"Dans le sein du bonheur que son ame desire,
Pres d'an amant qu'elle aime et qui brule a ses pieds,
Ses yeux remplis d'amour, de larmes sont noyes."
.................................
"Vous me desesperez;
Vous m'etes cher sans doute, et ma tendresse extreme
Est le comble des maux pour ce coeur qui vous aime."
"O ciel! expliquez-vous, quoi toujours me troubler,
Se peut-il?" "Dieu puissant, que ne puis-je parler?"
About three weeks before the 1st of March, which was the day
fixed upon for our removal to town, I had been taking a long
ride, and came home at about four o'clock. My habit was wet
and heavy, and I walked with difficulty across the hall,
up-stairs, and along the passage which led to my room. As I
was passing before the door of what was called the south
bed-room, my eyes suddenly fell on two trunks covered with
mud, and on the brass plates of which was stamped the name
of "Edward Middleton, Esq." At the same moment the door
opened, and he stood before me. I felt myself turning as
white as a sheet, and was obliged to lean against the wall
to prevent myself from falling. He seized my hand, and said,
with apparent cordiality, "How are you, Ellen?"
I do not know what I said to him; there was a mist before my
eyes, a murmur in my ears, and a feeling about my heart that I
was strangely happy, though dreadfully frightened. Soon I was
alone in my room, with my feet on the fender, and my eyes
fixed on the burning embers, and repeating to myself over and
over again, "How are you, Ellen?" and then I remembered that
he knew _all_, that he had seen _all_, that he had left
Elmsley because he could not bear to stay, knowing all he did,
and I trembled; and hiding my face in my hands, I cried as if
my heart would break. Then a new thought came to me, and
brought an extraordinary peace with it. I would tell him
everything, and he should decide what I ought to do; his
decision should be law to me; I would submit to it humbly, and
obediently, although it might be that I was never to see again
any of those whom I loved, and spend my future life in
loneliness and penance.
The dressing-bell rang; my maid came in with a muslin gown on
her arm, and some camellias in her hand, and there was again a
flutter at my heart, as if dressing and going down-stairs and
dining, had been as different things yesterday from what they
were to-day, as the tamest prose is from the most exciting
poetry.
When I opened the door of the library, Edward was sitting with
his back towards me, talking eagerly to Mr. Middleton; as I
approached them I heard him say, "If I could only be convinced
of it, nothing on earth would make me so happy."
As my uncle turned his head, he did so too, and coloured when
he saw me. I sat down on the sofa by the chimney; and every
corner of that old library seemed to me in some way different
from usual. I did not wish Edward to speak to me; on the
contrary, it was enough to feel that he was there; that at any
moment, by looking up, I could meet his eyes, and to know
instinctively when his were fixed on mine. When I fancied
myself in love with Henry Lovell, it was chiefly while he was
talking to me, in the height of discussion, in the excitement
of conversation. When I had not seen him for some hours, I was
impatient to see him, and speak to him again, in order to
prove to myself that I liked him; but with Edward it was not
so. Alas! would it not have been for me the most dreadful
misfortune to have loved him? Was not there, as Henry had
said, a gulf between us, which could never be filled up? Would
he not have shrunk from my love as from a poisonous thing, and
have recoiled from the touch of my hand as from a serpent's
sting?
Tears gathered in my eyes at this thought; I felt them tremble
on my eye-lashes, and brushed them hastily aside as I walked
into the dining-room with my uncle. Edward talked of his
travels, of various persons whom he had made acquaintance
with, in France and in Italy, of English politics, and the
approaching session. There was nothing in his conversation
peculiarly adapted to my taste; and yet I listened to each
word that fell from his lips with an interest which my own
feelings stimulated to the highest pitch.
In the evening he asked me to sing to him, and as he leant his
head on his hand, and sat in silence by my side, listening to
song after song which he had known and liked in former days, I
felt my heart grow fuller, till at last my voice failed, and
in its place a choking sob rose in my throat. He raised his
head abruptly, and looked at me sternly. "It is only that I am
a little nervous," I said; "I have taken a long ride, and
being tired--"
"Oh, pray make no explanations," he replied; "excuses are
perfectly unnecessary;" and he suddenly left the pianoforte.
He spoke to me no more that evening; but the next day he
treated me again as he had done at first, and even seemed in
some ways more satisfied with me than he had ever been before.
I have never yet described Edward, and I do not think I could
describe him. He was always unlike anybody else, and yet it
would have been difficult to point out any peculiarity in him.
It was not only truth, it was _reality_, that marked his
character. He never was, never could be, anything but himself;
and, like all perfectly true characters, could not even
understand those that were not so, and judged them too
severely, or too leniently, from the impossibility of putting
himself in their place. His manner was always calm; even
emotion in him never partook of the semblance of agitation.
Where others were angry, he was stern; a few simple words from
him always carried with them a strength of condemnation, which
crushed under its weight any attempt to resist it. From a
child I had been afraid of Edward, and he had never perfectly
understood my character; now that I had so much reason to fear
him, in some ways I felt more at my ease with him, because as
I had ceased to express all my feelings, and pour forth my
thoughts before him, I dreaded less the severity of his
judgment.
During the next two or three weeks that he was at Elmsley, I
felt in his presence as a criminal before his judge; his
sternness was justice, his kindness was mercy; and, in the
softened tones of his voice, and in the tenderness of his
eyes, I only read the tacit grant of a pardon, which mine
mutely implored. This gave to my whole manner, to my
disposition I might almost say, for the time, a humility, a
submission, which were in no wise affected, but which did not
naturally belong to my character. Edward's was despotic, as
well as uncompromising; perfectly conscientious himself,
strict in the discharge of every duty, he exacted from others
what he performed himself. He allowed of no excuses, of no
subterfuges, and ranked the weakness that shrinks from
suffering in the accomplishment of what is right, in the same
line as that which yields to the allurements of pleasure, or
the temptations of guilt. In many respects he resembled my
uncle, but still the difference between them was perceptibly
great. Edward's feelings were stronger; it was impossible to
observe the depths of thought manifested in his eyes, and in
his pale, high forehead; to hear the sound of his voice, when
he addressed those he loved; to see the colour rise slowly in
his check, as he spoke of some act of virtue, of heroism, or
of self-conquest, without the conviction that powers of heart
and mind, not an atom of which were frittered away in vain
words and empty fancies, were at work within him.
Once he spoke to me of Henry's marriage, and told me he had
seen him in London. They had met accidentally in the street;
and he had offered to go and call on his wife; but Henry had
made some excuse or other, and the visit had not taken place.
He did not add one word regarding Henry's conduct, or what
view he had taken of it himself, but looked earnestly into my
face, as if he expected me to speak first on the subject; but
seeing I was silent, at last he said, "Ellen, was this
marriage a disappointment to you?"
"It was a relief to me."
"How so?"
"Because I had deceived Henry, and _almost_ deceived myself
into the belief that I liked him; and his marriage proved to
me bow much I had been mistaken."
Edward took my hand and kissed it; I drew it away with great
emotion, and exclaimed, "Good God, don't you know what you are
doing?"
He did not say another word, and left me abruptly.
For two days afterwards, he spoke to me but little; and when
he did so, his manner was cold.
One day that we were taking a walk together in the park, after
one or two insignificant observations had passed between us,
Edward asked me if I had ever received the book which lie had
left for me the year before. As usual, I had it in my pocket;
I took it out, and gave it to him, without making any other
answer. He opened it and turned the pages over as we walked
along.
"_Now_ is the time come," I said to myself; "_now_!" and the
blood forsook my heart, and my legs seemed to fail under me.
In a moment of morbid irritation, I had written on the blank
page of the book, the words which had remained coupled in my
mind with this gift of Edward's: "Beware; I know your secret!"
and now they were before his eyes; and now he was reading
them; and now the explanation was at hand; and all that I had
suffered before was as nothing, compared to what I had
wilfully brought on myself.
He turned to me, and said with a smile, "What do those
mysterious words mean?"
I felt as if I was dreaming, but as if in my dream a mountain
had been removed from my breast. I laughed hysterically, and
said they meant nothing. That was the first time I lied to
Edward.
He said that I must have read the book attentively, for he saw
that it was marked in different places; _he_ had never marked
a book in his life; it was a thing that never occurred to him
to do; and then he gave it back to me; and it felt to me as if
the air had grown lighter, and the sky bluer, and as if my
feet sprang as by magic from the ground they trod on.
When, that evening, I was with Edward again, I looked up into
his face, and talked to him as I had not talked to him for
nearly two years; I laughed gaily, as in days of old; I saw
with exultation that he laughed too, and that he asked Mrs.
Middleton to play at chess with my uncle, instead of him, and
that he did not leave my side till the last moment that I
remained in the drawing-room; and I was foolishly, wickedly
happy, till I went up to my room, and laid my head on my
pillow; _then_ came, in all its bitterness, the remembrance,
that, although _he_ might not know my secret, _another_ did;
that if, indeed, he loved me, as I now thought he did (for I
remembered that letter to Henry, which I had so long
misunderstood, and now recognised its true meaning),--if
indeed he loved me, I must, I ought, to tell him the truth;
and then he would despise me, he would hate me, not only for
the deed itself, but for my long silence,--for my cowardly
concealment. No; I had suffered too dreadfully during those
minutes when I had felt myself on the brink of unavoidable
confession;--that happen what might, I would not, I could not,
disclose to him the _truth_. But should I, then, marry him?
Should I inherit my uncle's fortune? Should I become one day
the mistress of Elmsley; and, from the midst of all that this
world can give of joy, look, as Belshazzar looked on the
hand-writing on the wall, on the torrent where my own hand had
hurled Mrs. Middleton's child, Edward's cousin; and one day,
perhaps, be denounced, betrayed, exposed, by Henry Lovell,
whose words began that night to be realised:--"With every
throb of love for another, there will be in your heart a pang
of fear, a shudder of terror, a thought of me!"
Hour after hour I tossed about my bed, unable to close my eyes
in sleep; at times, in spite of everything, feeling wildly
happy; at others, forming the most solemn resolutions, that
neither the weakness of my own heart, or the persecutions of
others, should induce me to think even of marrying Edward, and
yet unable to conceal from myself, that the next time I saw
him, the next time my eyes met his, they would betray to him
all that long-subdued and unconfessed love which had now grown
into a passion astonishing to myself, and ruled my
undisciplined mind beyond all power of restraint and control.
In the morning I fell into a short and uneasy slumber, in
which, twenty times over, I was confessing my history to
Edward, or standing by him at the altar, or else being dragged
from his side by Henry, or by my uncle. The visions of sleep,
and the thoughts of the night, were strangely mixed up in my
mind when I woke: tired and jaded with all I had gone through,
I went down-stairs on the morning of the 28th of February,
which was the eve of the day of our departure for London.
In the breakfast-room, I found Edward, who asked me with some
surprise, how I came to be so late, and if I did not mean to
go to church?
"To-day, why to church to-day?" I inquired.
"It is Ash Wednesday," he replied, "the most solemn fast-day
in the year."
"Oh, in that case, I will go at once, and do without
breakfast; no great self-denial, for I am not in the least
hungry." I put on my bonnet and shawl, and we set off on foot
together, "Mr. and Mrs. Middleton having previously gone on in
the carriage. I was very feverish, and from want of sleep and
absence of food together, I felt in an unnaturally excited
state. Whenever Edward spoke to me, I gave a start, and when I
spoke myself, it was with a sort of nervous irritation, which
I could not command; at last he seemed displeased, and when he
stood still, to give me his hand, in crossing the stile, at
the entrance of the churchyard, I saw in his face that stern
expression which I had begun to know and to dread. We went
into church; the service was already begun; it is, as it
should be on such a day, a solemn and an awful service. The
Epistle for the day, that mournful and merciful appeal to the
conscience, the Penitential Psalms, which seem to embody the
very cry of a bruised and overwhelmed heart, everything struck
the same chord, spoke the same language; to my excited
imagination, every word that was uttered seemed as if it was
addressed to me alone, of all that assembled congregation.
Every moment my head was getting more confused, and my soul
grew faint within me. And then, when I was not in the least
expecting it, (for I had never before paid any attention to
the service for Ash Wednesday,) all at once there rose a voice
which said, in what sounded to my overwrought nerves, an
unnaturally loud tone:
"Brethren, in the Primitive Church there was a godly
discipline, that, at the beginning of Lent, such persons as
stood convicted of notorious sin were put to open penance, and
punished in this world, that their souls might be saved in the
Day of the Lord; and that others, admonished by their example,
might be the more afraid to offend."
I believe that at that moment I fell on my knees, but nothing
remains very distinctly in my recollection, except that soon
the solemn curse of God was pronounced on unrepenting sinners,
and as each awful denunciation was slowly uttered, there rose
from the aisles, from the galleries, from each nook and each
comer of the house of prayer, the loud cry of self-condemning
acknowledgment.
Again, again, and again it sounded, and died away. Once more
it rose and fell; and then the voice from the pulpit
proclaimed, "Cursed is he that smiteth his neighbour
secretly;" and that time I did not hear the voice of the
multitude respond. I heard a low deep _amen_ uttered at my
side; and that amen was to me as a sentence of eternal
condemnation. I fainted, and when I recovered my senses, I was
in the vestry with my aunt, and the doctor of the village.
Soon I was able to walk to the carriage, and to drive home
with Mrs. Middleton.
When I saw Edward again, his manner was gentle and
affectionate; and I was myself so wearied with emotion, so
exhausted with hopes and fears, that I had grown calm from
mere fatigue. I was more determined than ever not to marry
Edward, and this resolution gave me a kind of melancholy
tranquillity, which allowed me to speak to him with more
self-possession than before. I had also a vague idea that, by
making this one great sacrifice, I should entitle myself to
seek the consolations of religion, after which my soul
yearned, especially since the terror which that day's service
had struck into my heart; but still I shrunk from the one act
which would have given me real peace; as I put into words the
account I could give of Julia's death; I fancied I saw before
me Edward's countenance, stern in condemnation; or over-coming
with difficulty its expression of horror and dismay; or, worse
still, incredulous, perhaps, and unable to believe that where
there was not crime, there could have been such concealment;
as I pictured to myself all this, and foresaw the nameless
sufferings of such an hour, the cry of my soul still was,
"Never, never, will I marry him! but _never_, also, will I own
to him the secret which would make him turn from me with
disgust and horror."
We were to set out for London at an early hour the next
morning, and before we parted for the night, Edward followed
me to the music-room, where I was putting by some books to
take with us for the journey.
He stood by me in silence for some time, and then said,
"Ellen, it is better, before we part, even for a short time,
to understand each other. I have long been attached to you. I
gave you up and went abroad, when I thought you were in love
with Henry. I tried in vain to forget you. _Now_, Ellen, is
there hope for me? Will you be to me, what you alone can
be--the blessing that I would prize beyond all earthly
blessings--will you be my wife?"
I looked at him; he was pale, and his eyes were full of tears.
As mine were raised to his, I knew, I felt that they spoke
such unutterable, such passionate love, that when, with a
voice hardly articulate, I said in the slow accents of
despair, "No, I cannot be your wife;" it seemed to me that he
must have read into my heart.
He took my hand, and only said in a low voice, "Why?"
"Because," I exclaimed, with a burst of tears, "because I am
utterly unworthy of you."
He let go my hand, and seemed to be struggling with himself:
at last he said, "Ellen, if you mean that you feel now that
you cared more for Henry Lovell than at one time you fancied,
if there is still some affection for him in your heart, it is
no doubt a painful trial for me to hear it; but if you tell me
so frankly, and at once, I shall not cease to respect you, nor
to love you." (His voice trembled as he said these last
words.) "I shall leave you for a time; you must soon, you will
soon, conquer these feelings; and then--perhaps--only tell me
the truth, Ellen--the only thing that could destroy my love
would be, if you ever had, if you ever could, deceive me."
"You cannot love me; it is vain to talk of love to _me!_" I
exclaimed, "I have told you so; I cannot be your wife; why do
you ask me anything else? Leave me! for God's sake leave me! I
am miserable enough as it is."
"Ellen! Ellen! with such feelings as these, how could you
speak to me of Henry and of his marriage as you did?"
"Henry! I am not thinking of Henry; I am not talking of Henry;
I do not care for him; I do not love him, I never did: I
should not be so wretched, perhaps, if I had."
Edward remained silent for a moment, and then said, with a
deep sigh--
"Would to God, Ellen, that there was _truth_ in you! It is
equally difficult to believe and to disbelieve you."
"Think not of me; leave me, Edward, leave me. I _have_ told
you the truth. I do not care for Henry; I solemnly protest to
you that I do not; but I cannot be your wife--_that_ is the
truth, too."
"Then why these tears?" said Edward, sternly. "Why all this
_acting?_ Why cannot you tell me calmly, and at once, that you
care not for me, instead of deluding me into the belief that
you do, at the very moment when you refuse me."
Suffocated with grief, I hid my face in my hands while he
spoke; and said to myself, "_Acting_ he calls it! Oh, God! he
calls me an _actress!_ He says there is no truth in me! How
then would he listen to my tale of guilt and of sorrow? How
then could he read truth in my broken accents? How could he
discern the workings of a proud and wounded spirit?"
I raised my head slowly--Edward was gone; I rushed to the door
to call him back, but was met by the servant, who was come to
answer the drawing-room bell. My uncle and aunt came into the
room at the same time, and I retired to mine, to pass another
night betwixt hours of waking misery, and moments of broken
and feverish sleep.
At six o'clock in the morning I was woke out of one of these
last, by the sound of carriage-wheels. Jumping out of bed, I
went to the window, and unclosing the shutter, I saw Edward's
carriage rolling away along the avenue, and ours being packed
in the court below. I felt glad that we were going too; glad
that we were going to London; glad that there was something to
think of--to talk of--to do. _Glad!_ what a misuse of words.
God knows, there was no gladness in my heart that morning, but
it was something to be able to forget myself occasionally in
the bustle and excitement around me. Mr. and Mrs. Middleton
were not aware that anything had passed between Edward and
myself. They mentioned him several times in the course of the
day, and spoke of seeing him in London in three weeks' time.
At seven that evening we arrived in London, where I had not
been for several years before; its immensity, the perpetual
noise of carriages, the heaviness of the atmosphere, made me
feel in another state of existence, and when giddy with the
rapid motion of the carriage, flushed by the sudden transition
from the cold night air to the vicinity of a blazing coal
fire, I sat down to dinner in the small front dining-room of a
house in Brook-street. It was only the uneasiness which I felt
at the idea that any moment might bring Henry Lovell into my
presence, that made me aware that nothing in myself or in my
fate was changed. Really very much fatigued, I begged to go to
bed, immediately after dinner, and, for many hours, slept
heavily, in oblivion of all I had suffered, and all I feared.