"'La douleur a trahi les secrets de son ame,
Et ne nous permet plus de douter de sa flamme."
RACINE.
"Cet Hymen m'est fatal, je crains et le souhaite,
Je n'ose en esperer qu'une Joie imparfaite.
..................
Que je meurs s'il s'acheve ou ne s'acheve pas."
CORNEILLE.
One morning, after we had been a few days at Hampstead, I felt
the greatest wish to slip quietly out of the house and stroll
about alone for an hour or two. I had been in the habit of
doing so at Elmsley, and I found nothing so effectual as this
in subduing agitation, and recalling my mind to a state of
composure. After making the tour of the grounds, walking round
the lake, and dawdling some time in the shrubberies, I opened
a small gate into a lane which led towards the common. This
lane was scarcely wider than a path, and was only divided from
the grounds of the villa by a ditch and a slight railing. I
was intently occupied in examining an ant's nest, and the
various evolutions performed by its black citizens on the
sudden fall of a snail among them, which had dropt off a
branch of dog-roses while I was gathering it, when all at once
a sound as of many people running, joined to loud cries and
vociferations, caught my ear. There was something ominous in
the noise, and my heart beat quick as I looked with a mixture
of fear and curiosity towards the end of the lane which opened
on the heath. The noise increased; and suddenly round the
corner and into the lane dashed a dog, followed by several men
armed with pitchforks, and shouting. The appalling cry of "A
mad dog! a mad dog!" struck distinctly upon my ears, and
brought a deadly faintness over my limbs, and a cold sweat on
my forehead. I tried to run, and my strength utterly failed
me. I tried to scream and could not. The animal was coming
nearer and nearer. I clung to the railing; the shouts grew
louder: "Get out of the way!--a mad dog!--get out of the way!"
Two more seconds, and the beast would have been upon me, with
swollen tongue, glaring eye, and foaming mouth, when, quick as
lightning, across the ditch, and over the railing, sprang
Edward, with a face as pale as a sheet, and almost convulsed
with terror. The dog was close to me; he seized it, flung it
across the hedge into a pond on the other side, and dragged me
to the grounds, and up to a bank, on which he placed me. For a
moment I closed my eyes, overpowered by the terror I had felt,
and the sense of escape from it; but I heard Edward murmur, in
a tone of anguish, "Good God, what shall I do?" I opened my
eyes and looked up into his face; it was so dreadfully pale
that I exclaimed, "You are ill, very ill; for God's sake sit
down."
"No," he answered, "no; now that you are better, it is all
right; I will go home and send somebody to you."
"I can go now," I said; "I can walk." But what was it I saw at
that moment on the ground before me? There were spots of blood
on the gravel! There was blood on Edward's sleeve! Sudden as
the flash that rends the skies, as the bolt that blasts the
oak, the truth burst upon me! I neither shrieked nor swooned;
the very excess of anguish made me calm. On Edward's hand was
the fatal scar. I seized his arm, and so quickly and suddenly,
that he neither foresaw nor could prevent the act. I pressed
my lips to it, and sucked the poisoned blood from the wound.
When he tried to draw his hand from my grasp, I clung to it
and retained it with the strength which nothing but love and
terror can give.
When, at last, by a violent effort he disengaged it, I fell on
my knees before him, and clinging to his feet, in words which
I cannot write, with passion which no words can describe, I
implored him by that love which had been the torture and the
joy of my life, its bane and its glory, to yield again his
hand to me that I might save his life as he had saved mine. As
he still refused, still struggled to get away, I seized on the
blood-stained handkerchief with which I wiped my mouth, and
eagerly clasping it to my bosom I exclaimed, "_This_, if you
leave me, shall make me run the same risks as yourself. If
there is poison in _this_ blood it shall mingle with mine."
An expression of intense emotion passed over Edward's face in
a moment, and his resolution suddenly changed. He sat down on
the bench and held out his hand to me. "Do what you will," he
said. "Nothing but death shall part us now."
There was such thrilling tenderness, such intense feeling in
these few words, such belief in me, that, as I sank on my
knees by his side, and pressed my lips again on that hand, now
passive in my grasp, while with the other he supported me as I
knelt; as he fixed his eyes in silent but ardent affection on
mine, there was such a suspension in my soul of everything but
deep, boundless, inexpressible love, which thrilled through
every nerve, and absorbed every faculty, that I could have
wished to die in that state of blissful abstraction...
The blood had ceased to flow; the task of love was over, and
still I knelt by Edward's side; still his arm supported my
head; still he murmured words of tenderness in my ear--when we
were roused by the sudden approach of Mr. Middleton, who,
having heard of the pursuit, and of the death of a mad dog in
the immediate vicinity of the grounds, had been anxiously
looking out for me. I started hastily from my kneeling
position, but Edward still kept his arm round me; and turning
to my uncle he gave him, in a few words, an account of what
had occurred, of my danger, of his agony, when, from the
fishing-house, he saw the imminence of that danger, of my
escape through his means, of the bite which he had received as
he seized on the dog, and of the manner in which I had drawn
the poison from the wound. "She has done by me," he said with
a voice which trembled with emotion; "she has done by me what
Queen Eleanor did by her husband; but when I suffered her to
do so, she had confessed what makes me happier, on this day of
terror and anxiety, than I have ever been on any other day of
my life. Wish me joy, Mr. Middleton, of the dearest, of the
tenderest, of the most courageous, as well as of the loveliest
bride that ever man was blest with."
As Edward finished these words, his arms drew me closer to
him, and he kissed my cheek, which had grown, during the last
few seconds, as pale as it had been crimson a moment before;
and it was not love that now blanched my cheek, and made me
tremble in a way which made the support of Edward's arm a
matter of necessity. It was not the emotion of happiness that
kept me as silent as the grave, when Mr. Middleton fondly
kissed me, and blessed me for what I had done, and for what I
had acknowledged. My uneasiness grew so evident that both my
uncle and Edward were suddenly struck with the same fear. It
occurred to them both, at the same time, that I was ill from
the terror I had undergone, and the exertion I had made; both
led me towards the house with anxious solicitude, and with the
tenderest care. A change had come over Edward's manner; he too
looked dreadfully ill, and the nervous tension of his usually
calm features was painful to see. They carried me up to my
room, and when I was laid on the bed, Mrs. Middleton's dear
voice and tender kisses occasioned me a burst of crying, which
relieved the intolerable oppression under which I was
labouring. My uncle took Edward almost by force out of the
room, and Mrs. Middleton followed them, after placing my maid
by my bed-side. She returned in a few moments, and by the
direction of the doctor, who had been sent for, she gave me a
nervous draught, and kept me as quiet as possible. I grew
calmer, but my tears continued to flow in silence. I did not
see my way before me; it seemed to me that suddenly,
involuntarily, almost unconsciously, I had become pledged to
Edward, that our engagement might at any moment be proclaimed
to the world, and the dreadful results which I knew would
follow, stared me in the face; and yet how to retract--what to
say--what to do, was a difficulty which I saw no means of
surmounting, and every kind of congratulatory whisper of Mrs.
Middleton, which was meant to soothe and gratify me, threw me
into inexpressible agitation, as it showed me that Edward, my
uncle, and herself, considered me as much pledged to him, and
our marriage as much the natural result of the acknowledgment,
which in that hour of anguish and of terror had escaped from
me, as if the settlements had been signed and the wedding-day
named.
Towards evening I fancied that I saw on Mrs. Middleton's
countenance an expression of uneasiness, as she came into my
room; and, with trembling anxiety, I asked her how Edward was.
"He is not well; but nothing to make us uneasy," she added, as
she observed the look of terror in my face. "What you so
courageously did, dear child, and the subsequent searing of
the scar, which, as a measure of further precaution, was done,
have entirely secured him from any danger of that dreadful
kind; but the exertion, the agitation, and the operation
itself, which was very painful, have brought on some fever,
which it will require care and prudence to subdue."
This new anxiety diverted my thoughts, for the time, from the
difficulties of my own position, and I roused and exerted
myself in order to be allowed to leave my room, the solitude
of which I dreaded in my present state of restless excitement;
but society seemed to me still more trying when I had to
encounter it. I could hardly bear to hear the occurrences of
the day discussed. Everybody was informed of what I had done;
and the praises which were bestowed on my courage and presence
of mind, were uttered with smiles and tones which proved to
me, that if they were not aware of all the circumstances of
the case, it was at least sufficiently evident that the
feelings which had prompted me at the moment had been
attributed to their true cause. Rosa, especially, tormented me
by allusions and playful attacks, which I could hardly bear
with patience; and at last I showed my annoyance in so marked
a manner, that she abstained from any farther reference to the
subject.
Later in the evening, when the doctor came again, he found
Edward's fever much increased; and when this intelligence was
brought to the drawing-room, Rosa showed true and warm
sympathy in the anxiety which I could no longer conceal.
A few minutes afterwards, Mrs. Middleton beckoned me out of
the room, and told me that Edward was in a state of intense
nervous irritation, which was the more extraordinary, from its
contrast with his usual calm and quiet disposition. "He is
quite unlike himself," she continued, "and can hardly be
persuaded to submit to the necessary restraint which the
doctor prescribes. He says he _must_ see you, and speak to
you, this evening; and insisted on getting up and coming to
the drawing-room. At last, I persuaded him to lie down again
on his couch, by promising that you should come to him. After
what passed between you this morning, there can be no
objection to it. Only, remember, dear child, that everything
you say to him must be calculated to soothe and calm him, for
Dr. Nevis says that he could not answer for the consequences
of any agitation or sudden emotion at this moment. This it was
that determined me to come and fetch you, when I saw him so
feverishly anxious to see you; especially, as now, I am sure,
that you can have nothing to say to him that will not have a
tranquillising effect on his nerves, and help to give him a
good night's rest, which is the greatest possible object in
his present state."
As my aunt talked on in this manner, while she led the way to
Edward's room, I could not summon courage to object to this
visit, till when we got near to the door, I drew back and
whispered to her, "Indeed I had better not go in; after what
occurred this morning, considering all things, it may agitate
him to see me. Indeed, indeed, it will be better not." Mrs.
Middleton looked at me with surprise, "Have I not told you,
Ellen, that he has been working himself into a fever, from his
anxiety to speak, to you? The only chance of calming him is by
yielding to this wish, and I assure you," she continued in an
earnest manner, "it may be more important than you seem to
think, to accomplish this. The consequences may be very
serious, if this fever and nervous agitation should increase."
As she said these words, without any further discussion she
opened the door, and I found myself in another moment seated
by Edward's side, his burning hand in mine, and his eyes fixed
upon me with that intense and overstrained expression which
fever gives.
"Dearest Ellen," he exclaimed, as Mrs. Middleton left the
room, "I am unreasonable, and ashamed of myself, but I could
not rest, or have a moment's peace, before I had again heard
from your lips the blessed assurance, that all that made me so
happy this morning, in spite of our fears and anxieties, was
not a dream. Say it was not, dearest."
"It was no dream," I answered, in a low voice, "but we must
not speak of such dream-like things to-night. When you are
well--"
"I am well now," he interrupted, "if you relieve my mind from
a vague fear that has haunted me ever since. Ellen, there is
no obstacle to our marriage, is there? You will be my wife?
You do not answer; you do not speak?"
His hand, which held mine, trembled, and he grew paler still
than when I had entered the room. Terrified at his agitation,
I lost the last opportunity of retracting, and murmured, "Yes,
yes, dearest Edward, I will be your wife.--May God in Heaven
bless you, and forgive me!" internally added; "and now that I
have set your mind at rest," I said with a forced smile, "I
will leave you."
"Leave me!" he rejoined, "now that you have made me happier
than words can express! No; don't leave me now, my Ellen, my
darling Ellen; whom I have loved since the days of childhood;
whom I have watched with an earnest anxiety, that has made me,
I will own it now," (he kissed my hand tenderly as he said
this,) "often unreasonable--often unjust."
"No, no!" I exclaimed, "that you have never been."
"Yes I have, Ellen," he continued, with earnestness; "though I
saw much in your voice, in your countenance, and in your
manner, that made me feel I was not indifferent to you; still
I was tormented with doubts and with jealousies, which were
unworthy of you and of myself. What I now see was only pity
and kindness for others, I construed into causes for
suspicion: what I now feel was forbearance and delicacy of
feeling on your part, I called _deceit_. I thought you
deceitful; I called you deceitful: yet my own heart
contradicted me, Ellen: for it would never have loved you,
clung to you, as it has done, had you not been true, truer in
your changeable moods and unguarded impulses, 'than those that
have more cunning to be strange.' No, my dearest, my precious
love! if falsehood or deceit had ever stained those dear lips
of yours, if they had ever sullied the purity of your spotless
nature, my love would have vanished, and my heart hardened
against you. The very strength of my own affection pleaded for
you, when appearances, or my own jealous feelings, accused
you. Will you forgive me, dearest?"
"Forgive you!" I exclaimed, while a choking sob rose in my
throat, "God knows--"
"I do not doubt you," he eagerly cried; "I do not ask you to
explain or to reassure me. Have I not already acquitted you,
and accused myself? I should be a wretch, my Ellen, if, after
having received from you the greatest proof of lore which a
woman could give, the shadow of a doubt could remain on my
mind, of the purity and of the strength of your affection. Do
you think, my own love, that I should have suffered you to
give me that proof of unexampled devotion, had I not believed
and felt that you were then suffering the agony of
apprehension, which I had suffered a moment before? that your
love was great as mine, and that is saying everything; for I
feel now, Ellen, that to lose you would kill me."
I laid my head on his shoulder, and murmured a few words of
tenderness in his ear. My heart was swelling, and my head was
dizzy. Three times, while he had spoken, I had been on the
point of breaking out into vehement denials, and passionate
self-accusations; and each time the doctor's warning,
confirmed by Edward's tremulous voice and eager hurried
manner, so different from his usual composure, checked the
words on my lips, and thrust back into my bosom the remorse
and shame which overwhelmed me. Yet, in the midst of all this
suffering and this shame, there was a joy which, like a meteor
in a stormy sky, illuminated at moments the darkness with
which it struggled; and, to drown the voice of conscience, I
repeated to myself, that in spite of the deceit I had
practised under the influence of what I deemed an irresistible
fatality, there was truth, there was reality, in the ardent
affection which I bore to him whose hand I held, and against
whose breast my burning forehead was laid, as if I sought
there a refuge from the world, from myself, and from my own
upbraiding memory.
After a pause, but in a voice of perfect confidence and
tenderness, Edward said to me, "Why would you not marry me
three months ago, dearest? Did you think that my love was not
great enough, or was yours not yet--?"
"Oh, no," I interrupted; "such love as mine is not the growth
of a few days; but ask me not to explain the waywardness, the
strange inconsistency of a character, which you, wise and good
as you are, can never perfectly understand."
There passed a slight cloud over Edward's countenance at that
moment, but it was only for an instant; and in the gentlest
manner he said, "Perhaps I may never quite understand you,
Ellen, but I can always trust you. You have always been unlike
everybody else, particularly unlike me, with my matter-of-fact
stubbornness, and that is probably why you bewitched me
against my will; and in spite of all my resolutions," (he
added, with a smile,) "I suppose I never have quite understood
you; but to admire blindly and ardently what we least
understand, is one of the peculiarities of human nature; so
you must e'en admit this excuse."
Again he kissed my hand with the fondest affection; and then
at my earnest request he suffered me to leave him. Before I
went, I told him that while we were staying at the Moores' I
was anxious that our engagement should not be openly
acknowledged, as in so small a party, and with people whom I
knew so little intimately, it was pleasanter to me not to have
to talk over the subject. He submitted to my wish, and I left
him to go to my own room, and devise there some means of
escaping from the difficulties in which I had entangled myself
more fatally than ever.
It was not till in the silence of the night I sat alone and
undisturbed, that I realised to myself the occurrences of the
day, or saw in its full force the importance of what I had
done. There I sat, Edward's affianced wife; and any moment
after this fact was made public, my persecutor might seek him
or Mr. Middleton, and tell them that but for me, Julia would
be still alive; and when summoned to deny the foul charge, and
confound the vile calumniator, should I say, "Yes, I struck
the helpless child in my anger, but I meant not to kill her; I
have buried the secret in my heart; day by day I have received
her father's blessings, and her mother's kisses, in
hypocritical silence. I have listened, Edward, to your words
of love; I have promised to be your wife, with a lie in my
mouth and deceit in my heart; but now I am found out, and I
implore mercy at your hands; and that you will believe me when
I say, that I did not mean to kill my cousin;" and may be, (I
exclaimed, interrupting myself with a burst of anguish,) may
be, he would not believe me! There is no medium in Edward's
judgment when truth is concerned; implicit confidence on the
one hand, unmitigated condemnation on the other. Oh! how
dreadful it would be to meet his eyes, from which love would
have vanished, and to feel that no protestations, no appeals,
could reach his heart; hardened, as it would be in that hour,
against the miserable deceiver who had usurped its tenderness
and betrayed its trust.
After an hour of harassing indecision I determined to consult
Henry, and sitting down at a table near the open window, I
wrote to him the following letter:--
"The last time I saw you, my dear Henry, you gave me reason to
hope that I might in future consider you as a friend. You bade
me open my heart to you, and seek your aid when new
difficulties should beset my path. The moment is come when I
must do so, and if you will not, if you cannot, save me,
nothing can. I once told you, that I never intended to marry
Edward; and, believe me (you know I have ever spoken the truth
to _you_, Henry, even at the risk of rousing your utmost
anger); believe me, when I say that _then_, and even as late
as twelve hours ago, such a resolution was the steady purpose
of my soul. An involuntary, spontaneous acknowledgment of
affection, which escaped me in a moment of imminent peril to
him, incurred in rescuing me from a similar peril, was
followed by an assumption on his part, that our marriage was
to be the natural result of such a confession. My uncle
considered it in the same light; and I found myself involved
in an engagement, which, in cool blood, I could never have
contracted. An attack of illness, resulting from the events of
the morning, has since kept Edward in a state which would have
made any extraordinary emotion dangerous in the extreme.
Against my will, and at the same time, impressing this warning
upon me, my aunt took me to him, and in terror for his health,
with outward calmness, and inward shame and misgivings, I gave
the promise, which must lead to my ruin, unless you can save
me. I do not ask your aid, Henry, as a girl who wishes to
marry her lover, and frets at the obstacles in her way. No; if
at this moment I could cancel the events of this day, and
place myself again in the position in which I stood yesterday,
I would do so; but, as it is, on cither side, I see nothing
now but disgrace and misery; and from these I implore you to
rescue me. I do not know how far you have the power to do so.
I cannot help thinking that your influence with that terrible
woman must be great; hitherto I have doubted your willingness
to exert it in my behalf; but, in the circumstances in which I
now stand, I feel a strong confidence, that what you can do
for me, you will do. I have obtained from Edward, that our
engagement shall be kept a secret for a few days, which will
give you time to act in my behalf, and to communicate with me
on the subject. Obliged to conceal the torturing anxiety of my
soul from those about me, miserable in the midst of what ought
to be my happiness, I feel some comfort in speaking openly to
you, and in looking to you for aid, for consolation, and for
sympathy. _You_ know my sufferings; _you_ know my guilt and my
innocence, my life's deceit, and my soul's truth. _You_ will
pity me; _you_ will help me; and, in this hope, I make my
appeal to you.
"E.M."
I debated some time with myself, as to the means of sending
this letter unobserved and undetected. After a few minutes of
anxious consideration, I recollected that Mrs. Hatton (the
companion of my journey to Dorsetshire the year before) was
staying with her sister, the wife of a surgeon, in London; and
it occurred to me, that, by inclosing it to her, and
requesting her to put it herself into Henry's hands, I should
attain my object, and expose myself to no risk of discovery,
as I could rely upon her discretion, and was certain that she
would put only the most benevolent construction on my strange
request. I accordingly wrote to her these few lines:--
"My dear Mrs. Hatton,
"As you are the kindest person in the world, I am sure you
will not be angry with me for giving you a little trouble. Do
me the kindness to take this letter yourself to Henry Lovell,
and give it into his own hands; and do not mention to any one
that I have entrusted you with this commission, as it would
defeat my purpose if it was known that I had written to him,
or heard from him, in reply. He will probably entrust you with
his answer; and I cannot say how much obliged to you I shall
be for undertaking this little commission.
"Yours, dear Mrs. Hatton, very truly,
"E.M."
As I sealed these two letters and directed the cover to Mrs.
Hatton, I felt that for the first time I was stooping to
positive artifice, and that, too, at the very moment when
Edward's words were still ringing in my ears. Disgusted with
myself, I threw down my pen; and, turning my flushed cheeks
and aching head to the window, I tried to catch the night
breeze, which was gently rustling among the leaves of the
catalpas. When I went to sleep that night, it was to dream
over and over again that I was reading Henry's answer to my
letter; sometimes it was such as to drive me to despair;
sometimes it exceeded my most sanguine hopes; each time that I
awoke I glanced at the table on which mine was lying to
convince myself that nothing real had hitherto justified these
alternations of fear and hope--that made me feel in the
morning as if I had gone through a life of agitation, instead
of a few hours of restless sleep.
When my maid came in to call me I told her to put my letter
into the post-bag, and sent her to inquire how Edward had
passed the night. The answer which she brought me was, that
the fever still continued strong, but that Mr. Middleton
seemed calmer and more composed than the day before; "more
comfortable like," was her expression.
I dressed myself hastily, and finding that my aunt was not yet
awake, I went down into the garden, and walked to the spot
where my fate had been sealed, for good or for evil I know not
yet. As I looked upon the bank where Edward had placed me out
of reach of so appalling a danger--as I stood again on that
spot where I had seen his blood on the ground--as I knelt
against the bench where we had sat together, and hastily
murmured over the form of prayer, which I was accustomed to
utter more as a sort of charm than as a direct address to
God--I felt _then_ that to part with him would be, after all,
the worst misfortune that could befall me, and a kind of fierce
resolution came over me to struggle to the last--to marry him
in spite of all dangers; and even the devil whispered to me at
that moment that if denounced and accused I might still deny
the charge; accuse my accuser in her turn; charge her with
having invented a calumnious lie, and with Henry's aid (which
one look, one kind word, from me could command) ride off
triumphantly, and defy them all. But as the thought passed
through my mind, I shuddered at the rapid strides I was making
in falsehood, and felt a horror of myself which I can hardly
describe. There was I, kneeling in mock homage before God
(that God who had saved both Edward and myself from a fate
worse than death), while bad passions were raging in my soul,
and thoughts of evil working in my mind.
The posture of prayer, the words which I had mechanically
uttered, brought on one of those sudden and unaccountable
revulsions of feeling which sometimes succeed the fiercest
assaults of the tempter, as if our guardian angel had wrestled
with the spirit of evil, and driven him away for the time. I
remembered her to whom much was forgiven because she had loved
much; and as I thought of that Saviour--that man of sorrows
and acquainted with grief, at whose feet she knelt--ay, even
while seven foul fiends were struggling in her heart, I longed
to kneel before Him too in deep prostration of spirit, and lay
all my sorrows, all my sins, all my difficulties, at His
sacred feet, bathing them as she did with tears, and wiping
them with the hairs of her head. Oh! if in that moment of
emotion, in that hour of penitence, I could have gone to one
of those, who, ministering at God's altar, and endowed with
His commission, have authority from Him to pronounce words of
pardon in His name; if the fatal barrier which habit and
prejudice so often raise between the priest of God and the
erring and overburthened souls committed to his charge, had
not in my case existed; if from his lips I could have heard
the injunction to forsake all and follow Jesus, and he had
added, "Do this and be forgiven," it might have changed my
fate. But, as it was, my penitence spent itself in unavailing
tears, and my yearnings towards a better course ended in the
same bewildering and oft-repeated question, which I could not,
dared not, answer to myself, or for myself: "Where lies the
path of duty through the intricate maze in which guilt,
misfortune, and weakness have so hopelessly entangled me?"
Once more I rose from my knees, without any fixed purpose,
without any steady resolution; the creature of circumstance,
and the sport of events.
As I was walking back to the house, I met Mr. Escourt, who
joined me, much to my annoyance. After a trifling remark or
two, he, apparently as if by accident, mentioned Henry Lovell;
I answered coldly, but was conscious that I coloured; more,
however, from the recollection of the part which he himself
had acted towards him than from any other reason. He fixed his
scrutinising eyes upon me, and evidently remarked that
something had moved me.
"He is married, is not he, and to a very beautiful woman?"
"Yes, Mrs. Lovell is very pretty."
"I had heard of his marriage," he continued, "but had doubted
the truth of the report, from seeing him so constantly about
in the world unaccompanied by a wife."
He looked at me inquiringly; but as I said nothing in answer,
he went on:--
"I met them walking one day; and by Jove, if he is of a
jealous turn of mind, he does well to shut her up. A more
beautiful creature I never set eyes upon. Is she clever?"
This was one of those trifling questions which it is
particularly disagreeable to answer, especially when put by a
person with whom one wishes to converse as little as possible.
Alice was not clever according to the common acceptation of
the word; and to explain to a hardened man of the world in
what consisted the superiority of her understanding, seemed to
me like throwing pearls before swine; but in this I was
mistaken; for when I answered, "I cannot exactly say whether
she is or not," he immediately replied,
"I think I can guess at your meaning. She has no doubt a mind
as fair as her face, but none of the tinsel which we so often
take for gold. Is it not so?"
I nodded assent and he continued--
"Is she a saint, that she thus forswears the pomps and
vanities of this world?"
"She is, no doubt," I replied, "one of those to whom the world
is in the habit of giving the appellation of saints, whatever
sense impiety on the one hand, or cant on the other, may
attach to that designation."
"In that case," returned Mr. Escourt, "I will e'en take her
for my patron saint; hang up her picture in my room, if I can
get it; and say, like Romeo, I'll turn, fair saint, idolater
to thee!"
As he said these words, I gave this hateful man a look of
mingled scorn and disgust. He returned it with a steady gaze
of insulting pertinacity, and said--
"Kill me not with a look, fair lady; for though lovely is the
light of a dark eye in woman, it is also wondrous strong, and
can deal wounds which time may not heal."
"It speaks," I replied, "what time cannot change, nor flattery
avert."
"Indeed," he rejoined, "are its decrees so unchangeable?"
After a pause he continued--
"Mr. Lovell is an excellent husband, is not he? and amiable in
all the relations of life? He is your uncle by marriage, I
believe? It is touching to see his devotion to you in that
character."
The calm insolence with which this was said stung me to the
quick, and I answered with vehemence--
"He is at least neither a liar nor a hypocrite; and it would
have been well for him had he never fallen in with either."
Not a muscle of Mr. Escourt's face moved; and, with a bland
smile, he said--
"Your remark is just, fair depositary of your adopted uncle's
secrets. Your descriptions of character are admirable, refined
in their conception, and bold in their execution--very bold
indeed. This last specimen shall remain engraved in my memory.
It fully deserves it."
We had now reached the house; and I entered it with the
consciousness, that, in addition to my other difficulties and
dangers, I had made myself that morning a deadly enemy.