tears
in her eyes. "But won't you try and see her?"
"I cannot force myself into her presence," answered Mr. Lacy;
"but every day I will call at your house to inquire after her
health, hoping and trusting that the hour will come when she
will cease to shut her doors against one commissioned by our
Lord, to bear words of peace to the wretched, and of pardon to
the guilty. Whatever you can do to hasten that moment, I know
you will do, my good friend, and so farewell to you."
"Good-night to you, and thank you kindly, Mr. Lacy; it must be
a heavy heart indeed, that goes away from you no lighter than
when it came to you;" and so saying, Mrs. Denley put on her
cloak, took up her lanthorn, and trudged home, through the
dark streets of the old town.
The next morning Mr. Lacy's thoughts were divided between the
joyful contemplations which the holy festival it was ushering
in was calculated to inspire, and the painful solicitude which
the conversation of the preceding evening had left on his
mind. In church, however, the latter feeling subsided, and
gave way to that earnest calmness, and that intense devotion,
which absorb for the time the cares and troubles of the soul,
"like motes in light divine." When from the pulpit this aged
minister dwelt in glowing words on the communion between the
saints above and the saints below; on the link that unites the
church militant here on earth with the church triumphant in
Heaven; above all, when in terms of the deepest reverence and
of the intensest love, he spoke of our Lord Jesus Christ, and
prayed that he himself, and all those who joined with him in
prayer that day, might each, in God's own time, enter into the
fulness of his presence, and worship in his courts evermore,
yea in time and in eternity, there was something so ardent in
his aspirations, and yet so chastened in his devotion, that
the assembled multitude heard him with a reverence, mingled
with awe; they felt as if Elijah's car of fire might bear him
away from their sight; from the shelter of the sanctuary on
earth to the glories of the new Jerusalem on high.
After the conclusion of the sermon, Mr. Lacy remained absorbed
in earnest prayer, till the last of the worshippers had
withdrawn, and the parting strain from the organ had died away
on the walls of the cathedral. As he was slowly descending the
aisle, he paused before the place where Mrs. Rodney had been
seated some days before; as he stood musing on the account
which he had heard of her from Mrs. Denley, he observed a few
lines written in pencil on the column against which she had
been in the habit of leaning. They were so faintly marked, and
had probably been so much effaced since, that he found great
difficulty in making them out. At last he succeeded in doing
so, and they were as follows:--
"My aching heart is breaking,
My burning brain is reeling,
My very soul is riven,
I feel myself forsaken.
And phantom forms of horror,
And shapeless dreams of terror.
And mocking tones of laughter,
About me seem to gather;
And death, and hell, and darkness
Are driving me to madness."
It would be difficult to describe the revulsion of feeling
which Mr. Lacy experience on reading the expression of a
despair that contrasted so strikingly with the joy and the
peace which had been filling his own heart. There was also
something which indicated a kind of reckless helplessness in
the fact of leaving that confession of mental agony to be
scanned, perhaps, by indifferent eyes. It must have been done
in one of those moments when the tortured heart would break if
it did not in some mode or other give vent to its anguish. Mr.
Lacy, after some minutes' consideration, took out of his
pocket a pencil and a bit of paper, and transcribed upon it
the lines he had found, and then carefully effaced them from
the pillar on which they had been written. As he slowly walked
out of the cathedral, and towards Mrs. Denley's house, he
revolved in his mind the means by which he would be most
likely to gain admission to Mrs. Rodney's presence. It struck
him that if she could be made aware that he had read the words
that were now in his possession, she would feel less
reluctance to enter into communication with him: but it was
difficult to convey this fact to her without wounding her
feelings. When he reached the house and knocked, he was still
undecided as to the course he should pursue. Mary Evans, the
girl who was in attendance upon Mrs. Rodney, came to the door;
and when Mr. Lacy inquired after Mrs. Rodney's health,
answered: "Why, Sir, she says as how she is wonderful better
to-day, and so strong that she's been a getting up and walking
about her room; but, I take it, her strength is fever
strength, for her cheeks are red as crimson, and she seems as
if she could not sit still."
"She should not be allowed to exert herself in that way,"
observed Mr. Lacy;--"she may do herself much harm."
"Indeed, and that's quite true, Sir; but there's no persuading
her when she's in one of her ways. She speaks as gentle as a
lamb in common, and never scolds or complains; but when she
gets into a tantrum about something as one wants her to do or
not to do, she grows to look quite wild like. It's just now
that Mrs. Denley saw you a-coming down the street; and says
she to Mrs. Rodney (Mrs. Denley had stepped up to see how the
fire was burning. Sir,)--well, says she to Mrs. Rodney,
'There's Mr. Lacy a-coming down this way Ma'am; I think he'll
be after asking to see you:' and Mrs. Rodney on that turns
round and says so sudden, 'If I am to be persecuted in this
manner, I shall leave the house at once,' that Mrs. Denley let
fall the coal-scuttle, and she says as how it gave her quite a
revulsion. But won't you walk in, Sir?"
"No; I came only to inquire after Mrs. Rodney's health; and
as, from what you have just told me, she certainly would not
be inclined to see me, I shall send up no message on the
subject." And so saying, Mr. Lacy took his departure.
On the Sunday following, a few minutes after the beginning of
evening service, he saw, gliding to her usual place, with a
noiseless step, the poor woman who during the past week had so
much occupied his thoughts. Her shrunken form and flushed
cheeks revealed the fatal progress of a disease which betrays
its victims all the more surely, by imparting to them, at
certain stages of its course, a false strength, that lures
them to exertions only serving to accelerate its fearful
termination. As Mr. Lacy mounted the pulpit, he breathed an
ardent prayer that something in the words he was going to
utter might carry a token of peace to this poor creature's
breast, a ray of light to her mind. In the course of his
sermon he introduced the following sentences:--
"When the heart of man is breaking, and his brain is reeling,
to whom should he turn, but to Him who said, 'Come unto me all
ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest?'
When the soul of man is shaken, and he feels himself forsaken,
to whom should he turn, but to Him who once cried out upon the
cross, 'My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?' When
phantom forms of horror, and shapeless dreams of terror,
assail the soul of man, to whom should he turn, but to Him who
was once in such great agony, that his sweat fell like drops
of blood upon the earth? When mocking tones of laughter are
wildly ringing round him, to whom should he turn, but to Him
who was jeered at, and reviled on the cross, because others he
saved, but himself he could not save. When death, and hell,
and darkness, are driving man to madness, to whom should he
turn, but to him who took from the grave its victory, from
death its sting, and from hell its prey?--to Him who died and
rose again the third day, in order that death, and hell, and
darkness, should never more drive men to madness."
On the evening of this day, Mr. Lacy received the following
note. It seemed written at once with difficulty and with
rapidity, and in parts was somewhat illegible.
"If you still wish to see me, Mr. Lacy,--if you are not
wearied with vainly seeking admittance to one who is not
worthy to wipe the dust from your feet, come to me now. You
spoke to me to-day, though you never turned your eyes towards
me. I looked into your face, and it seemed to me as if it had
been the face of an angel and when your lips uttered the words
that my hand had written, I hung upon your lips. It was as a
voice from Heaven; my heart melted within me, and I wept; not
as I have often wept, for my eyes are worn out with crying;
not tears that scorch the eyelids as they flow, but tears that
seem to loosen the iron band that binds my temples, and to
melt the dull hard stone in my breast. I came home, and knelt
by my bedside--my Prayer-book was in my hand: I opened it, and
these words met my eyes, 'The order for the Visitation of the
Sick.' I closed the book, and read no more. Mr. Lacy, I am
sick in body, and sick at heart. Will you come and visit me?
You will not question me; you will not ask me why my sorrow is
like no other sorrow; but you will pray for me, and by me.
Perhaps you may say some words like this morning's--not words
of comfort, words of hope, but words that will make me weep,
as I wept then.
Ellen."
The next morning at twelve o'clock, Mr. Lacy was at the door
of Mrs. Denley's house. His Prayer-book was in his hand, and
as he entered, he slowly pronounced the appointed blessing,
"Peace be to this house, and to all that dwell in it." Mrs.
Denley led the way up stairs, and opened the door of the room,
where Ellen was lying on a sofa, supported by cushions. Her
face was paler than the day before, but a sudden flush
overspread it as Mr. Lacy entered.
"You are welcome," she said, extending to him at the same time
her thin transparent hand. "It is kind of you to come, and
kind of you (she added, tuning to Mrs. Denley, and to Mary
Evans, who were standings by,) to join in these prayers. There
are responses to be made, I believe."
Mr. Lacy perceived that she was anxious that he should begin
the service at once, without previously entering into
conversation with her; and feeling deeply himself that no
words of his could bring such powerful consolation to the
soul, if burthened with sorrow, or so forcibly awaken the
sense of sin, if guilt and remorse were troubling it, as those
which the Church supplied him with, he knelt at once by
Ellen's couch, and with more emotion than he had perhaps ever
felt before in the exercise of this portion of his sacred
ministry, he read the solemn prayer for mercy, with which this
service opens.
After the Lord's Prayer, in which Ellen had feebly joined, Mr.
Lacy and the two women, who knelt opposite to him, repeated
alternately the impressive sentences of the Litany, which
immediately follows it.
There was something in these supplications that seemed to
accord, in some extraordinary manner, with the state of
Ellen's mind. When the minister prayed "that her enemy should
have no advantage of her," she started convulsively, and gazed
wildly about her, as the women responded, "Nor the wicked
approach to hurt her." When the words "From the face of her
enemy," were uttered, she hid her face in her hands, and a
slight shudder shook her frame. After a pause, Mr. Lacy read
the prayers that follow, and then rising from his knees,
turned towards Ellen, and addressed to her the beautiful and
touching exhortation, that forms part of the service; but when
towards the end of it--"Forasmuch as after this life there is
an account to be given unto the Righteous Judge, by whom all
must be judged, without respect of persons"--he required her
to examine herself and her estate, both towards God and
towards man, so that accusing and condemning herself for her
own faults, she might find mercy at our Heavenly Father's hand
for Christ's sake, then Ellen trembled. When he rehearsed to
her the Apostles' Creed, and asked her if all these articles
of the Christian faith she stedfastly believed, she bowed her
assent. And now they had arrived at that solemn period in the
service when the minister was bound by his sacred office to
examine whether she truly repented her of her sins, and was in
charity with all the world;--when he was to exhort her to
forgive from the bottom of her heart the persons that had
offended her; and if she had offended any other, to ask of
them forgiveness; and where she had done injury or wrong to
any man, to make amends to the uttermost of her power. He did
so in words of awful warning, and at the same time of soothing
tenderness; but no answer came from her lips--she turned her
face towards the wall; and, to use the expressive words of
Holy Scripture, she lifted up her voice and wept.
Mr. Lacy directed Mrs. Denley and Mary Evans to leave him
alone with Ellen, but to remain within call in case their
presence was required.
When the door was closed he addressed her in the following
words:--"Your conscience is troubled with some weighty
matter--the heaviness of guilt is on your soul, ay, and that
of deep anguish too," he added, as the heart-rending expression
of her countenance, which she suddenly turned towards him,
revealed the acuteness of her sufferings. "Perhaps, too, you
may have been more sinned against than sinning. Perhaps the
hand of man has been against you, and you have wandered, young
as you are, through the wilderness of the world, and found no
rest for the sole of your foot. You have longed, perhaps, like
the dove, to flee away and be at rest."
In a hoarse voice Ellen murmured, "There is no peace for the
wicked!"
"But there is pardon for the penitent, and peace for the
pardoned," rejoined Mr. Lacy.
"Pardoned! pardoned!" exclaimed Ellen, pressing her hand to
her forehead, "I shall never feel myself pardoned! Mr. Lacy, I
have sometimes opened the Bible, and I have read in it words
of pity, words of mercy, words of promise, and for a moment
they seemed to bring comfort to my soul; but the dark spirit
within me would still whisper, They are not written for
thee,--not for thee. O God! O God! when shall I ever feel
forgiven?"
"When, laying aside all human pride, all human fears,"
solemnly replied Mr. Lacy, "in meek distrust of your own
judgment, in deep humility of spirit, you make, as the Church
requires, a special confession of your sins to one, who, if
you truly repent and believe, can absolve you from them, by
the authority committed to him by our Lord Jesus Christ."
Ellen listened to these words in deep silence, and Mr. Lacy
did not interrupt her meditation. After a long pause daring
which she seemed absorbed in the most intense thought, she
once more extended her hand to him, and said, "I think, I
hope, that a change has come over me. Thoughts are crowding
upon my mind, that never came there before, and things begin
to appear to me in a new light. Perhaps it is from the
approach of death, which since yesterday has seemed to draw
very near to me; and to one who has suffered as I have
suffered, death, if it could be robbed of its terror, ought
not to be very dreadful. I have often said, 'Would that I
could lay myself down and die;' but now, now that I see death
coming in its stern reality, I would fain shrink from it; and
yet nothing but the cold hand of death will ever still the
passionate throbbings of my heart, and teach it to love less
wildly, or to hate less fiercely. Forgive me, forgive me, Mr.
Lacy! Oh, do not turn away from me! God has sent you to me as
an angel of mercy, not as the minister of his wrath. You bade
me confess my sins. See, I confess them! I will kneel to you!"
and Ellen, in spite of Mr. Lacy's efforts to prevent her,
flung herself on the ground at his feet, and clung to them in
an agony of tears. He instantly raised her, and, replacing her
on the sofa, with a voice of authority desired her to be calm,
and to compose herself. She obeyed, and in a few minutes, and
with an altered manner, she again addressed him. "I cannot
confess my sins without revealing the history of my life; my
guilt and my sorrows are so closely linked together, that they
cannot be separated: but I wish to keep no secret from you--you
have brought a vision of peace and of hope before me; and
perhaps, when you know how miserable I have been, though how
guilty, you may not think me utterly unworthy of it."
"None are unworthy of pardon in the eyes of our adorable
Saviour," said Mr. Lacy, "who heartily repent and sue for it;
but remember that we must forgive as we hope to be forgiven."
"Since I have seen you and heard you," said Ellen, "I can
pray, I dare pray, and I will pray that God may change my
heart, and teach me to forgive as I hope to be forgiven: and
now as I am not strong enough to speak much at a time, and
that I wish to open my heart to you without reserve, I will
put into your hands a history of my life, which, during days
of solitude and nights of weary watchings, I have written--and
which will disclose to you all the secrets of my soul; it is
the most complete confession I can make. When you have read
it, Mr. Lacy, you will return to me. By that time, perhaps,
the grace of God will have quelled the storms within me, and I
may then hear from your lips the blessed words of absolution."
The following history was contained in the manuscript which
Mr. Lacy carried home with him.
CHAPTER I.
"What thousand voices pass through all the rooms,
What cries and hurries!
........................................
My cousin's death sits heavy on my conscience; hark!
........................................
In every room confusion, they're all mad.
Most certain all stark mad within the house."
BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.
I was born and educated in the house of my uncle, Mr.
Middleton, one of the wealthiest squires in D--shire. He had
received my mother with kindness and affection, on her return
from India, where she had lost her husband and her eldest
child. She was his youngest and favourite sister, and when
after having given birth to a daughter she rapidly declined in
health, and soon after expired, bequeathing that helpless
infant to his protection, he silently resolved to treat it as
his own, and, like most resolutions formed in silence, it was
religiously adhered to. At the time of my birth, my uncle was
about forty years old; a country gentleman in the most
respectable sense of the word.
Devoted to the improvement of his tenants on the one hand, and
to that of his estate on the other; zealous as a magistrate,
active as a farmer, charitable towards the poor, and
hospitable towards the rich, he was deservedly popular with
his neighbours, and much looked up to in his county. He had
been attached in his youth to the daughter of a clergyman of
eminent abilities and high character, who resided in the
neighbourhood of Elmsley. For six years his father had opposed
his intended marriage with Miss Selby, and when at the end of
that time he extorted from him a reluctant consent, it was too
late to press his suit; she was dying of a hopeless decline,
and to cheer her few remaining days of life by every token of
the most devoted affection, and after her death to mourn
deeply and silently over the wreck of his early hopes, was the
conclusion of an attachment to which Mr. Middleton had looked,
as to the source and means of all his future happiness. At the
age of thirty-five he became possessed, by his father's death,
of the manor-house of Elmsley, and of the large property
adjoining to it. In the happiness which his wealth gave him
the means of diffusing around him, in the friendly attachment
with which he was regarded by those among whom he now fixed
his residence, he found subjects of interest, and sources of
gratification, which gradually obliterated the traces of his
early affliction.
From what I have already said, it will be plainly perceived
that my uncle was a man that one could not fail to esteem;
though whether or not it was as easy to love him, may be
questioned. To the strictest principles of religious morality,
he added a heart full of kind feeling for others, and an
invariable serenity of temper, but an unconquerable reserve, a
want of confidence in others, and an absence of sympathy in
their tastes and pursuits, interfered with the expression, if
not with the existence, of those affections, which his merits
and his kindness would otherwise have been so well calculated
to inspire. I never remember his taking the slightest interest
in any of my childish pleasures, or his uttering any but the
most formal phrase of commendation when my performances were
submitted to his inspection. Young as I was, I felt this want
of sympathy, in the only person who was really interested in
my welfare, and would have gladly agreed to be less calmly
reproved when I was wrong, and more warmly praised when I was
right.
Till the age of six years old, I am not conscious of having
loved any human being. From accidental circumstances my nurses
had been so often changed, that I had not had the opportunity
of attaching myself to any of them; and as to my uncle, I
believe he might have left Elmsley for days, weeks or months,
without causing me the slightest sensation of regret or
solitude. He did not often absent himself from home, but on
one occasion he did so for three months, and a few days before
his return, my nurse informed me that he was married, and that
I should soon see my new aunt. The announcement caused me
neither pleasure nor pain; and curiosity was the only feeling
with which I anticipated the arrival so eagerly looked forward
to by the whole of my uncle's establishment. When Mrs.
Middleton arrived I was immediately summoned into the
drawing-room. The tenderness of her manner, the expressions of
fondness with which she greeted me; the emotion which her
countenance betrayed, were all so totally different from
anything that I had ever witnessed, that I felt as if a being
from another world had come among us. There was something
heavenly in the expression of her countenance, there was
something original in every word she uttered; in her gaiety
there was a bubbling joyousness, an intense enjoyment in
enjoyment, that was irresistibly attractive, and in sorrow or
in emotion, her tears fell unconsciously from her eyes, and
would trickle down her cheeks without any of the disfiguring
grimaces which usually attend the act of weeping. I loved her
from the first instant I saw her, and my childish heart clung
to her with all the strength of feeling that had lain dormant
in it during the first years of my existence. To use a
familiar expression, we took to each other instantaneously; I
do not know that she was fond of children, as it is called;
she did not stop to caress those we met in our walks, and of
romping and noise she grew very soon weary; but there was so
much originality in her understanding, and so much simplicity
in her character; she was so in earnest about every employment
and amusement which she admitted me to share, that, superior
as she was, I never felt that she was making an effort to
bring herself down to my level, and consequently in her
society never experienced the weariness which children are apt
to feel, from those flat and unprofitable attempts to amuse
them, which are so often made and so often fail. She required
sympathy; it was as necessary to her as the air of heaven, and
what she so much needed herself, she amply yielded to others,
I never met in my life with any one who entered into the
feelings of those about her as she did.
Altogether, she was a person more calculated to diffuse
happiness than to enjoy it; perhaps to inspire more
enthusiastic feelings of affection, than she herself often
experienced. Be that as it may, she opened a new era in the
history of my childhood; and, during the six or seven years
that followed the epoch of my uncle's marriage, my life was as
happy as that of a human creature can be. About a year after
that event, Mrs. Middleton was confined of a girl, and this
circumstance, far from diminishing my happiness, served but to
increase it. My aunt was not a person capable of being
engrossed by an infant, and though greatly pleased at the
birth of her little girl, her affection for me suffered no
diminution. The cares which little Julia required--the task of
entertaining her, which often fell to my share--formed a
delightful amusement; and I do not remember, till the time
when she was eight and I fifteen, having ever felt, or,
indeed, having had cause to feel, one jealous pang on her
account.
Mrs. Middleton took great pains with my education,--at least
with those parts of it which were congenial to her taste and
mine; for, to follow with ardour whatever was the impulse and
fancy of the moment, was at once the charm and the danger of
my aunt's character. She could not resist the temptation of
initiating me, perhaps too early, into those studies which
captivate the imagination and excite the feelings. German and
Italian we studied together. The most romantic parts of
history--all that was most interesting and bewitching in
poetry, furnished materials for those hours which we devoted
to reading. Reading! that most powerful instrument in the
education of the heart!--silently searching into its secrets,
rousing its dormant passions, and growing sometimes itself
into a passion! But there was scarcely less excitement in
conversing with my aunt, than in reading with her. She never
took a common-place view of any subject, or shrunk from
expressing her real opinion upon it, whatever it might be.
With regard to her own feelings, she took nothing for granted;
she never persuaded herself (as so many people do) that,
because it would be right or desirable to feel and to act in a
particular manner, she did so feel and act, while her
conscience bore witness to the contrary. She was a great
searcher into motives, and fearfully true in her judgment of
people and of things: had not her character been one of the
noblest, and her mind one of the purest that ever woman was
gifted with, there would have been something startling in the
boldness of her opinions, and in the candour of her
admissions. Had she been within reach of any associates whose
feelings and understandings were in any way congenial to her
own, she would not, in all probability, have treated me,
rather as a pupil and companion, than as an intimate friend.
She would not have poured out her thoughts, to me with the
most unbounded confidence, or taught me to feel that I was
essential to her happiness; but, as it was, (for at Elmsley
she had neighbours and acquaintances, but no friends,) she did
all this, and the intense gratification which I derived from
my constant intercourse with one whom I loved with the
tenderest affection, kept me in a state of highly wrought
excitement, which, while it subdued, and even effaced, the
trivial faults of that early age, exercised on my character an
influence far from beneficial to my future happiness. One of
the subjects on which Mrs. Middleton would often speak to me
with eagerness and eloquence, was the self-deception with
which most people persuade themselves that their affections
flow in their most natural channels, without proving their own
feelings by the stern test of _reality_. Fully aware of her
partiality to me; aware, too, how unattractive a child my
cousin Julia was, and how unsuited to my aunt's nature and
taste must be the cold, sluggish, selfish disposition which
her daughter evinced, and which she seemed painfully alive to,
I never for an instant doubted that her affection for me
exceeded in kind, as well as in degree, that which she felt
for her own child. Often would she lament to me that Julia
gave no promise of future excellence of mind or character;
that in her she never expected to find the sympathy, the
responsive tenderness, that characterised our intimacy, and
which shed such a charm over every detail of life. The
selfishness inherent in the human heart, superadded to the
exclusive nature of a passionate attachment, made me listen to
these forebodings with a secret satisfaction, laying,
meanwhile, the flattering unction to my soul, that nothing but
the purest spirit of devoted tenderness led me to rejoice that
I could fill a place in my aunt's affections, which would
prevent her suffering from the disappointment which my
cousin's repulsive and apathetic disposition would otherwise
have caused to a heart as warm, and a spirit as ardent, as
hers.
A few years (the happiest of my life) carried me rapidly to
the verge of womanhood. I attained my fifteenth year, and
began to form acquaintances, and to mix in the society which
occasionally met at Elmsley. It chiefly consisted of relations
of my uncle and of Mrs. Middleton, who came at certain
intervals, and spent a few weeks at the old Priory, which then
became the scene of more active amusements than were customary
in our usually retired mode of life. Edward Middleton, a
nephew of my uncle, and Henry Lovell, a younger brother of my
aunt, who were college friends and constant associates, were
among our most frequent visitors. The latter, who had lost his
mother several years before the time I am speaking of, and
whose father held a situation in one of the government
offices, which obliged him to remain in London almost all the
year round, had been in the habit of spending first his
holidays from Eton, and subsequently the Oxford vacations,
with his sister at Elmsley. There he formed an acquaintance
with Edward Middleton, which soon grew into a close intimacy;
and both at college and at Elmsley they were inseparable. As
it so often happens in such cases, there was hardly any
perceptible bond of sympathy between them; they were so
strikingly dissimilar in character and in tastes, that one
could scarcely understand the pleasure they took in each
other's society. It is necessary to the subsequent unfolding
of my story that I should give some account of them, and of
the feelings with which I regarded, at that time, these two
men. They were both several years older than myself, but the
disparity was not enough to prevent my considering them as
friends and companions. They had both left Oxford some two or
three years before the time I am speaking of. Henry Lovell was
at once like and unlike his sister, Mrs. Middleton; he was
exceedingly attractive; there was no denying the charm that
existed in the rapid intelligence, the quick conception, and
the ready humour that lit up his eyes and countenance, and
sparkled in his repartee. His powers of captivation were as
great as hers, but he knew that power, and even used it for an
end; while in her it was spontaneous as the bubbling of a
stream, as the song of the birds, or as the joy of childhood.
Both had a keen perception of the ludicrous, but in her it
never amounted to ill-nature: she was as severe upon herself
as he was upon others; while she penetrated into their motives
she judged them kindly, and was at ready to detect evil in her
own heart as he was to suspect it in theirs. His smile was
sarcastic, and his remarks were often bitter. If he had not
been charming, he would have been odious; and to have been
loved at all, he must have been passionately loved, for no
feeling short of passion could have withstood the withering
influence of his profound selfishness. He was well versed in
the language of feeling, in the theory of enthusiasm; he could
speak of "whatsoever things are pure, of whatsoever things are
lovely, of whatsoever things are honest, of whatsoever things
are of good report." Where there was virtue, and where there
was praise, there was he ready to descant with eloquence, to
discuss with ability; there he was at home, at least in
conversation, for, in the varied range of human affections,
his intellect conceived what his heart did not feel.
At the time that I am writing of, when he and Edward Middleton
were the two persons who most occupied my thoughts, and
interested my girlish imagination, it would have been
difficult for me to describe what I thought of each. For
Edward I felt an involuntary respect, which made me shrink
from expressing, before him, any opinion, or any sentiment
which he was likely to condemn; he seemed inclined to judge me
with peculiar severity, and I sometimes felt provoked at the
calm sternness of his manner on these occasions, especially on
comparing it with the smiling indifference with which he would
listen to Henry Lovell's satirical remarks, which I secretly
felt to be more deserving of blame than my own thoughtless
observations, little as I could withstand myself the
extraordinary fascination which his peculiar tone of mind and
conversation exercised on those about him.
In the summer of the year 18--, my cousin Julia had a long and
severe illness. For some days she lay at the point of death;
and, for the first time in my life, I saw the expression of
anguish in the face I loved best in the world. Mrs.
Middleton's grief seemed out of proportion with the degree of
affection she had hitherto apparently felt for her child; and
there was a wildness in her sorrow which surprised as much as
it affected me. Long afterwards, it struck me that something
of remorse, at the preference she had so openly shown for me,
and at the coldness with which she had regarded her daughter,
might have added to the misery she then experienced. But, at
the time, this idea never occurred to me; I thought I had
underrated the strength of my aunt's feelings, and only
wondered at the intensity of an affection which had never
betrayed itself to that extent before.
After a few anxious days and nights, my cousin rallied, and by
degrees recovered; but did not regain the state of robust
health which she had previously enjoyed. My aunt's devotion to
her was unceasing: she patiently watched over her, and
attended to every wish and fancy that she expressed. Julia's
temper, which had never been good, grew gradually worse; and
it required all a mother's forbearance to endure her continual
waywardness and caprice. She had never seemed to feel much
affection for me, but now her indifference grew into positive
dislike, and nothing I could say or do ever succeeded in
pleasing her. When left in my charge, she would invariably
insist upon doing something or other which I was obliged to
prohibit or prevent; and the slightest opposition to her will
would instantly produce such fits of passion, and of crying,
that my aunt at her return found her frequently in such a
state of hysterical nervousness, or else so pale and exhausted
by her own violence, that it was some time before she could be
restored to anything like calmness or good-humour. I can truly
say that I made every possible effort to gain the affection of
my little cousin, and I was seldom betrayed into any irritable
expression, or sign of impatience, much as I was daily and
hourly tried.
Once or twice I had observed an expression of displeasure in
Mrs. Middleton's countenance, on overhearing Julia's screams,
on some of the occasions alluded to; and I had sometimes
noticed a sudden cloud pass over her brow, and an abrupt
change in her manner, at the moments when she was on the point
of giving utterance to those expressions of tenderness which
she was wont to bestow upon me: but that tenderness was so
evident; it had been spoken in words; it had been proved by
deeds; I had read it in every look of her eyes; I had traced
it in every tone of her voice, during so many years, that I
should as soon have doubted that the rays of the sun cheered
and warmed me, as that my aunt loved me.
I am now come to an epoch of my life, the events of which, in
their minutest details, are engraved on my memory as if a
burning iron had stamped them on my brain. I will not
anticipate, but, with unflinching resolution, record every
particular of the day which changed me from a happy child into
a miserable woman.
Some description of Elmsley Priory is requisite to the
understanding of my story, and I will endeavour to make it
short and clear.
The house itself, formerly a monastery, was built on the brow
of a steep hill; irregular in shape, it seemed to have been
added to, bit by bit, according to the increasing size of the
convent. A verandah or balcony of modern date, followed the
sinuosities of the old pile, and, from its peculiar position,
while at one extremity it was on a level with the grounds, at
the other it overhung a precipitous declivity. This bank
shelved down to the edge of a rapid stream, which chafed and
foamed along the base of the hill against which the house
stood.
At one of the ends of the verandah was a rough flight of stone
steps, much overgrown with moss, at all times difficult to
descend, and, after rain, positively dangerous, from the
slippery nature of the footing it afforded. It led to the edge
of the river down the bank already described. A longer and
more circuitous path began at the opposite extremity of the
verandah, and ended at the same point.
The view which this balcony commanded was one of the most
beautiful that can be conceived; and in the first freshness of
a spring morning, in the intense heat and repose of a summer
noon, in the glorious beauty of an autumnal sunset, or in the
grandeur of a wintry storm, we were wont to stand and revel in
the varying aspects which this lovely landscape presented to
our eyes. It was a combination of wood, stream, and mountain,
with a few cottages scattered here and there, as if a
painter's hand had placed them where they stood. Altogether,
they formed a picture which the eye loved to dwell upon, and
which memory strives to recall.
It was on one of those glorious days, when existence in
itself, and apart from all other circumstances, is felt to be
a blessing, that I stood leaning against one of the pillars of
the gallery I have described.
There had been a thunder-storm, and torrents of rain, in the
night, but then the sky was perfectly cloudless; that thin
transparent haze, which in England sobers without obscuring
the brightness of a hot sunny day, hung lightly on the
horizon; the lights and shades played in the stream below, and
the busy hum of insects was the only sound that reached my
ears. The rose of May, and the slender jessamine, twined round
the pilasters, near which I stood. They were giving out all
their sweetness, and seemed to be rearing their graceful heads
again, after the storm that had so rudely shaken them.
I had thrown back my bonnet, to enjoy more completely the warm
perfumed breeze; and was so absorbed by the beauty of the
scene, that it was only on being called to for the second
time, that I turned round, and saw Julia, standing on the edge
of the stone parapet, with her arm round one of the columns.
The dangerous nature of her position immediately struck me; I
told her to come down, and, on her refusing to do so, took
hold of her, and placed her on the ground. She instantly set
up one of her loudest screams, and, exclaiming that I had hurt
her, she rushed past me, and ran into the drawing-room, one of
the recesses of which formed an angle in the building. A small
paned latticed window, which opened on the verandah, was at
this moment imperfectly closed, and from the spot where I
stood, I could hear every word that was spoken in that recess.
I heard Julia complaining to her mother of my unkindness, in a
voice broken by sobs, and tremulous with passion. The child's
statement of the facts that had led to my interference, was
totally false; for an instant I felt inclined to follow her,
in order to contradict it, but the bane of my nature, _pride_,
which always made me hate an explanation or a justification,
restrained the impulse, and I then caught the sound of Mrs.
Middleton's voice; she was speaking in a low earnest manner to
her husband.
"This cannot last," she was saying; "it cannot be suffered to
last; these children must be separated, and the sooner the
better."
"But what can be done?" was the reply; "Ellen has no home but
this."
I listened breathlessly for the answer. It seemed to me, at
that moment, as if my life depended upon it; my breath seemed
to stop, and my whole frame to quiver.
"She might go to some good school for a year or two," was the
answer: "it would be painful to decide on such a step; but
nothing can signify to us in comparison with Julia's health."
I did not hear any more, but, snatching up my bonnet, I rushed
along the verandah till I came to its farthest extremity. I
knelt, and leant my head against the stones of the parapet.
Every vein in my brow seemed swelled to bursting, and I felt
as if I had waked from a happy dream to a state of things
which my understanding could scarcely master.
Was it indeed my aunt? was it Mrs. Middleton? who had spoken
of sending me away from her--away from Elmsley? Was it she
that had said I was _nothing_ to her in comparison with the
selfish child whom, for her sake alone, I had endured? It was
even so--I was _nothing_ to her; I felt convinced of it at
once; and it seemed to me in that moment as if a sudden chill
struck to my heart, and crept through my whole frame. I have
often wondered whether the sensation of moral suffering is as
nearly allied to physical pain in every one else as in myself.
The expression of an _aching_ heart has always appeared to me
to have a literal as well as a figurative sense; there is a
sort of positive pain that accompanies certain kinds of mental
sufferings, different in its nature from the feeling of grief,
even in its highest degree; and disappointment in its various
forms is perhaps the species of suffering which generally
produces it.
I was, at the moment I have described, experiencing this kind
of pain in its acutest shape. I felt reluctant to move from
where I stood; the sound of my own quick breathing was
oppressive to me. My eyes were closed, that the light of the
sun, in all its glorious brightness, should not reach me. The
sounds, the smells, that I was enjoying a few minutes before,
were growing intolerable to me. No voice could then have been
welcome to me (for the voice I loved best, the voice that had
ever spoken peace and joy to my heart, I had just heard utter
words that had destroyed at one blow the fabric of bliss which
my heart had so long reared for itself); no voice, I say,
could have been welcome to me; but when I heard the sharp and
querulous tones of Julia, God in mercy forgive me for what I
felt. She was again standing at the head of the stone steps,
that I have described as forming one of the extremities of the
verandah; and as she placed her foot on one of the moss-covered
slippery steps, she called out, "I'm going down--I'll
have my own way now." I seized her hand, and drawing her back,
exclaimed, "Don't, Julia!" on which she said, "You bad better
not teaze me; you are to be sent away if you teaze me." I felt
as if a viper had stung me; the blood rushed to my head, and I
struck her;--she reeled under the blow, her foot slipped, and
she fell headlong down the stone steps. A voice near me said,
"She has killed her!" There was a plunge in the water below;
her white frock rose to the surface--sunk--rose again--and
sunk to rise no more. Two men rushed wildly down the bank, and
one of them turned and looked up as he passed. I heard a
piercing scream--a mother's cry of despair. Nobody said again
"She has killed her." I did not die--I did not go mad, for I
had not an instant's delusion--I never doubted the reality of
what had happened; but those words--"She has killed her!" "She
has killed her!"--were written as with a fiery pencil on my
brain, and day and night they rang in my ears. Who had spoken
them?
There was the secret of my fate!