"Do you not fear, I will stand between you and danger."
SHAKESPEARE.
The tedious hours of the two next days dragged on their weary
length through the ordinary course of meals, walks, idle
occupation, and unprofitable talk. Everything jarred upon my
nerves and irritated my temper during this trying time of
suspense. Edward's fever still continued, and though there was
nothing positively alarming in it, yet it kept us in a state
of anxiety. He was not allowed to get up, and I did not see
him; but almost all my time was spent in watching for Mrs.
Middleton, who was indefatigable in her attention to him, and
who, from hour to hour, brought me messages from him, and
accounts of the various fluctuations in his state. When I went
into the drawing-room, Rosa's liveliness, Mr. Escourt's mute
attitude of defiance, Mr. Manby's tediousness, and Mr. and
Mrs. Moore's over-solicitude about everything, in turns
worried and bored me.
At the end of the second day, as the time drew near when I
might expect to receive Henry's answer, this feverish
impatience increased to such a degree that I could hardly bear
to be spoken to, or noticed in any way. Each time the
house-bell rang I gave a start and a rapid glance towards the
door; and each time a servant came in, my heart beat with
intense excitement, which each time subsided into that moody
heaviness which disappointment brings on. On the third evening
since the one I had spent with Edward, I was allowed to go to
him for a few minutes; he was much better, but forbidden to
exert himself. I found him pale but very calm; he seemed
touched with the alternation in my countenance, and implored
me not to worry myself, assuring me that he now felt almost
quite well, and the day after to-morrow he hoped we should all
return to London, announce our marriage, and begin all the
preparations for its celebration. This assurance drove me
almost frantic, for if, during the next twenty-four hours, I
did not hear from Henry, such a proceeding was like plunging
blindfold down a precipice. The only resource I could think of
was to persuade Mr. Middleton to go to London ourselves on the
next day, and as it would be natural that after this week's
absence I should visit Alice, thus to contrive to speak to
Henry. When I went back into the drawing-room I was assailed
by pressing entreaties to sing; and Mr. Middleton's "Come,
Ellen, nonsense!" rendered all excuses or refusals on my part
quite unavailing. I went to the pianoforte, envying the woman
who said to the King of Prussia, when he had put her in prison
for breach of engagement, "You can make me cry, but you can't
make me sing;" for I was assuredly made to sing, while my heart
was quivering with anxiety, and my mind haunted with fears,
which would have made solitude and tears bliss in comparison to
what I had to go through. I had just begun, at Rosa's request,
a French romance, in fourteen stanzas, when the door opened and
a servant walked in with a letter in his hand, which he put
down on a little table where I had laid my work. To this
letter my eyes and all my thoughts were directed; but the
excess of impatience made me afraid of interrupting myself and
asking for it. I sang on, and each time that I attempted to
skip a verse and arrive at the conclusion, Mr. Manby, civilly
and assiduously, reminded me of the omission. At last I
arrived at the fourteenth stanza, and then positively refusing
to sing any more, I gave up my place to Rosa. At that moment
Mr. Middleton, who was walking up and down the room, went up
to the table where my letter was laid, took it up, looked at
the seal, then at the handwriting; after turning it on all
sides for a minute or two, while I stood by straining every
nerve to appear indifferent, he held it out to me and said,
"Who on earth can this be from, Ellen?"
I took it and glanced at the direction--"From Mrs. Hatton," I
said; and slipping it carelessly into the inside of my gown, I
sat on and worked in silence, listening to the singing till I
could find an opportunity of leaving the room unobserved. I
flew rather than walked to mine, locked the door, and tearing
open the letter read the enclosure it contained with that
breathless eagerness which makes us feel as if our eyes were
too slow in conveying the sense to our minds.
HENRY'S LETTER.
"I will not attempt to describe to you the state of mind into
which your letter threw me. It was no doubt carefully worded,
and I give you credit for the pains which you evidently took
not to wound my feelings. You have at last learnt to know the
nature you have to deal with, and you have not, perhaps,
bought that knowledge too dearly, by all you have suffered at
my hands. Your power over me is a strange one: when I submit
to it, I despise myself; when I resist it, I hate myself. I
can never now be happy by you, or without you; and in the
wreck of all that once was happiness, I cling to some
unsubstantial shadows, which, when I grasp them, only mock my
utter desolation. Such are those held out by the last lines of
your letter. You never wrote truer or more artful words; true
as the arrow which strikes to the heart--artful as the skill
of the archer who aims it. You are right--I alone know you; I
alone can read every turn of your countenance, every emotion
of your soul. I know 'your eye's quick flash through its
troubled shroud.' I see the dark shade that passes over your
spirit, the clouds which sweep over your soul, rising in
anger, and melting into tenderness. I alone know the secret of
your wild beauty, of your fierce humility, of your transient
joys, and of your lasting sorrows. This knowledge, this power
is mine, Ellen, and shall be mine to the last day of our
lives; and as long as your eyes shall meet mine, as long as
your hand shall press mine, in the spirit which dictated those
lines of your letter, I shall not be utterly miserable, or
altogether without consolation. I shall have one share in your
soul which not even Edward can rob me of. And now what shall I
say? You foresee it, do you not? Your cheek is flushed with
joy, and your breast heaves with triumph. Go, then, and
proclaim your marriage. Marry Edward; and when the priest says
at the altar, 'Who gives this woman to be married to this
man?' think of him who, 'loving you not wisely, but too well,'
at the price of his own jealous tortures, of his pride, and of
his conscience, opened the way before you. At the price of my
conscience I have done this; and now listen to me, Ellen,--I
will tell you how. After I had received your letter, and
reflected on its contents, till anxiety for you and for your
happiness superseded every selfish thought which passion and
jealousy awoke, I went to Bromley, where Mrs. Tracy took up
her abode again a few months ago. I had hardly had any
communication with her since my marriage; and our meeting, as
you may well imagine, was anything but cordial. When I opened
to her the subject of my visit, she gave way to a burst of
anger, in which she vented the long-compressed violence,
jealousy, and hatred of her soul. I shudder when I think how
often you have been on the brink of what we most have dreaded;
twice she had written to Mr. Middleton, and only kept back her
letters at the very moment of putting them into the post. She
has kept up, by means of her relations, and of her relations'
friends, a constant system of _espionnage_ upon me, and had
been worked up into a state of violent irritation, by
exaggerated reports of my neglect of Alice, and of my devotion
to you. Far from listening to me, or giving me the least hope
that she would yield to my entreaties, she pronounced the most
vehement denunciations against you, and vowed that nothing now
should prevent her from exposing you--the murderer of Julia,
the hateful rival of Alice. Forgive me, dearest Ellen, that my
hand can write such horrible words; but it is necessary that
you should know what that terrible woman, as you rightly call
her, is capable of saying and of doing, and also to account
for the line of conduct which I took in consequence. I
suddenly changed my tone, and said to her in the coldest and
most determined manner, 'Very well; I leave you to write your
letter--to ruin the whole existence of a person who I declare
to you is as innocent as yourself of the crime which you
impute to her,--to throw into agitation and despair my sister,
whom you profess to love,--and to break your promise to me in
the most shameful manner. But mark me! while _you_ do this,
_I_ go home also, to break a promise not more sacred than
yours,--to reveal to Alice, from beginning to end, the whole
history of our engagement, and of our marriage; to tell her
that you have unjustly accused Ellen Middleton of murder, and
irretrievably ruined and destroyed her happiness; to tell her
that I once loved Ellen Middleton, that I love her still, and
that if such is to be _her_ fate, _mine_ shall be to leave
England _to-morrow_, _alone_, and _for ever_.'
"It was frightful to see the look of rage that convulsed the
features of that intractable woman as I pronounced these
words. She absolutely writhed with anger, and it was deadly
anger, for her cheek was pale and her lips white. She gasped
for breath, and then murmured: 'Villain! she is with child.'
"God forgive me, I was indeed a villain! For, although not
even to save you would I have endangered Alice's safety, yet
my first thought was of the new power which this circumstance
gave me over her fierce grandmother; and, without giving a
sign of emotion, I begged to know her final decision.
"Then began a fearful contest between us; one of those
struggles on which more than life is staked. I conquered at
last, and that indomitable will was forced to bend before
mine. You are safe, as long as Alice remains in ignorance of
the dark parts of our histories; as long as I live with her,
and by kindness and respect ensure her comfort and peace of
mind, so long will her grandmother adhere to the promise,
which she has renewed on these conditions. But you must help
me to fulfil them, Ellen. You must not leave me to myself, for
then my strength would fail me. It must be under your eyes,
and in constant association with you, that I must learn to
treat Alice as I now feel myself bound to treat her. One of
the principal complaints which her, grandmother made, was of
the seclusion in which she lived; and on this point I must
give way, though, as I once said to you, I tremble for the
consequences; but you must be near us--with us. Though
scarcely older than her, you know where the dangers of the
world lie, and you will watch over one who, in her childish
ignorance, stands like a guardian angel between you and your
persecutor. There is something sacred in the feelings with
which we must both regard and cherish her. Hook at her now
with emotion, as the mother of my child. I bless her in my
heart for having saved you from misery and exposure. If you
will allow no common prejudices, no vulgar scruples to stand
in the way of the good you may effect, then, Ellen, there may
be better days in store for us all.
"Remember to announce your marriage in form to us, as soon as
it is declared; and remember also, that I will be guarded,
prudent, and considerate, as long as you show me unlimited
confidence. I cannot answer for my self if caprice, or unjust
apprehensions, should estrange you from me.
"Once more, farewell,
"And God bless you!
"Your devoted
"Henry Lovell."
This letter dropt from my hands as I read the last words, and
a tumultuous rush of feelings made my heart throb with
indefinable emotion. In my most sanguine moments I had not
perhaps anticipated so favourable an answer, nor hoped that
Henry would have exerted himself so earnestly in my behalf;
and yet I felt more afraid of him and of his power than ever,
as I saw his determination in some manner or other to link his
fate with mine, and to make his conduct to me to depend upon
mine. There was something fearful in the conditions in the
frail tenure under which alone I was to escape the threatened
vengeance of Mrs. Tracy. There was something horribly
humiliating in the terms (however veiled in plausible
language) which Henry was evidently prescribing to me as the
price of his protection. I was never a self-deceiver, and I
saw clearly through the shallow pretence of better hopes for
the future--of kindness to Alice--of help to pursue the better
course--his unswerving determination never to give up those
habits of intimacy, which would give full scope for the
exercise of his secret power. I did not charge him with
hypocrisy, nor with malice; no, he was only selfish, selfish
to the very heart's core. I read his letter again, and when he
bade me think of him, even at the altar, even when pledging my
faith to Edward, I murmured to myself, "Ever between him and
me, in thought if not in deed; ever with thy smooth tongue,
thy determination strong as iron, and thy character pliant as
steel; ever claiming thy share in my heart, and thy place in
my thoughts; ever toiling for thine own ends, and hinting at
revenge, even while boasting of thy love, and of the
sacrifices it makes."
As this mental accusation passed through my mind, I felt its
harshness, its ingratitude, and as usual, having begun by
condemning him, I ended by hating myself. I could not but
acknowledge that all he said of Alice was touching and true,
and I religiously resolved to undertake the part he pointed
out to me in the spirit of expiation, and while in one sense I
gave her my weak and unworthy support, on the other to cling
to her, as to my refuge and my shield, from a love and from a
hatred which made me equally tremble. The self-reproach which
had immediately followed my harsh condemnation of Henry, at
the very moment when he had made a great sacrifice in my
behalf, however incomplete its generosity might have been,
brought on as usual a reaction, and something of tenderness
stole into my heart at the thought of so deep, so
unconquerable an attachment as his. In Henry there always
seemed to me to be two different natures, one harsh, selfish,
sneering and heartless, the other tender almost as a woman's
is tender, and gentle even to a fault. Notwithstanding all
that I so often suffered from the first, I could not help
being at times strangely subdued and touched by the last. His
letter, too, like himself, appeared to have a two-fold
character, and as I considered it under each in turn, my heart
was alternately softened and hardened towards the writer.
Soon I experienced one of those changes of mood, one of those
abrupt transitions of feeling, which seem to transform us for
the time into a different sort of being from that with which
we are usually conscious of identity. A kind of feverish
determination to be happy took possession of me, a careless
disregard of the future, a sort of impassioned levity, of
reckless childishness. I walked up and down my room with
restless excitement; I longed now to return to London, to have
my marriage declared, to be congratulated, to be talked to, to
enter on a new state of things, and efface as much as
possible, from my life and from my mind, the traces of the
past.
When the next morning I got up and dressed, threw open my
window, looked upon the bright summer sky, and saw Edward
standing on the gravel walk before the house, my heart beat
with that hurried pulse of joy, that tumult of emotion which
drowns all thought and all care, as a whirlpool sucks in the
straws that float near it.
Edward beckoned to me to join him; he received me with a smile
of tenderness, and, pushing back the curls from my face,
whispered, "My dark-eyed Ellen!" His words of love sunk into
my heart, like the rain of Heaven on the scorched and burning
sands of the desert, as I gave utterance to the long-subdued
and deeply-tried passion of my soul, prostrate in spirit
before him, living in the light of his eyes, and almost
longing to die in his presence, and by his hand, ere aught in
earth, or in Heaven, should divide us. The wilful, terrified
abstraction, that made me repulse every thought connected with
the future, and cling with frantic intensity to my happiness
while it lasted, gave it a character difficult to describe;
and Edward, in the very height of his love, and while carried
out of himself by its resistless influence, would sometimes
ask me, why there was no peace in my happiness, no repose in
my love;--why, when his hand held mine, and my head was
resting on his shoulder, I sometimes murmured in a tone of
thrilling and passionate emotion, "Let me die _here_."
"Ask not," I would then reply. "Ask not why some flowers shut
their leaves beneath the full blaze of the sun. Ask not why
the walls of the Abbey Church tremble, as the full peal of the
organ vibrates through the aisles. Ask not why the majesty of
a starry night makes me weep, or why the intensity of bliss
makes me shudder."
"But I love you, my Ellen," Edward would answer; "I, too, love
you with all the powers of my soul. My happiness is intense as
yours; and yet, in the very excess of both, there is trust and
peace."
"Because," I replied, "because no two characters were ever
more dissimilar than ours. A calm and mighty river is not more
unlike the torrent which swells with the rain, and ebbs the
next day, than your nature is to mine. Do not try to
understand me, Edward: I say it in the deepest humility, you
cannot fathom the folly and the weakness of my soul; but thus
much you may believe, that as the mountain stream, chafe and
foam as it may, has but one object and one end, so, the varied
impulses and the restless fluctuations of my uneasy spirit
tend but to one result--its unlimited love, its boundless
devotion, to you."
Edward always seemed touched by the expression of my ardent
affection, and responded to it in the tenderest and kindest
manner; but it did not always efface from his countenance
something of perplexity and regret, which the inequality of my
spirits, and of my temper, raised in his mind.
Before we left Hampstead, Mrs. Middleton told the Moores of my
engagement; and Rosa, who had for some days past guessed at
the state of things, wished me joy, with the greatest warmth
and animation; but she unconsciously threw a bitter ingredient
into her congratulations, by adding to them with a smile, "It
is strange how disobedient you have ventured to be to the
invisible men of Brandon. I hope you do not reckon on being
punished, as well as threatened, by proxy?"