"I do not love her, nor will strive to do it."
SHAKESPEARE.
What course was I to pursue? Should I take the first
opportunity that would offer of approaching Henry, and, by
charging him solemnly to tell me at once the meaning of his
hints and threats, relieve myself from the tormenting
uncertainty under which I suffered, and obtain from him some
promise which would, comparatively at least, set my mind at
ease? These questions I asked myself over and over again
during the rest of that day and the succeeding night, till,
towards morning, I fell asleep without having come to any
decision. Day after day passed on, and still no explanation
occurred between us. The projected dinner had taken place; Mr.
Middleton and Mr. Lovell had both been captivated and touched
by the beauty, simplicity, and sweetness of Alice's face and
manner. They seemed instinctively to feel that there was
something holy about her,--something that forbade one to doubt
or distrust her, had appearances been even twenty times more
against her than they were; and both were now still more
indignant with Henry for the coldness and indifference with
which he seemed to regard her, than they had previously been
at his marriage. I admired Alice from the bottom of my soul;
she was, to me, the very type of purity,--the ideal of
perfection; but I did not seek her much. Obliged to see Henry
often at home, I shrank from going to his house; and her life
was so full of holy duties; the tone of her mind, the
character of her conversation, breathed a spirit of such
earnest faith, of such religious peace, that after awhile my
troubled spirit chafed in the presence of what formed such a
contrast to its own restless waywardness. When bewildered with
passion--when lost in the mazes of sin and error, we may feel
repose for an instant in prostrating ourselves at the foot of
the cross; we may wander into a church, and for a moment cool
our burning foreheads against the cold marble; but the deep
silence of the sanctuary soon grows oppressive.
"There's a tone in its voice which we fain would shun,
For it asks what the secret soul has done." *
[* From "The Revellers," by Mrs. Hemans.]
Thus it was with me with respect to Alice; and other causes
also contributed to the same effect. Henry was often in
Brookstreet, but she seldom came. Either he discouraged a
frequent intercourse between us, and threw impediments in its
way, which effectually checked it, or else it never occurred
to Alice herself to interrupt the uniform course of her daily
employments and pursuits, in order to accommodate herself to
our totally different mode of life.
We had begun going out a great deal in society, and Mrs.
Middleton proposed to Henry that Alice should do so too, and
offered to take her with us wherever we went; but he declined
this offer in the most positive manner; and when his sister
almost indignantly pressed him to explain his refusal, he said
that Alice had peculiar notions on the subject which he did
not wish to thwart.
"But we could persuade her out of those notions," persisted
Mrs. Middleton; "for surely it is a great pity for you and for
herself that she should remain a stranger to your friends and
acquaintances, while you associate with them as much as before
your marriage."
"It may be a pity, Mary," was his impatient answer, "but it is
inevitable, and you only torment me by urging me on the
subject."
Mrs. Middleton, who was not easily _put down_, after vainly
remonstrating with him upon it, entered on the question with
Alice one morning that we were calling upon her, and tried to
explain to her that for her husband's sake she should
endeavour to make friends with his friends, and to go where he
went.
Alice looked at her with surprise, and assured her that she
was perfectly ready to make acquaintance with any of Henry's
friends, or to comply with any request of his.
"Then, my dear child," replied Mrs. Middleton, "why does your
husband object to your going out with us of an evening? You
ought not to shut yourself up;--you should endeavour to
assimilate your tastes to his."
"I do not known what his tastes are," said Alice, "nor where
he is while I am at home."
"He is," said Mrs. Middleton, "among his friends and his
acquaintance. He is where I want to take you,--where he will
see you amused and admired, and love you all the better for
it."
"Not for going against his wishes?" said Alice, gently.
"He _must_ have misunderstood you, my dear child."
"No, he has _not_," she answered with firmness; the colour in
her cheek was slightly heightened; and after a pause she said
earnestly--"I think I understand you now, dear Mrs. Middleton,
and I feel your kindness; but do not urge me on this subject:
you would give me more pain than pleasure, and do me more harm
than good."
She rose suddenly, went to the table, and took from it a bunch
of violets, which she gave me. When she sat down again, her
face was as calm as usual.
On our way home, Mrs. Middleton seemed absorbed in thought;
and her manner to Henry, whom we found waiting for us in
Brook-street, was unusually cold.
Whenever we went into society we met him, and he still
contrived never to lose sight of me; and by looks, by words
quickly uttered, by sudden changes of tone and manner, to
convey to me the knowledge of his secret feelings. The tone of
those feelings, and his mode of conversation, varied from day
to day. Sometimes he was moody and almost savage in his
manner, and every word he uttered bordered on a threat. At
other times he seemed only anxious to re-establish between us
a footing of confidence and intimacy. On one of these
occasions, I met him at a ball at Lady Wyndham's, my
Dorsetshire acquaintance. I had been dancing with him, and
afterwards had walked into a room which was cool, compared
with those that preceded it. Several people were standing
about a round table covered with prints, albums, and
caricatures. We sat down on a small couch by the window; and
after some trifling conversation, in which he incidentally
named his wife, I told him that I could not understand his
line of conduct with regard to her. "I am not speaking, now,
of your feelings or your affections," I added hastily;
"although God knows there would be enough to wonder over on
that score; but of your way of going on as a married man.
There may be excuses for what is involuntary in our feelings,
but surely none for determined and systematic neglect."
"Neglect," he replied, "is a word easily uttered; but could
you as easily prescribe to me a line of conduct to follow?"
"Of that, your conscience, if you have one," I answered
impatiently, "ought to inform you."
"Would you wish me," he returned with a sneer, "to feed birds
in the square half the day, and nurse sick people during the
other half? Shall I learn to make lint and choose
baby-clothes?"
"Oh no!" I exclaimed; "I never supposed for a single instant
that you could equal Alice, or do, in all your life, the good
that she does in one day; but if you showed her confidence and
kindness,--if you treated her as she ought to be treated..."
"She would love me,--which she does not now!"
"I am persuaded she does."
"No she does _not_," he answered, with some vehemence. "I do
not call that _love_ which never made the voice tremble, or
the heart beat. _Is_ that love which never betrays itself by
emotion, Ellen? Can _love_ leave the soul calm, and the
spirits unruffled?"
"Not yours--not mine, perhaps, Henry; but oh, let us not judge
purer and higher natures than ours, by the tests of our own
wayward and ill-governed minds. Indeed--indeed, Alice loves
you."
"She loves me as she loves her grandmother, her brother
Johnny, and half the children and the beggars in the square.
You must excuse me if that is not my notion of _love_. Do not
look so indignantly at me, Ellen; I speak bitterly, but it is
not against _her_ that I am bitter. I would give all I possess
at this moment that I could set her free, and send her out
into life once more, unshackled by hateful ties, and at
liberty to choose another destiny. But the die is cast; and
she and I must drag on existence together through the dreary
journey of life."
"But, Henry--dear Henry," I exclaimed, "why will you not try
to gain her love? If you do not think she loves you _now_, she
might--she would, if you sought it."
"And if she did? If that calm nature was roused into something
like feeling; if a spark of passion lighted on that frozen
surface; if, following my sister's blind advice, I sent out
that ignorant child into the world and society, to learn what
it is to love and to be loved; to hear that she is beautiful;
to be told that her husband ought to live in the light of her
eyes; ought to carry her in his heart, and prize each hair of
her head as a treasure of countless price. If she was to be
told all this, and then at home find his eyes averted, his
voice cold, his spirits gone, and the sight of her beauty as
much lost upon him as if he had been born blind; could she
bear this, Ellen? Do you think she could? Would she not curse
the day of her birth, and the day of her marriage? Would she
not perhaps enter upon a course which would end in shame and
misery; or if her religion kept her from that, would she not
return to her poor people, to her flowers and her birds, with
a breaking heart and a wounded spirit? You are crying, Ellen?
Do not cry for _her_; she is calm and happy now, and I pray
God she may long remain so; but if you are grieving for me--if
you have ever felt the least affection for me, then cry on;
for God only knows how miserable I am!"
My tears were indeed falling fast; and it was with a voice,
hardly articulate, that I addressed to Henry the question
which for so many days had trembled on my lips, and never jet
found utterance.
"Why did you marry her?"
He looked at me steadily for a few moments, and then said,
"Ellen, the day will come when I shall answer that
question--and _another_, which you wish to ask--but cannot
find words or courage for. There is much that we must say to
each other--something, perhaps, that we may do for each other;
but then there must be no reserve, no coldness, no false pride,
or affected prudery in our intercourse. You must trust me
completely, as I will trust you; we have both of us secrets
which have weighed upon our souls, and made silence and
solitude dreadful to us. Judge then what I have suffered!
Ellen, I will tell you my secret--I know _yours_."
"Hush, hush!" I exclaimed wildly, and looked about me with
terror, but I saw we were alone; the people who were in the
room when we had entered it had all gradually withdrawn, and
the sound of music and of voices reached us faintly, where we
sat. I covered my face with my hands and murmured, "Speak on."
"Ellen," continued Henry, "Ellen, I have threatened, I have
tormented, I have tortured you; but each time I have done so I
have writhed myself under the sense of what I was doing; and
when you know _all_--when you know under what constraints,
with what hopes, with what fears, I have acted--"
He stopped suddenly short; I raised my head abruptly, and in
the door-way before us stood Sir Charles Wyndham and Edward
Middleton. Never in my life did I act from a more sudden
impulse than at that moment. I started forward, and in one
minute was at Edward's side. My cheeks were flushed, and my
eyes swelled with crying. I pushed by Sir Charles, and seizing
on Edward's arm, I whispered to him, "Take me where I can
speak to you--don't judge me--don't condemn me."
He did not say a single word, but gave me his arm, and walked
with me through all the crowded rooms to the one where Mrs.
Middleton was sitting. He almost thrust me into a chair by her
side, and disappeared without one word or look.
After an hour of talking and dancing, both of which it seemed
to me that I accomplished by some mechanical power, I
prevailed on Mrs. Middleton to go home. While we were looking
for our cloaks in the ante-room, Henry joined us again. He was
holding mine, when Edward rapidly approached us, and in a
quiet but imperious manner took it from him, and put it on me
himself; on which Sir Charles Wyndham remarked, "That's right,
Mr. Middleton--you should never allow married men to play the
gallants with young ladies." I don't know if any of us smiled
at that observation. If there was a smile, it must have been a
strange one.
As we were driving home, after a few moments of silence, I
asked Mrs. Middleton if she had been aware that Edward was
arrived in London.
"We expected him in a day or two," she answered; "but I
believe he came up to town to-day, only to return into the
country to-morrow."
"Has he seen my uncle?" I inquired.
"No," she replied; "he breakfasts with us to-morrow."
There was joy in _that_ as far as it went, though what I was
to say to him, and how I was to explain the state of emotion
in which he had found me that evening when alone with Henry,
was more than I could devise, and, as usual, before the moment
arrived, I had come to the conclusion that to say _nothing_
was the safest course to pursue.
When, at eleven o'clock the next day, I came into the
breakfast-room, Edward was just arrived. He shook hands with
me kindly; but his countenance was still more grave than
usual.
As I was pouring out some tea, my hand trembled--Mrs.
Middleton observed it, and said with a smile, "The effects of
dissipation, Ellen. We really must pull up, or we shall have
you regularly _nervous_."
"How did you like your ball last night, Ellen?" asked Mr.
Middleton.
"Not at all," I answered, and felt my cheeks grow crimson.
"Edward," said Mrs. Middleton, "you renewed your acquaintance
with Mrs. Ernsley last night; did you not?"
"Yes, I had not seen her since my return."
As he said these insignificant words, he sighed deeply. I
could not help instantly connecting in my mind this sigh of
his with something which I fancied Mrs. Ernsley might have
told him of, that had fallen under her observation at Brandon;
and I said in a tone of irritation, "I know nobody whom I
would not talk to rather than to Mrs. Ernsley. She invariably
takes a wrong view of people and of things."
Edward looked at me steadily, and again I felt my cheeks
flushing; and, in my embarrassment, I exclaimed that the fire
was very hot, and got up to place a screen before it. He
helped me to carry it, and said in a whisper as he did so, "Do
not be ashamed of blushing; there is _truth_ in _that_ at
least." After this, I did not open my lips again while
breakfast lasted.
When my aunt had left the room, and my uncle was completely
engrossed by the newspaper, Edward walked to the chimney,
leant his back against it, and, taking hold of my gloves,
which were lying on the slab, he twisted them in his hand; and
then, as by a sudden effort, said, "Ellen, come here."
I obeyed, and in a voice which I felt was humble, though it
tried to be careless and gay, I said--"Give me back my gloves,
Edward; you are spoiling them."
He detained them an instant, as I took hold of them, and said
half sternly, half tenderly--"Have you nothing to say to me? I
thought last night--"
"Oh, last night, I was quite beside myself," I interrupted,
with a nervous attempt at a laugh. "I talked nonsense to
everybody, and you must not call me to account for what I may
have said or done."
"I am afraid not," he answered coldly; and, taking up a
newspaper, he sat down again at the table.
I remained standing where he had left me, with my eyes fixed
upon him, vainly endeavouring to find out some means of
appeasing him. Nothing but openness and frankness could
reinstate me in his favour: and how could I be open and frank?
What _could_ I tell him that would justify my intimacy with
Henry? or account for the agitation which his words had caused
me? Nothing; nothing short of the _truth;_ and _that_--oh! how
wearied I was with that eternal combat with myself--with that
everlasting question, so often asked, and so often answered by
my own mind. I absolutely shrunk from discussing it with
myself again.
I walked impatiently up and down the room, and when Mrs.
Middleton came in with a note in her hand, which she gave me
to read, I felt glad of anything which would break the course
of these harassing thoughts. The note was from Henry, to tell
his sister that Alice was poorly, and would be glad to see
herself or me.
"Shall you go?" I asked.
"Will you, my love?" she answered. "I expect my father at
twelve, and your visit will, I have no doubt, be more
acceptable to Alice than mine."
"Is the carriage at the door?" I inquired, and, having
ascertained that it was, I ran up-stairs to put on my bonnet.
On my way down, I opened the door of the breakfast-room, to
see if Edward was gone. He was alone; and as I came in, he
said, "Are you going to see Mrs. Lovell?"
"Yes; she is not well, I hear, and wishes to see me."
"Do you like her as much as you once told me that you did?"
"I do like her, and admire her, as you would too, if you knew
her. Oh, how you would approve of her! she is so unlike me!" I
added, with a deep sigh.
Edward coloured, and said, "Is she happy with Henry?"
"I do not exactly know if she is happy with him; happy at
least in the sense which I attach to the word; but I do know
that I ardently wish her to be so, and there is truth in
_this_, Edward."
"I believe you," he answered, and held out his hand to me; "I
believe you in spite of myself." He hesitated, and seemed to
wish to say something more, but just at that moment my uncle
called him from the next room; again pressing my hand, he took
leave of me, and I got into the carriage, and drove off to
-- street.