But ever and anon of griefs subdued,
There comes a token like a scorpion's sting,
Scarce seen, but with fresh bitterness imbued;
And slight withal may be the things which bring
Back on the heart the weight which it would fling
Aside for ever.
LORD BYRON.
On inquiry, I found that my aunt was out, and as I was not
acquainted with a single person staying in the house, I begged
to be shown at once to my room, instead of going into the
library, where I was told some of the company were to be
found. The housekeeper led the way up-stairs, and having
established me in a large and very comfortable room, left me
to myself. I sat down in an arm-chair, and except the
occupation, if it can be so called, of watching my maid, while
she unpacked the different parts of my evening dress, I spent
the next hour in complete idleness.
At the end of that time, the rolling of wheels and the clatter
of horses' feet drew me to the window. I was pleased to have
an opportunity of inspecting some part of the society which I
was so soon to be introduced to. First, there stopped at the
hall door a pony-chaise, from which Mrs. Brandon and another
woman got out; behind them sat an elderly man, tall and dark,
not Mr. Brandon, though (as far as I recollected) like him:
behind them came galloping up to the steps a riding party, two
women and three or four men; among them was Henry Lovell, who
was certainly about the last person I should have expected to
meet. He looked in high spirits, and I heard him calling out
to somebody in the house, "Is she come?" and two or three
minutes afterwards, Mrs. Brandon and he came into my room
together.
She kissed me most affectionately, and keeping both my hands
in hers, and diminishing at the same time her beautiful eyes
into the sharpest, but most _caressante_ expression (I know no
English word which expresses the look I mean), she fixed them
on mine and said, "I am so much obliged to you, Henry, and to
you for coming, dearest Ellen; but I ought to thank him first,
for he taught me to wish to know you, and to love you. It is
not a hard lesson,"--she added, in the sweetest tone of voice
imaginable. I tried to smile and look pleased, but I was out
of sorts, though I could hardly tell exactly why. If I had
heard at Elmsley that I was to have met Henry at Brandon, I
should have probably been glad, but somehow my short journey
had put me into a different state of mind. I had been more
free from painful thoughts, immediately connected with myself
at least, than at any time for a good while past; I had felt
an unconscious relief in seeing new faces, and hearing new
voices; I longed to feel unwatched, unnoticed. Then the
conversation I had heard between the two men at Salisbury had
left a disagreeable impression upon my mind, although too
vague to influence my judgment. Then again, why, if Mrs.
Brandon's wish to see me, and her consequent invitation, were
the result of his praises, had he not talked to me of her? Why
had he not said he should meet me at her house? Obliged, alas!
as I was myself by my miserable fate, to practise constant
dissimulation, I still hated it strangely in others, and I
felt aware that I answered Mrs. Brandon ungraciously, and
greeted Henry coldly. As usual, he was perfectly
self-possessed, but soon withdrew, leaving me alone with Mrs.
Brandon.
"Do let us sit down here together, dearest Ellen," said she,
drawing me to a couch as she spoke; "I do so long to be well
acquainted with you, and I feel to know so well all about you,
we shall be great friends soon, I am sure." And she again
squeezed my hands, and looked into my eyes with that pretty
but over-confidential look in hers.
We talked about my uncle and aunt, on which she said, "Was not
dear Mrs. Middleton a little angry with me for seducing you
away from Elmsley? But I fancy she is in the secret; is not
she?"
"She was much pleased at your kindness in wishing to see me,"
I answered; quite puzzled as to what the secret she alluded to
could be.
"And now, dear Ellen," she continued, "you must treat me quite
like a sister, like a friend, not as an old aunt, or I shall
be affronted, and very jealous of Mrs. Middleton. You must
speak to me quite openly."
"You are so very kind," I said, while all the time I thought,
"What on earth are you at?" The idea of her being jealous of
my affection for Mrs. Middleton struck me as perfectly
ridiculous, and the very fact of being requested to speak
openly, effectually inclined me to shut myself up, in an
additional amount of reserve. I tried, however, to be amiable
and warm; and after a little more conversation, Mrs. Brandon
left me, to go and dress for dinner.
A few minutes after the bell had rung, I went down to the
library, and found nearly everybody assembled. I went through
a number of introductions. The women that I made acquaintance
with were Lady Wyndham, Mrs. Ernsley, Miss Moore, and two Miss
Farnleys. The men were standing together in the middle of the
room, but except Mr. Brandon (who immediately came to me and
made a number of civil speeches), none of them approached us
before dinner was announced. Sir Charles Wyndham then took me
in.
Just as we were sitting down, Mrs. Brandon called to Mr.
Ernsley, who was preparing to place himself in the chair on
the other side of me; "Dear Mr. Ernsley, won't you come and
sit by me? I do so long to hear what you think of Meldon Hall,
which I am told you went to see to-day." And as he obeyed her
directions, Henry Lovell slipped into the chair by my side,
which accounted to me for the look of intelligence which Mrs.
Brandon directed to our part of the table, to which he perhaps
responded, but to which I certainly did not. I was not sorry,
however, to have an opportunity of speaking to him, as I felt
curious to know how he would account for his sudden change of
plans, and I wished also to find out if he had been at
Salisbury during the last few days.
He immediately said to me, "Are you surprised at seeing me
here?"
"As much," I replied, "as to find that it is to you I am
indebted for being invited here at all."
"And if it was so, would it affront you?"
"It would not be particularly flattering."
"You would think it more flattering, would you, that a woman,
who has only seen you once, and that seven years ago, should
wish to see you again, than that I (and here he spoke in the
lowest possible whisper), after such days, such months, as I
spent at Elmsley, should have strained every nerve not to lose
sight of you."
"Then this has been a scheme of your forming? I hate
scheming."
"I was in London; I detested it, and I came here; but I wish
to God I had not I (he added, with more of passion than of
tenderness in his voice;) for my coming is evidently
disagreeable to you, and I cannot brook the coldness of your
manner (he continued, in a still increasing tone of
agitation). It puts me beside myself, Ellen, and makes a fool
of me, which is of all things what I most dislike to be made."
"What is it you most dislike to be made, Mr. Lovell?" inquired
Sir Charles Wyndham, who had been restless and fidgetty, till
he could catch at something in our conversation, which would
enable him to join in it.
"A fool, Sir Charles," answered Henry, with an expression of
countenance, which certainly did not bear in it any
consciousness of his own folly.
"The ladies make fools of us all," said Sir Charles, with a
bow to me.
"Unless they find us ready made," I heard Henry mutter, while
I was obliged to turn round and listen to a string of
compliments, and a flow of small talk from my right hand
neighbour, which it seemed as if nothing would stop but some
lucky accident, some sudden overthrow of the regular course of
things, so steady and even was the tenor of its gentle
prolixity. He had an eye, the mildness of which was appalling,
and a smile of despairing sweetness. As I looked at him, I
wished (which had never happened to me to wish before in
looking at anybody's face) that he had been very ugly; no ugly
face could have been so hopelessly tiresome. If but for a
moment he could have looked cross or ill-natured, it would
have been the making of him, or rather of me, for then I
should have had courage to cut his discourse short, and turn
away; but as it was, dinner was nearly over before I had
another opportunity of speaking to Henry, who at last brought
about the _event_ I had pined for, by overturning a pyramid of
red and white cherries, which went rolling all over the table
in different directions, and for a moment engrossed Sir
Charles's benevolent exertions. Henry immediately seized on
the favourable moment, and resumed our conversation, though in
an altered tone.
"The fact is, dear Ellen, that, on my arrival in London, I
found my solicitor out of town, and my father gone on a visit
to some friends of his in Hertfordshire. I have a general
invitation to this place; and it struck me (I was wrong
perhaps) that it might be, as well as a gratification to
myself, a comfort to you, among a set of strangers, to find a
friend; and I suppose I may call myself one."
He said all this in such a gentle, earnest manner, and in fact
the thought had been such a kind one, that I felt quite
ashamed of myself; and in the reaction of the moment, I turned
to him with some emotion and said,
"You are very kind to me, Henry, and it grieves me to think
that I must have appeared to you ungracious--ungrateful even."
"Only a little capricious," he answered; "and should I prize
as much that bright smile of yours, Ellen, if the transient
cloud had not made its brightness still dearer?"
At this moment Mrs. Brandon gave the signal for withdrawal.
Henry whispered to me, as I was looking for my gloves under
the table,
"Now that I have explained my being here, at the expense of a
fearful havoc among Mr. Brandon's cherries, I shall be at
leisure, when we come to the drawing-room, to give you my
opinion of the society here; pray do not make up your mind
about anybody till I come."
I left the dining-room in better humour than when I went in,
and sat down with the two Miss Farnleys, at a round table
covered with annuals and albums. We entered into conversation,
and _got on_ (as the phrase is) very well. They were both
nice-looking girls; the eldest was handsome. It was not
difficult to comply with Henry's request, that I should not
make up my mind about any one till he had given me his
opinion; for a whole quarter of an hour had not elapsed before
he made his appearance in the drawing-room, and instantly came
and sat down on the couch by me. Lady Wyndham at that moment
begged the eldest Miss Farnley to come and give her advice
about some pattern or stitch that she was employed upon, and
the youngest went to the open window to speak to Mrs. Brandon
and to Mrs. Ernsley, who were walking up and down the gravel
walk near the house.
"How do you like your aunt, Ellen?"
"Don't call her my aunt; that is a name sacred to me. I cannot
call any one but your sister, my aunt."
"Well, Mrs. Brandon, then; how do you like her?"
"I thought I was not to make up my mind about any one without
your assistance?"
"True, but I did not include her; she is an old friend of
mine, and I might be partial."
"There would be no harm in biassing me in her favour. I ought
to like her, and I'm afraid I don't."
"Don't you?" said Henry, in a tone of so much annoyance and
mortification, that I looked at him with surprise. "You will
like her," he added, "when you know her."
"But when did you see so much of her? And if she is such a
friend of yours, why did you never talk to me of her?"
He did not answer immediately, and I went on.
"But you are very mysterious about all your acquaintances; for
instance, you know how delighted I was with Alice Tracy."
I was obliged to summon up all my courage to pronounce her
name; how often does one feel that there are subjects which
become forbidden ones between people with whom in general
there exists no reserve, and which, by some strange instinct,
one cannot touch upon without emotion, though nothing
reasonable can be alleged to account for it. He started, and
his countenance instantaneously clouded over; but I went on
with a kind of cowardly courage.
"And yet, I dare say, you have seen her, or heard something
about her since our visit to Bridman Manor, and have never
told me."
"I have _not_ seen her."
"Where is she now?" I persisted, feeling that if I let the
subject drop, it would require afresh effort to resume it
again.
"I don't know."
"Is she likely to be staying at Salisbury?"
"At Salisbury?"
"Yes, there are some people of that name living there. I
called at the house early this morning, and asked for Alice.
She was out, but if I knew that she was staying on there,
nothing would be easier than to go and pay her a visit one
morning from hence, and I should like it of all things."
"Ellen," said Henry, "you cannot go on seeing Alice, or have
anything to do with any of that family. You are quite a child,
and childishly headstrong I well know, but I really must
insist upon this."
"I do not exactly see the right that you have to insist upon
my doing or my not doing anything; but, at least, give me some
good reason for this dictation."
"They are people with whom you cannot with propriety
associate; at your age you can be no judge of such things."
"It was my aunt who sent me to them, in the first instance;
consequently, she can know nothing against Mrs. Tracy; and, as
to Alice, you cannot mean that _she_--unless--"
I stopped short; my heart was beating violently. I felt that
modesty, propriety, dignity, forbade my hinting at my
suspicions; but they were rushing again on my mind with fresh
force; and as I looked at Henry, I felt that my cheeks were
burning, and my eyes flashing.
"No," he said, as if he had not remarked my agitation, or else
that it had calmed his. "No; Alice's character is perfectly
good; but, in visiting her, you would be liable to fall in
with persons whom it would be in every way unpleasant to be
thrown amongst."
I remembered the two men at Salisbury, and felt this might be
true; there was something so plain, and indifferent, too, in
his manner of doing justice to Alice, that it removed my
suspicions; and when he said--
"Well, now, for Heaven's sake, let us leave off talking on a
subject on which it seems we are always destined to quarrel."
I smiled, and made no effort to pursue it farther, but
listened to his account of the society at Brandon.
"Lady Wyndham (he said) is as you can see in looks, the very
reverse of her husband--quite guiltless of his insipid
comeliness. I have never found out anything beyond that; for
she is as stern and as silent as he is communicative, perhaps
on the system of compensation, and from a strict sense of
justice to society."
"And the Miss Farnleys (I said), we have just made
acquaintance; but I am quite disposed to like or dislike them,
according to the report you make of them."
"The Miss Farnleys (he replied) have been brought almost
entirely abroad, and are, perhaps, not spoilt, but certainly
fashioned by this circumstance. The oldest is not the least
affected in manner, nor indeed in conversation, except that
one is willing to attribute to affectation the very silly
things which an otherwise intelligent person is in the habit
of saying."
"What kind of things?"
"Why, for instance, she will tell you that she cannot exist
without flowers, and therefore keeps loads of them in her room
at night, though they give her a raging headache. But don't
think her silly (though it is difficult to help it, I own),
for this very girl, when she broke her arm last year,
submitted to the most painful operation without a groan, in
order that her father, who was ill at the time, should not be
agitated or alarmed, though, when he left the room, she
fainted from the intensity of agony. Do not think her wicked,
if she tells you that she pines to be overturned in a
carriage, or to be wrecked at sea; if she boasts that she
throws out of window the medicines that are prescribed for
her, or that she swallows poison, to try how she feels after
it; for she risked her life a few months ago to save a
drowning child; and when the village near their country place
was on fire, she went about among the distracted people like
an angel of mercy. Do not, therefore, think her silly, wicked,
or mad, whatever she may say to you, but only wonder where she
learnt that to seem so was a charm."
"And her sister, that girl with a Grecian profile and straight
eyebrows?"
"That girl, who sometimes is hardly pretty, and at other times
perfectly beautiful, is very clever, though she too says silly
things now and then, but quite in a different line. She is
original and agreeable, though she lisps and drawls, till the
spirit within her is roused. She is very provoking if you
dislike her; still more so, perhaps, if you like her. In
short, I hardly know which to recommend you to do; only, I am
sure if you do like her, you will like her very much, and will
better spare a better woman--Lady Wyndham, for instance."
"And that little Miss Moore, who is sitting over her book with
a look of such intense enjoyment in her large eyes, what
account do you give of her?"
"Oh, everybody doats upon the little Irish girl; nobody can
tell exactly why. It is, I suppose, because her eyes speak to
you whether her tongue does or not. It is because she unites
the most contrary extremes, and leaves you to puzzle over
them; because she sails into the room, with her little stately
manner, and salutes you with a formal curtsey; and then, under
all this air of dignity, you discover the very
merriest-hearted little romp that ever existed. You must be
fond of her. As refined in mind and in manner as the most
fastidious could require, she has, at the same time, the
humour, the native fun of her country--it sparkles in her
eyes--it bubbles in her laugh. She is a little patriot, too:
when Ireland is mentioned, you will see her cheek flush, and
her spirit rise. It is the only strong feeling she seems to
have; for, otherwise, like the jolly miller of Dee, she cares
for nobody, and if others care for her, she does not appear to
thank them for it. I have often heard men say, how in love they
would be with Rosa Moore, if it were not for this thankless,
hopeless, remorseless indifference. Now, I think this is a
mistake; for I believe her great charm really lies in that
very recklessness of what others think of her, or feel for her,
in the eager, child-like impetuosity with which she seeks
amusement, and in the perfect self-possession with which she
treats everything and everybody."
"And Mrs. Ernsley, Henry; what do you say of her?"
"Mrs. Ernsley? It is much more difficult to say what she is,
than what she is not; so allow me to describe her in
negatives. She is _not_ handsome, for her features are bad,
and her complexion is sallow. She is not plain, for she has
pretty eyes, pretty hair, a pretty smile, and a pretty figure.
She is not natural, for her part in society is pre-arranged
and continually studied. She is not affected, for nobody talks
to you with more earnestness, or more of natural impulse and
spontaneousness; but still, she is always listening to
herself. She is the person who is attracting, who is charming
you, natural to a fault, unguarded to excess (she says to
herself). Then, she is not a bad sort of woman; she has a
great regard for her husband, and takes great pains with her
little girls; but she is always playing with edged tools; she
is always lingering on the line of demarcation. She is
eternally discussing who are in love with her--though she is
such a very good sort of a woman--and who would be in love
with her if she was not? Above all, she is by no means partial
to other women, whether they have stepped over the line, or
kept within it. She will hate you, Ellen, depend upon it, with
an innocent kind of hatred: she will do you no harm, for she
is kind-hearted in reality; only it will be nuts to her if
anybody says that Miss Middleton is not near so pretty as they
had expected; and she will try to put you down whenever you
open your mouth; but don't be put down, and then you will
remain mistress of the field, for she will grow so fidgetty,
(not cross, for she is, in fact, good-tempered,) that she will
lose her self-possession, and then all will be over with her."
"I have not the slightest wish to enter the lists with her.
But now, tell me something of the men who are here."
"That will be quickly done;--Sir Charles is a fool; Mr.
Ernsley is a prig; and Mr. Farnley has a broad kind of humour,
and a talent for mimicry, but he is coarse and unrefined,
which, by the way, is, perhaps, the reason that his daughter
thinks it necessary to be so painfully the reverse. Mr.
Brandon, your aunt's brother-in-law, is an agreeable man. Mr.
Manby is a lout."
"And Sir Edmund Ardern?" I inquired.
"Oh, as to Sir Edmund Ardern, I entreat you, on the same
principle on which pastry-cooks cram their apprentices during
the first few days, to talk to him incessantly. Let him sit by
you to-morrow at breakfast, at luncheon, at dinner, walk with
him, and ride with him; I shall not come near you, in order
that he may have full scope for his fascinating powers; you
shall be fascinated till you cry for mercy."
I laughed, but secretly thought that something of the severity
of his satire proceeded from the fact, that Sir Edmund was the
only handsome and pleasing person in the house, and I did not
feel inclined to take entirely for granted, that Henry's
judgment of him was correct.
Our _tete-a-tete_ was soon interrupted by the entrance of Mrs.
Ernsley, and the arrival of tea. Mrs. Ernsley threw herself
into a large arm-chair, flung her bonnet and shawl on the
opposite couch, and then began arranging her hair.
"You look tired, Mrs. Ernsley," said Henry.
"To death," she answered. "Dear Mrs. Brandon has been
wondering whether the stars are inhabited or not. It is not
fair to make one stretch out one's mind so far."
"What did Sir Edmund pronounce on the subject?" inquired
Henry.
"That there was much to be said on both sides of the question.
I left them at that point."
"Do you like Sir Edmund?"
"I wish you would not ask me."
"Why?"
"Because he hates me, and I won't own to a _passion
malheureuse_. He nearly overturned poor Mr. Farnley to-day at
dinner, in trying to avoid the chair next me."
"Oh, no; it was in trying to get the one next Miss Middleton,"
observed Rosa Moore, with an Innocent expression of
countenance.
Mrs. Ernsley continued without noticing the interruption,
otherwise than by a downward movement of the corners of her
mouth--"I had a thousand times rather be hated by him, than be
liked in the way in which he seems to like any one, _qui lui
tombe sous la main_."
"No doubt," said Henry; "next to being loved there is nothing
like being hated."
"You think so too, then?" said Mrs. Ernsley.
"Certainly," he replied. "It gratifies one of the strongest
tastes, or rather passions, of one's nature; that of feeling
emotion one's self, and exciting it in others. If I could not
see the woman I loved agitated by her love for me, I had
rather see her tremble, shudder eyen at my presence, than look
as if Mr. Manby had come into the room."
"What a detestable lover you would make!" exclaimed Mrs.
Ernsley. "Always, by your own admission, on the verge of
hatred."
He laughed, and said, "It is an old saying, that love and
hatred are closely allied."
"Not more so than hatred and contempt," I said; "and in
incurring the one, one might, perhaps, gain the other."
Both my companions looked at me with surprise, for I had not
joined before in their conversation, and a secret feeling (I
was aware of it) had given a shade of bitterness to my manner
of saying it.
Mrs. Ernsley seemed to take the remark as personal to herself;
but said good-humouredly, though somewhat sneeringly, "Since
Miss Middleton has pronounced so decided an opinion, we had
better drop the subject. What is become of Edward Middleton,
Mr. Lovell?"
"He has been abroad for some months," replied Henry; and Sir
Edmund Ardern, who at that moment joined us, said, "The last
time I saw him was at Naples last February; we had just made
an excursion into the mountains of Calabria together."
"A very unromantic one, no doubt," said Mrs. Ernsley, "as
everything is in our unromantic days. Not a trace of a brigand
or of an adventure I suppose?"
"None that we were concerned in. But we saw an ex-brigand, and
he told us his adventures."
"Did he really?" exclaimed Miss Farnley; "and was he not
adorable?"
"Not exactly," said Sir Edmund with a smile; "but some of his
accounts were interesting."
"Was he fierce?"
"No, not the least. I fancy he had followed that line in his
younger days, more because his father and his brother were
brigands, than from any inclination of his own. One of the
stories he told us struck Middleton and myself in a very
different manner."
"What was it?" I asked, unable to restrain my anxious
curiosity.
"I am afraid you may think it long," said. Sir Edmund; "but if
you are to decide the point in question you must have patience
to hear the story:--
"Lorenzo, that was our friend's name, had been engaged in
several skirmishes with the gendarmerie, that had been sent
into the mountains to arrest the gang to which he belonged; he
was known by sight, and had once or twice narrowly escaped
being seized. He had a personal enemy among the gendarmes--a
man called Giacomo, whose jealousy he had excited some years
previously at a country fair. They had quarrelled about a girl
whom both were making love to. Lorenzo had struck him, and
Giacomo had not returned the blow before they were separated,
and his rival safe in the mountains beyond the reach of his
vengeance. He brooded over this recollection for several
years; and when he found himself, at last, officially in
pursuit of his enemy, he followed him as a hungry beast tracks
his prey. One evening, with two or three of his men, he had
dodged him for several hours. Lorenzo had made with incredible
speed for a spot where, between the fissures of the rock, he
knew of a secret passage by which he could elude the pursuit,
and place himself in safety. He strained every nerve to turn
the corner before his pursuers could be upon him, and mark the
place where he disappeared. Between him and that comer, there
was now nothing left but a slight wooden bridge thrown over a
precipice. As he was rushing across it, Giacomo, with the
instinctive feeling that his enemy was escaping him, by one
tremendous leap from the top of the rock which overhung the
bridge, reached it at the same moment. The shock broke to
pieces the frail support; the hand-rail alone did not give
way, and to this, by their hands alone, the two men clung.
They were close to each other--they looked into each other's
faces--neither could move. Lorenzo's eyes were glazed with
terror; Giacomo's glared with fury; he was nearest the edge,
his men were in sight, and he called to them hoarsely. Lorenzo
gave himself up for lost. At that moment, above their heads,
on the edge of the rock, something moved--both looked up. A
blow, a tremendous blow, fell on Giacomo's head; his features
grew distorted, they quivered in agony--a yell of torture
escaped him: another blow, and his brains flew upon the face
and hands of his foe. A mist seemed to cover Lorenzo's eyes;
but he felt something stretched out to him--he clung to it
instinctively, he scrambled, he darted into the cavern, he
fainted, but he was safe."
"And who had saved him?" we all exclaimed.
"Amina, a girl whom he was courting, and by whom he was
beloved. She was carrying home to her father a large
sledge-hammer which he had lent to a neighbour. Passing alone
through that wild region, she saw the desperate situation of
the two men, recognised her lover struggling with the gendarme,
heard the shouts of the latter to his comrades, and rushed to
the spot."
"A brave girl," exclaimed Henry.
"How did the _romance_ end?" asked Mrs. Ernsley.
"Ah! there's the point," said Sir Edmund. "I asked Lorenzo if
he did not love the girl twice as much since her gallant
conduct. 'I was very grateful to her,' he answered, 'but I was
no longer in love with her.' I exclaimed in astonishment, but
he persisted; it was very odd certainly, she had saved his
life, and he would have done anything to serve her; 'But you
know, gentlemen,' he added, 'one cannot help being in love, or
not being in love; and when I looked at Amina's black eyes, I
could not help shuddering, for I remembered the look they had,
when she gave Giacomo that last blow, and it was not pleasant,
and in short I could not be in love with her, and there was an
end of it.'"
"And is it possible," exclaimed Mrs. Ernsley, "that he was so
ungrateful as to forsake her?"
"No; he told me he would have married her, if she had wished
it, but she did not; 'Perhaps,' he said, 'she saw I was no
longer in love with her; but she did not seem to care much,
and there was an end of it,' as he said before. Now I own I
cannot understand the fellow's feeling; if anybody had saved
my life, as Amina saved his, I really believe I should have
fallen in love with her, had she been old and ugly; but a
handsome girl, whom he was in love with before, that she
should lose his heart, in consequence of the very act for
which he should have adored her, passes, I confess, my
comprehension. But Edward Middleton disagreed with me; he
thought it perfectly natural. 'It was hard upon her,' he said,
'and could no be defended on the ground of reason; but there
were instincts, impulses, more powerful than reason itself;
and unjust and cruel as it might seem, he could not wonder at
the change in Lorenzo's feelings.'"
"How strange!" said Henry Lovell; "how like Edward, too;
though not quite so moral and just, as he generally piques
himself upon being."
"Ay," said Sir Edmund, "I must do him the justice to say, that
he added, 'Had I been Lorenzo, I should have felt myself bound
to devote my life to Amina, to have made her happy at the
expense of my own happiness; but there is, to me, something so
dreadful in life destroyed, in death dealt by the hand of a
woman, under any circumstances whatever.'"--
As Sir Edmund was saying these last words, I felt the sick
faint sensation that had been coming over me during the last
few minutes, suddenly increase, and he was interrupted by Mrs.
Ernsley exclaiming, "Good Heavens, Miss Middleton, how pale
you look! are you ill?"
Mrs. Brandon, who heard her, rushed to me; by a strong effort,
I recovered myself, swallowed the glass of water she brought,
and walked to the piano-forte, where Rosa Moore was singing.
I laid my head on the comer of the instrument, and as my tears
fell fast, I breathed more freely. When, later, Sir Edmund
apologised to me for having made me ill with his horrid story,
and Henry whispered to me, "Mrs. Ernsley has just announced
that you are of the same species as Miss Farnley, who cannot
hear of death, or of wounds, without swooing, but that you are
only a somewhat better actress," I was able to smile, and
speak gaily. Soon after, I went to bed; as I undressed, I
thought of these lines of Scott:--
"O I many a shaft at random sent,
Finds mark the archer little meant
And many a word, at random spoken.
May soothe or wound a heart nigh broken."
That night I had little sleep, and when I woke in the morning,
my pillow was still wet with tears.