"Why did he marry Fulvia and not love her?"
SHAKESPEARE.
My journey back to Elmsley was everyway a very different one
from that which I had made from it a month before. The weather
was cold and windy, and the absence of sunshine made every
object we passed appear less attractive than the impression
which my memory had retained.
Sir Walter Scott remarks, in one of his novels, that good
humour gives to a plain face the same charm as sunshine lends
to an ugly country. I agreed entirely with him, as I looked
first on Salisbury Plain, without one gleam to diversify its
gloomy extent, and then on Mrs. Swift's unmeaning face, the
stern rigidity of which never relaxed into a smile, and
contrasted it with the cheerful light of dear Mrs. Hatton's
radiant, though certainly not beautiful features.
I had much to think about, but I found it difficult to define
and collect my ideas. Henry and I had parted in anger, and it
was almost with a curse on his lips that he had taken leave of
me. He, too, knew my secret; he, too, used that knowledge to
threaten and terrify me. Had Edward betrayed it to him, since
he left England? or was it he who had denounced me to Edward?
Alas! it mattered little which it was. I was stunned, I felt
as if one by one all those whom I cared for would upbraid and
forsake me. A dreadful recollection remained on my mind of
something which Henry had said in that last conversation, of
Julia's death having been a great worldly advantage to me, and
of my uncle having settled his fortune upon me. My blood ran
cold at the thought--a marriage with Edward was the condition
annexed. The Exile's dream of the home to which he can never
return, the Desert Traveller's vision of water which he can
never approach, are to them what to me were those words,--a
marriage with Edward. Something which in the shadowy dreams of
girlhood had hovered in my fancy; something which the terrors
and the trials of the last year had crushed and subdued;
something which in the feverish excitement of the last months
had been dimmed but not destroyed; something which survived
hope, and rose again in the silence of the soul when the
restless stimulus of outward excitements failed. But it could
never be! How could I ever stand in the place of that wretched
child whose image would rise between me and the altar if ever
I ventured to approach it, as my uncle's heiress, as Edward's
bride? _His_ Bride! The very sight of me had rendered Elmsley
insupportable to him; the knowledge of my guilt (for guilty I
was, though guiltless of the dreadful consequences of my
ungovernable impetuosity) had driven him from England. Was he
not Julia's cousin? Was not Julia's death the work of my hand?
And had not Henry said that her death had been an advantage to
me? He had; and then he spoke of bringing me down upon my
knees before him to implore his pity; he poisoned his weapon,
and then dealt the blow. _His_ pity! Oh, as I thought of that,
I longed to see him but for one moment again, if only to tell
him that I spurned his pity, despised his forbearance, and
that, taught by himself, I had learned one lesson at least,
which I should never forget, and that was to be revenged! And
in the struggle he had begun. I felt myself the strongest, for
I did not love him; in that last scene the truth had been
revealed to myself as well as to him. The slight links which
bound me to him, had in a moment snapt; but _he_ loved me,
with a fierce and selfish love indeed, but still he loved me;
and if there is torment in unrequited love; if there is agony
in reading the cold language of indifference in the eyes on
which you gaze away the happiness of your life, that torment,
that agony, should be his. These thoughts were dreadful; I
shudder as I write them; but my feelings were excited, and my
pride galled nearly to madness. I remember that I clenched
with such violence a smelling-bottle, that it broke to pieces
in my hand, and the current of my thoughts was suddenly turned
to Mrs. Swift's exclamation of "La, Miss! You've broken your
bottle, and spilt the Eau de Cologne! What could you have been
thinking of?"
What had I been thinking of? Oh that world of thought within
us! That turmoil of restless activity which boils beneath the
calm surface of our every day's life! We sit and we talk; we
walk and we drive; we lie down to sleep, and we rise up again
the next day; as if life offered nothing to rouse the inmost
passions of the soul; as if hopes tremblingly cherished were
not often dashed to the earth; as if fears we scarcely dare to
define were not hovering near our hearts, and resolutions were
not formed in silence and abandoned in despair; as if the
spirit of darkness was not prompting the soul to deeds of
evil, and the hand of God was not stretched out between us and
the yawning gulf of destruction. And others look on; and, like
Mrs. Swift, wonder what we can be thinking of. God help them!
or rather may He help us, for we need it most.
At the end of the second day we reached the well-known gates
of Elmsley, and in a few moments more I was locked in my
aunt's embrace. I wept bitterly as I kissed her, and she
seemed to consider my tears as perfectly natural; her whole
manner was soothing and sympathising. My uncle received me
kindly enough, though rather coldly even for him. I longed to
explain to Mrs. Middleton that I did not care for Henry, and
that my uncle's decision against him was not the cause of the
deep depression which I could neither struggle with nor
conceal; but how could I disclaim _that_ cause and allege no
other? Also the intimate intercourse which had been formerly
habitual between her and myself had been broken up, so that my
heart had become as a sealed book to her, and I dared not open
it again; its one dark page formed an invincible barrier to
that communion of thoughts which had been ours in bygone days.
And so days and weeks went by; I heard nothing of Henry nor of
Edward, though both were almost constantly before my mind's
eye; in this perpetual wear and tear of feeling my health
began to give way, and I grew ever, day paler and thinner.
About three months after my return to Elmsley, I was sitting
one afternoon at that library window where I mentioned once
before having often watched the sunset with Edward. The
autumnal tints were gilding the trees in the park with their
glowing hues, and the air had that wintry mildness which is
soothing though melancholy. The window was open; and, wrapped
up in a thick shawl, I was inhaling the damp moist air, and
listening to the rustle of the dried leaves which were being
swept from the gravel walk below; the low twitter of some
robin-redbreasts was in unison with the scene, and affected me
in an Unaccountable manner. My tears fell fast on the book in
my hand. This book was the "Christian Year;" that gift of
Edward, which I had thrust away in a fit of irritation about a
year ago. I had opened it again that morning, and, partly as a
kind of expiation, partly with a vague hope of awakening in
myself a new tone of feeling--something to put in the place of
that incessant review of the past, around which my thoughts
were ever revolving,--I forced myself to read a few of the
passages marked with a pencil. I had been interrupted while so
doing, but had carried away the book with me, and now again
applied myself to the same task. I read stanza after stanza
which spoke of guilt, of suffering, and of remorse; but I did
not close the book in anger as before. It was true that they
were carefully chosen, pointedly marked; but what of that? Was
I not guilty? Was I not wretched? Did I not deserve worse at
his hands? Nay more; _had_ I deserved the forbearance, the
mercy, he had shown me? Ought I not to bless him for them? It
was such thoughts as these that made my tears flow, but that
at the same time soothed the bitterness of my feelings.
I put down my book; and, while gazing on the darkening clumps
of trees before me, I watched the approach of the boy who was
riding through the avenue to the house, with the letter-bag
strapped before him. I heard the step of the servant who was
crossing the hall on his way to my uncle's study. In a few
moments I heard Mrs. Middleton's voice on the stairs; and,
about an hour after that, when it was getting quite dark, and
I was leaving the library, I met Mrs. Swift, who told me that
my aunt wished to speak to me in her dressing-room.
There is something very apt to make one feel nervous in the
fact of being sent for; and if it happens to be immediately
after the arrival of the post, all the more so. I walked
up-stairs in consequence with a kind of feeling that something
had happened or was going to happen; so that when I opened the
door, and saw at one glance that my aunt was much agitated and
in tears, I felt frightened.
"What has happened?" I exclaimed. "What is it? Who is ill?"
"Nobody--nothing of that kind," she replied, "but it is
painful" (she paused, struggled with herself, and went on)--"it
is painful, and you must prepare yourself, my dear child,
to hear something that will shock and grieve you. Henry" (she
looked into my face with intense anxiety)--"Henry has made us
all very unhappy, but _you_, my child, _you_" (she seized both
my hands and put them upon her eyes, as if to give herself
courage to speak) "it will make you miserable. What shall I
say to you, my own love? He is utterly unworthy of you; he has
forgotten you, Ellen--given up all thoughts of you; he is--"
"Is he going to be married?" I eagerly exclaimed, "speak,
dearest aunt, speak--is it so?"
"He is married" (she replied in a tone of deep dejection),
"disgracefully married!"
She looked up in my face, and seemed quite bewildered at the
expression of my countenance. I was expecting her next words
with breathless anxiety, and could only repeat, "To whom, to
whom?"
"You could not have imagined it," she answered--"you could not
have believed it possible; he has married that girl whom you
saw at Bridman--Alice Tracy."
Married to Alice Tracy! Was it possible? What a crowd of
conjectures, recollections, suppositions, and fears, rushed
upon me at that moment!
"What does he say about it? What does he write? When did it
happen? May I see his letter?" were the questions which I
addressed with breathless rapidity to Mrs. Middleton, who
seemed entirely taken aback by the manner in which I received
this startling intelligence.
"Here is a strange letter," she said, "from Henry himself;
another from my father, who, as you may imagine, is indignant;
and one from Mrs. Tracy, which is at once impertinent and
hypocritical. I hardly know whether I am acting rightly in
showing you Henry's. It _is_ so extraordinary; but you must
explain to me several things which I have never hitherto
questioned you about; and, perhaps together, we may find out
the secret of this wretched marriage. I have not ventured to
show this strange letter to your uncle; he thinks that it is
only from my father that I have heard of Henry's marriage; and
I am afraid I am doing wrong in letting you see it; but I am
so bewildered--"
I interrupted her by drawing the letters almost forcibly out
of her hand. She suffered me to do so, and watched me while I
read them. I was conscious of this at first; but the interest
was so absorbing, that I soon forgot her presence, and
everything, but the letters themselves. I read Henry's first:
it was as follows:--
"My dear Sister,
"You have known me long enough not to be surprised at any
extravagance that I may be guilty of. You know also that I am
somewhat of a fatalist, and that I maintain that our destiny
in life is marked out for us in a manner which we can neither
withstand nor counteract. I have just done what is commonly
called a foolish thing--very likely it is foolish; all I can
say is, that I could not help doing it. It is done, and
therefore the fewer remonstrances or lamentations that are
made on the subject the better. I am married. Last Thursday I
married, at--Church, Mrs. Tracy's grand-daughter. Her name is
Alice; she is very pretty, and has been well brought up. She
has five thousand pounds of her own, left her by an uncle, who
died some time ago. I have, as you know, about as much. My
father, of course, refuses to see her; and, I conclude, Mr.
Middleton will do the same. Do you remember, Mary, the time
when, sitting at my bedside, you would kiss my forehead, and
tell me how you would love my wife? We used to talk of her,
and describe her. She was to be tall; her eyes were to be
dark, and their long fringing lashes were to sweep her cheek;
her throat was to be white and graceful as a swan's; genius
was to give light to her eyes, and eloquence to her words; and
you, sister, _you_, on my marriage-day, were to have placed
the blossoms of orange flower in the dark hair of my bride.
You remember it, don't you? Well, my bride is fair, very fair;
but not like the bride we had imagined--or rather that we had
foreseen; for, sister, we have seen her, have we not--walking
in beauty by our sides? Have we not gazed upon her till we
have fancied her a thing too bright, too lovely, for the earth
she treads upon? My bride was not kissed by you; she stood by
my side, and you were not there to say, 'God bless her!' She
put her cold hand into mine, and looked steadily into my face;
there was no colour in her cheek; no emotion in her voice. It
was all as calm as the life that lies before me. Mary, you had
better write and wish me joy; and tell Ellen to wish me joy
too; but do not show my letter to your husband; it is not calm
enough for his inspection.
"Yours, dear Mary, ever yours,
"Henry Lovell."
There was something inexpressibly painful to me in the tone of
this letter; it seemed the sequel of one part of my last
conversation with Henry; a pure and innocent existence, he had
said, must be sacrificed, and doomed to hopeless
disappointment, if I persisted in my refusal. I had persisted,
and Alice was sacrificed, though to what I knew not; but to
some mysterious necessity--to some secret obligation. A
loveless marriage--a lonely passage through life--and God only
knew what secret trials--what withering of the heart--what
solitude of the soul--what measure of that hope deferred,
which makes the heart sick--of that craving void which nothing
fills, were to be hers, who had grown up and blossomed like
the rose in the wilderness, and who had been, like her own
poor flower, too rudely transplanted, doomed perhaps like it,
to wither and to die. It was strange, that, never having seen
Alice but once, I should have felt such a deep and complete
conviction of her goodness and purity, of the angelic nature
of the spirit which was shrouded in that fair form, that as
the idea of guilt in her intercourse with Henry, so now, that
of worldliness, of ambition, or of indelicacy, in having made
this secret marriage, never presented itself to my mind.
Perhaps it might yet turn out well; he might grow to love and
to prize her, and she would stand between him and me like an
angel of peace. He could not but admire the faultless beauty
of her face; the poetical nature of her mind; the calm
simplicity of her character. I said this to myself; but while
I said it, my heart whispered a denial. I knew Henry too well.
I had seen too clearly what he admired in me--what subdued him
in some measure to my influence, even in his fiercest moments
of irritation. It was the very points in my mind and character
which were most different from hers. The very defects in
myself, that made me look upon her, as a lost and ruined
sinner might gaze on a picture of the blessed Virgin, these
very defects were what riveted and enthralled him. His last
words rang in my ears as I looked on his blotted and hasty
signature, and my heart sunk within me as I _felt_ "that all
was not over between us."
The next letter I read was from Mr. Lovell; it was thus
worded:--
"My dear Mary,
"Your affection for your brother has always been so great,
that I dread the effect which my present communication will
have upon you. It will take you by surprise, as it has done
me. That Henry should give us subjects of regret and annoyance
would be no strange occurrence; but that he (the goodness of
whose understanding, at least, has never been called in
question)--that he should have acted in so deplorably foolish
a manner, is more than one would be prepared for; the natural
refinement of his character alone might have preserved him
from a connection which is really disgraceful. It is better to
tell you the fact at once, for you certainly could never have
imagined or foreseen such an event. Your brother, without
having made the slightest communication to me, or to any one
else, as far as I can find out, married, last Thursday, at
Bromley Church, the grand-daughter of the woman who was your
nurse, and afterwards his. He looks wretchedly ill and
unhappy, and gives no explanation of his conduct, further than
by repeating, that as he was certain that I would not give my
consent to his marriage (and he is right there), he thought it
best to put the matter at once beyond discussion. In some
ways, bad as it is, it might have been worse. I find that the
girl is only seventeen--very handsome--has been well brought
up for a person in her rank of life, and has a fortune of 5000
_l_. I have refused to see her, as I am determined to mark my
indignation to Henry in the strongest manner; and I never,
under any circumstances, will consent to see her relations,
who have behaved, in my opinion, as ill as possible in
hurrying on this marriage.
"Some time hence, it may be advisable to notice his wife; and,
for his sake, to try as much as possible to withdraw her from
the society and the influence of her relations; but this will
be a subject for after-consideration.
"And now, my dear Mary, God bless you. I feel for you, as I
know you will for me, in this unpleasant affair. I hope your
beautiful Ellen will not take to heart this abominable
marriage. Mr. Middleton was perfectly right in preventing her
from throwing herself away on that worthless brother of yours;
but I wish with all my heart they had eloped together.
"Your affectionate Father,
"William Lovell."
Mrs. Tracy's letter was as follows:--
"Madam,
"The announcement of Mr. Lovell's marriage with my
grand-daughter, Alice, will probably have surprised you
disagreeably. As he has, I find, written by this day's post to
communicate it to you, I take the liberty of addressing to you
a few lines on the subject. I grieve that myself or any one
belonging to me should be the means of causing you grief or
annoyance. But, Madam, remember who it was that said, 'Judge
not, and you shall not be judged; condemn not, and you shall
not be condemned.' Obey that injunction now, and visit not the
sins of others on an angel of goodness and purity,--the dust
of whose feet, some whom you cherish in your bosom are not
worthy to wipe off. I love you, Mrs. Middleton, and would not
willingly give you pain; but do not try me too severely by
ill-usage of that child, whom my dying son bequeathed to me,
and who is now your brother's wife. As God will judge one day
betwixt you and me, be kind to her; her presence and her
prayers may sanctify your home, and bring down a blessing on
your head. If you are tempted to say in your heart, 'Why did
this angel of goodness and purity consent to a secret
marriage?--why did this saint, whose prayers are to bring down
a blessing on our home, enter our family without our
sanction?'--if you are tempted to say this, Mrs. Middleton--yet
say it not. Alice has lived alone with her flowers, and
with her Bible. She has never opened a novel; she has never
conversed with any one but me, and with him who is now her
husband, and that but little. She knows nothing of the world
and its customs. She was asked as Rebecca was asked--'Wilt
thou go with this man?' and she said 'I will go.' I told her
it was her duty to marry Mr. Lovell, and she married him; and
if you should say, Mrs. Middleton, that it was not her duty to
marry him, and that I deceived her as well as you,--again I
say, 'Judge not, condemn not;' and thus you may escape a
fearful judgment--an awful condemnation."
"Is not that letter the very height of cant and impertinence?"
said my aunt, as I laid it down on the table.
"It is a strange letter," I answered; "but what she says of
Alice I am certain must be true. It tallies exactly with the
impression she made upon me, and with what I should have
supposed her part to have been in the whole affair."
"But how can her grandmother justify her own conduct to
herself, if it is so?"
"God only knows," I answered; "but if you love me, my dearest
aunt,--if you wish me to be happy,--if my supplications have
any weight with you..."
"_If_ they have, Ellen?"
"No, no!" I exclaimed,--"not _if_--I will not say _if_ they
have, for I _know_ they have. I know you love me, and I know
that you will do all you can to make Henry happy with Alice. I
shall not have a moment's peace if they are not happy."
"Angel!" said my aunt, as she pressed her lips to my cheek. I
drew back with a thrill of horror.
"Never call me an angel,--never say that again: I cannot bear
it. I am not disclaiming,--I am not humble,--I am only
cowardly. I cannot explain to you everything; indeed, I hardly
know if I understand myself, or Henry, or anything; but thus
much I do know, that if Alice Tracy has gained his
regard--wildly as he talks in that strange letter--if she has
a hold on his affections, I shall bless her every day of my
life,--she will have saved me from inexpressible misery. Oh,
my dearest dear aunt,--write to Henry, write to Alice
to-day,--immediately: do not wait for my uncle's
permission--write at once."
I seized on the inkstand, and putting paper and pen before
her, I stood by in anxious expectation. She sighed heavily,
and then said to me:--
"Ellen, will you never again speak openly to me? If you did
not care about Henry, what has made you so wretched lately?
Why are your spirits broken?--why is your cheek pale and your
step heavy? You deceive yourself, my child; you love Henry,
and it is only excitement that at this moment gives you false
strength."
"Whether I ever have loved Henry," I replied, "is a mystery to
myself. I think not;--indeed I believe I can truly say that I
never loved him; though at one moment I fancied that I did;
and if, yesterday, you had come to me and told me that my
uncle had consented to my marrying him,--nay, that he wished
me to do so;--had you yourself asked me to marry your brother,
I should have refused--yesterday, to-day, always."
"Then you have quarrelled with him," quickly rejoined Mrs.
Middleton; "and this marriage of his is the result of wounded
feeling,--perhaps of a misunderstanding between you. Poor
Henry!"
There was a little irritation in my aunt's manner of saying
these last words; and I was on the point of telling her what
Henry had proposed and urged upon me in our last interview,
and of thus justifying myself from any imputation of having
behaved ill to him; but I instantly felt that this would be
unfair and ungenerous, especially at this moment. Besides, was
I not in his power, and could I venture to accuse him who held
in his hands the secret of my fate? So again I shut up my
heart, and closed my lips to her who loved me with a love
which would have made the discovery of that fatal secret
almost amount to a death-blow.
She seemed now to understand better my anxiety for the
happiness of her brother and of his young wife. She seemed to
think that I was conscious of having, in some manner or other,
behaved ill to Henry, and driven him to this marriage, and
that I was anxious to make all the amends in my power. But
when she had drawn the paper before her, and was beginning to
write, she put down her pen, and exclaimed: "But if he does
not love her, what induced him to choose _her?_ To make us all
wretched!--to inflict upon himself such a connection! I cannot
understand it!"
Again and again she cross-questioned me about Alice, about
that one memorable visit of mine to Bridman Manor, about
Henry's manner to her, and hers to him. I answered in the way
best calculated to remove her prejudices, to allay her
anxieties, to encourage her hopes of eventual happiness for
Henry. My angry feelings with regard to him had for the time
quite subsided; I pitied him from the bottom of my heart, and
remembered what he had said of a similarity in our destinies.
It seemed to me, that he too was bound by some stern
necessity, by some secret influence, to work mischief to
himself and to others; and it was with intense eagerness that
after Mrs. Middleton had written a kind and soothing letter to
him (in which she expressed the hope that when in London,
where we were going in three months' time, she should see
Alice, whom she was prepared to receive and to love as a
sister) I scaled it, and gave it to the servant who was just
setting off for the post town. She wrote a few lines also to
Mrs. Tracy, in which she expressed, in severe terms, her sense
of the impropriety, if not of the guilt of her conduct with
respect to her own grandchild, as well as with regard to a
family, whose indignation she could not but feel that she had
justly incurred. Her letter to her father she did not
communicate to me. Mr. Middleton took little notice of the
whole affair. One day that his wife was beginning to discuss
the subject before him, he said, "My dear Mary, there are
persons and things about which the less is said the better,
and your brother and his marriage are of that number." Another
time, when she remarked to him that I was looking much better,
he observed, "I am glad that she has come to her senses." Now
and then there came letters from Henry to Mrs. Middleton, but
she never showed them to me. When I made any inquiries about
them, she told me such facts as that he had taken a small
house in--street; that he had been with his father once or
twice, but that he still refused to see Alice. When I asked if
Henry seemed happy, or at least contented, she answered that
it had always been difficult to make out his state of mind
from what he wrote, and now more so than ever; and then she
would abruptly change the subject. My intense curiosity, my
still more intense anxiety to hear about them, seemed to give
her the idea, that, though my pride had been wounded, I still
cared for him. Indeed so much of my future peace of mind
turned upon the direction which his feelings would take, that
my manner was probably well calculated to give this
impression. In despair of overcoming it, unable to speak out,
too proud to repeat what I saw she did not believe, I shut
myself up in that resolute silence, in that systematic
reserve, which had now become habitual to me; but I looked
forward to our journey to London with nervous anxiety, and saw
the time for its approach with a mixture of hope and fear.