"Too high, too grave, too largo, too deep,
Her love could neither laugh nor sleep,
And thus it tired him: his desire
Was for a less consuming fire.
He wished that she should love him well.
Not wildly; wished her passion's spell
To charm her heart, but leave her fancy free;
To quicken converse, not to quell.
He granted her to sigh, for so could he;
But when she wept, why should it be?
'T was irksome, for it stole away
The joy of his love holiday."
PHILIP VAN ARTEVELDE.
During our drive to London, Edward asked Mr. Middleton how
long he intended to remain in town, and where he meant our
marriage to take place.
"Why that must depend on you both," said my uncle. "What do
you say to being married at Elmsley?"
The proposal struck me so painfully, that I looked at Edward
with the anxious wish that he might make some objection to it,
though I could scarcely hope so. As I feared, he only turned
to me, and asked what my wishes were; before I could answer,
however, Mrs. Middleton said, that considering all that was to
be done about getting my trousseau, and making various
preparations for the wedding, she thought it would be better
to remain in London. Edward then added that it would be his
interest to keep us there, as the settlements would often
require his presence in town, but that we might go to Elmsley
to be married, if my uncle wished it. To my inexpressible
relief, Mrs. Middleton again objected; and urged, that as my
uncle and herself would go abroad soon after my marriage, it
was useless to add a journey to Elmsley, and back again, to
the one they would subsequently undertake. I looked at my aunt
with surprise, but she made me a sign not to pursue the
subject any further for the present. I gladly acquiesced; but
the idea of this journey abroad weighed on my spirits, and
made me silent during the rest of our drive.
As we came into London, and arrived in Brook-street, it seemed
to me that months instead of days had elapsed since I had left
it; and when I entered the drawing-room, I sat down on a chair
near the window, and leaning my head on my hand, I tried to
realise to myself all that had occurred during the last
eventful week. The busy tide of life was at its height in the
streets, the noise was stunning, and the air close and
disagreeable, after what we had been used to at Hampstead.
Nobody had followed me into the drawing-room, and I sat there
for an hour or two absorbed in thought, and reviewing in my
mind the principal events of my past life. One by one they
passed before me; my aunt's first arrival at Elmsley, the day
of Julia's birth, when I was called from my drawing-lesson to
come and kiss my little cousin in her cradle; the happy time
of childhood and of early youth; my hours of study with Mrs.
Middleton; my walks and rides through the beautiful scenery
that surrounds Elmsley, sometimes with Edward and with Henry,
or only with old James behind me; my favourite chesnut wood,
where I used to throw the bridle over Selim's neck, and leave
him to follow his own fancy, unguided and unchecked, through
the winding paths and bushy dells; the sound of his hoofs on
the crushed leaves, and the murmur of the little waterfall,
were in my ears, as when I took Edward there on my fourteenth
birth-day, and as we were coming home, after much hesitation,
and with a beating heart, asked him if I might take care of
his Newfoundland dog, Hector, when he went back to town; and I
did not remember the events of the last week more distinctly
than I did his nod of acquiescence, and the gush of delight
with which I received that permission.
Then came in succession the recollections of Julia's
illness--of her recovery--of her death; of the acute and then
protracted anguish that followed it; of the delirious agony
that seized me on the day of her funeral. I lived over again
the time of Edward's departure, the feverish dream of
excitement which followed it; I visited again in fancy the
cottage at Bridman, and the cavern at the sea-side in
Dorsetshire. I thought of the day of Edward's return to
Elmsley, and of the Ash-Wednesday service in the village
church--that same church where Julia was buried, and where
Edward's lips had said _Amen!_ to the curse which had seemed
to light on my guilty and shrinking head; and _there_ they had
proposed that I should be married to him I--_there_, in sight
of the vault where _she_ lay! within the walls which had rung
with _that_ curse!
"O, no--no," I exclaimed; "not at Elmsley--not at Elmsley!"
A hand was gently laid on my shoulder, and Edward said--
"Why not at Elmsley?"
As I turned suddenly towards him, and then away from him, to
hide the tears which were streaming down my cheeks, he said,
coldly--
"Are you weeping now over the excess of your happiness?"
I did not answer immediately, for in truth I could not; and,
taking a book, Edward walked away, and sat down by the
chimney. Other people came in--I had to dress for dinner, and
it was not till late in the evening that, by alluding
artfully, though not altogether untruly, to the pain with
which I had heard of my aunt's probable departure from England
(for it had, indeed, been the original cause of my deep
depression), I succeeded in removing the tacit displeasure
which had obscured Edward's countenance.
I had rather expected that Henry would call in Brook-street
that evening, but he did not.
The next day, while I was dressing, Mrs. Hatton asked to see
me. I was anxious to know what construction she had put on the
commission I had entrusted to her; and I hardly knew how to
treat it myself, for if I allowed her to suppose that there
was nothing but a trifle in question, she might, at some
future time, allude to it without any scruple.
After she had sat down for a few minutes, and answered my
inquiries about her numerous nephews and nieces, to whom she
was the most beloved, the most tyrannised over, and the
happiest of aunts, she said with a smile, "I hope you got the
letter in time, dear Miss Middleton?"
"Quite in time," I answered, colouring in spite of myself.
"I thought you would," she rejoined, "for I had calculated
that Tuesday being the 5th of July, there would be plenty of
time to write again and get an answer before the 9th, in case
the patterns did not suit you. I remember so well, in old
times, we used always to have little contrivances about Mrs.
Middleton's birth-day."
This was exactly what I had feared. Henry had made up some
story connected with his sister's birth-day, to account for
our secret correspondence; or else he had taken up this idea
from her own suppositions; and now there was no reason why she
should not, when the day was past, inquire after the result of
what had been settled between us before any one who might
happen to be present. I therefore resolved to tell her as much
of the truth as I could venture to do; and, taking her hand in
mine, I said, "My dear Mrs. Hatton, either Henry, with very
good intentions, has deceived you on the subject, or your own
suppositions have misled you. The letter which I wrote to him,
and the answer which he sent me, related to something of the
greatest importance, in which the welfare and the happiness of
more than one person are closely involved: both would be
endangered if the most absolute secrecy was not observed by
you as well as by us, as to this correspondence between Henry
and myself. If I felt justified in doing so, I would explain
to you--"
"Don't, my dear, don't; I had rather not have it explained; I
had rather not hear a secret," cried Mrs. Hatton. "I never
liked them; it is much pleasanter not to know things which
concern other people; but you may be sure I shall never
breathe a syllable to any one about the letters. I only hope,
my darling Miss Ellen, that you will always be as happy as you
ought to be, so good as you are, and always trying to do good
to people, and to be of use. God bless your Sweet face!"
My heart smote me at the praises of this excellent woman; and
I answered with a deep sigh, "My fate is a far happier one
than I deserve, or ever can deserve, dear Mrs. Hatton; for I
am engaged to Edward Middleton, and am to be married to him in
a fortnight."
"Well, my dear Miss Ellen, I do wish you joy, with all my
heart!" (and what a heart it was; there are not many such.)
"How happy you will all be! Of all the husbands you could have
had, I would have chosen Mr. Edward Middleton for you--so
handsome--so good--so clever as he is! I remember one day,
that poor little Julia was still alive, I said to Mrs.
Middleton, 'Now, what a nice thing it would be if your little
girl was to marry her cousin some day, and those two fine
fortunes were to make but one.' 'No, no,' she cried, 'he
admires Ellen too much to wait for Julia;' and then she
added--'Mrs. Hatton, I am afraid that I love Ellen more than
Julia; is it not dreadful?' 'And if you do,' I answered, 'what
does it signify? Julia will never be the worse for it; there
is enough tenderness in your heart for both of them.' But I am
grieving you, dear Miss Ellen, by talking of that poor dear
little cousin of yours; but you know, dear, everything is for
the best, and the dear child might have lived to be wretched,
poor thing! Well, well, I will say nothing more about it; but
only that it is very pretty of you, my darling, to have kept
all your love and your sorrow for Julia so fresh in your
heart, in the midst of your own happiness. No doubt, she is a
blessed little angel now; and, perhaps, she can see into your
thoughts, and is blessing you even now, for remembering her so
kindly, and loving her still so much."
Alarmed at the excess of my emotion, which I could no longer
command, Mrs. Hatton's distress was so great, that she almost
groaned at finding that, instead of soothing me, every word
that she uttered increased my agitation. At last, recovering
myself, I abruptly changed the subject, and a few minutes
after she took her leave.
Later that day I had a long conversation with my aunt; she
explained to me, that the doctors had assured her, that it was
of the greatest importance that my uncle should spend the
following winter in a southern climate; that he was himself
extremely opposed to this plan, chiefly on account of his
inveterate dislike to leaving Elmsley for such a length of
time; and that, she was afraid that if he returned there at
all that year, she should never be able to persuade him to
leave it again. She seemed very much out of spirits; and she,
who seldom gave way to her feelings, although their secret
workings were evident enough to me, who knew every turn of her
countenance, at this moment seemed unable to struggle with her
deep depression.
After a few efforts to overcome it, she threw her arms round
me, and hid her face on my neck.
"Dearest child," she said, "never let me suffer through you;
anything else I can bear. I see things through a dark mist
to-day, and there is a gloom about me which I cannot shake off.
I do not often talk to you of myself, Ellen, at least not
lately--not since the days when we lived but for each other,
and I would not do so now, if an irresistible impulse did not
urge me to it. In a few days you will be married, and then
will come a separation, which I shall bear with courage; but
which will require courage, my Ellen, for I have loved you too
much as an idol, too much as a treasure, which nothing could
rob me of, and to which I have clung with all the tenacity of
a crushed but ardent spirit. All my life I have had to meet
indifference, and to struggle with disappointment in various
forms. Self-devotion was the dream of my youth; I conceived no
other happiness, and wished to live for no other purpose. My
father was one of those men who can so little understand this
sort of feeling in others, that, with perfect kindness and
perfect candour, I am sure he would have said, if his daughter
had done for him what the Russian girl, Elizabeth, did for her
father, 'I suppose she was tired of Siberia, and liked the
journey.' When I married, I found in your uncle a character
exactly opposed to my father's, but not perhaps more suited to
mine. The invincible reserve, the minute despotism, or rather
absolutism, of his nature, raised between us the same barrier,
which worldliness of mind and absence of warm feelings had
caused to exist between my father and myself. You have seen
and observed this drawback to our happiness, Ellen, or I
should not have pointed out to you this single imperfection in
as amiable and excellent a character as ever existed. Your
uncle's favourite maxim is, 'Deeds, not words;' and well has
he acted up to it himself; but his mistake is, in not
perceiving that there are characters in which, without
_words_, there can scarcely be _deeds;_ for which sympathy and
encouragement are as necessary as air is to life, or sunshine
to vegetation. For some time after I was married, I struggled
to supply the want of responsiveness in his nature, by the
expansive enthusiasm of mine; but, worn out at last, by the
fruitless and fatiguing exertion of heart and mind, which this
kind of continual drawing upon one's own feelings entails,
bruised and jarred by the unflinching positiveness which met
them at every turn, I gave up the attempt in despair. I did my
_duty;_ I performed the _deeds_ required of me; but the
_words_, the unsubstantial, but not unreal, part of our daily
lives, of our busy minds,--which must assert itself in some
shape or other,--which must find vent in some form, or recoil
upon ourselves in moral or physical suffering,--that half of
my being remained closed to him, whom I loved and respected,
but between whose mind and my own the point of contact was
wanting. Of Henry, for many reasons, I had rather not talk to
you. You know that I have never hesitated to tell myself the
truth, or to destroy an illusion, which in the secrecy of my
heart I have felt to be such; but it requires a courage and a
strength which, to-day especially, I do not find in myself, to
trace the progress of estrangement in an affection once as
intense as a mother's; and which still asserts its own
existence by the sufferings it inflicts. Do not look
inquiringly at me, Ellen; I have nothing to tell, nothing to
explain, nothing to complain of; I only know that there was a
time when my whole soul was wrapped up in Henry, as it has
since been in you;--a time when his eyes would seek mine in
the hour of joy or of sorrow,--a time when his thoughts were
mine, and mine were his;--till something, I know not what,--a
mysterious influence, a nameless cloud, passed between him and
me, and threw a cold shade over the spirit of our affection;
each succeeding year has widened the chasm, has seared the
wound, without healing it, and loosened without breaking the
links which bound us together. Hush, dear Ellen I do not
attempt to speak to me on the subject; there has been a secret
sympathy between us lately, which has supplied the place of
those unreserved communications, which once were our habit and
our joy. Where we have not spoken, we have felt together; and,
without the utterance of a word, we have shared each other's
sorrows, and each other's fears. And now, child of my heart,
be happy if you can. Let nothing of gloom, of suffering, or of
bitterness, be connected with my thoughts of you; let no cloud
ever obscure your spotless character; let your name never be
pronounced but with blessings; your presence never be hailed
but with joy. Then, when in absence, I call to mind your loved
features, your proud smile, and the light of your dark eyes, I
shall need no other vision for my waking hours, no other dream
for my nights."
With fervently murmured blessings, my aunt dismissed me; and I
went to prepare for a ride with Edward. Before I set out, I
wrote a note to Alice, in which I announced to her my
approaching marriage; and, by Mrs. Middleton's desire, begged
that she and Henry would come to us in the evening.
During our ride Edward was very silent; and when he spoke it
was to find some trifling fault with my way of sitting on my
horse, and holding my bridle. My heart was still thrilling
with emotions awakened by my conversation with my aunt; her
expressions of enthusiastic tenderness were still sounding in
my ears, and the words of reproof, however slight, which fell
from Edward's lips, contrasted with them, grated on my
feelings, and irritated my susceptibility. Unlike as they were
in many respects, there was one resemblance between Mrs.
Middleton and Henry Lovell, which never failed to strike me.
Without affectation or exaggeration, by the peculiar qualities
of their minds, by the union of a powerful understanding with
a lively imagination, joined to a kind of spontaneous
eloquence, and a ready command of language, they made every
subject which they handled more or less picturesque and
exciting. I remembered at that moment that Henry had once said
to me, that his sister had done me harm; and I almost trembled
as I asked myself, if I should not painfully miss (in spite of
my devoted attachment to Edward) that ready sympathy which I
had been so long used to, which it was in my nature to
require, and not in his to yield.
We were just then passing through some fields near Fulham, and
came to a deep ditch with a fence beyond it. Edward crossed
it; but strictly charged me not to attempt to follow him,
while he examined the next field, and found out another exit;
but piqued at his previous observations on my horsemanship, I
pushed Selim on, and with a flying leap arrived on the other
side. Edward joined me; and when I looked at him triumphantly,
he was quite pale.
We rode on without speaking for a few minutes; and when to
break this silence, I said to him, "I hope you admire my
courage?" he answered drily, "I dislike unnecessary emotions,
as much as you appear to delight in them."
After a pause, he added, "Such an instance of disobedience in
a wife would be inexcusable; and though submission may be only
a duty _after_ marriage, I own _I_ think it a charm before."
I held out my hand to Edward, with an imploring countenance.
He took it; and kissing it tenderly, said with a smile, "I am
like the mothers, Ellen, who scold their children when they
have been frightened about them; but still remember, my love,
that I would rather see you afraid of displeasing me, than
displaying a courage which never captivated me in a woman. It
is a dangerous way of working upon my feelings; and would, I
assure you, never answer."
As I had not heard from Alice before dinner, I concluded they
would come in the evening; and even while Edward was speaking
to me of some arrangements connected with our future plans, I
could not keep out of my thoughts a variety of conjectures as
to the tone and manner which Henry would adopt in this new
state of things. My eyes were fixed on a plan for altering the
house at Hillscombe, when a knock at the house-door turned my
hands cold and my cheeks hot, and a moment afterwards Alice
and Henry walked into the room. She came quietly up to me,
kissed me, and said in an earnest tone, "I am so glad you are
happy." I held out my hand to Henry, cold and trembling as it
was. He carried it hastily to his lips, which felt dry and
burning, and said in a rapid indistinct manner, so that no
ears but mine should catch the sense of his words, "I wish you
joy, and never to feel what I do now." He then went up to
Edward, and shaking hands with him in the most cordial manner,
he warmly congratulated him, and then presented him to Alice.
Turning to my uncle, he said, "I have just heard a piece of
news at the club, which will take you by surprise. Mr.--, your
county member, is dead."
"Good Heavens! you don't say so?" exclaimed my uncle; "I saw
him yesterday in St. James's-street. Are you quite certain of
it?"
"Perfectly certain; and if Edward intends to canvass the
county, he had better start directly."
"Edward, you _must_ stand," cried my uncle, with all the
eagerness of a politician. "You have long wished to get into
parliament, and this is a glorious opportunity."
"Not the _time_ I would have chosen," said Edward, with a
smile and a look at me.
"Nonsense," cried Henry, with the most apparently unaffected
gaiety. "It is the best of times. You will be eloquent on the
hustings, in order that Ellen may read your speeches in the
newspaper. You must be so broken in to making love, that it
will come quite naturally to you to do so to every voter's
wife or daughter. With what wonderful effect you will
expatiate on the patriotism which tears you away from your
affianced bride, to undertake the arduous duties of a champion
of the popular cause, or an inveterate enemy of the new Poor
Law. But, really, there is no time to lose, my dear fellow;
the enemy will take the field to-morrow; and if you do not get
the start--."
I impatiently got up, and, standing behind my uncle's chair, I
fixed my eyes on Henry, with an expression of stern and
indignant inquiry. His eyes met mine for a moment, and the
colour rose in his cheek; but he persisted, with unabated
eagerness, in urging Edward and my uncle not to lose the
opportunity of securing to the former a seat in parliament; to
the latter a permanent influence in the county; and to the
government an additional vote.
Edward turned to me, and asked me half seriously, and half in
joke, for my opinion on the subject. Before I could answer, my
uncle said, "I entreat you, Ellen, not to interfere, by any
childish nonsense, with what is really important to Edward and
to me. For some years past, I have had such a scheme in view,
and if we do not carry it into execution now, it may escape us
altogether."
I had, in fact, no objection to offer, and, indeed, felt none,
except that Henry had suggested it, and seemed anxious to
bring it about; therefore, when Edward, more seriously than
the first time, asked for my opinion, I made an effort, and
constrained myself to say, that he could not do better.
"You must start for Elmsley to-morrow, and take up your
quarters there," said my uncle. "I do not feel a doubt of your
success, but there must be no remissness on our parts to
secure it."
At that moment the servant came up to Mr. Middleton, and told
him, that Mr.--, and Sir--, were in the carriage at the door,
and wished to speak to him upon business. One was a cabinet
minister, and die other one of the most influential
land-owners in our part of the country.
"They are come about this very affair," said my uncle, "and
just at the right moment; show them into my room down-stairs.
Just give orders, Edward, that Lawson may be sent for; he is
personally acquainted with every voter on your estates, as
well as on mine, and had better go with you to Elmsley
to-morrow; and then be so kind as to join us in the library."
Edward went up to Henry, and said something to him in a low
voice, on which Henry followed him out of the room; and Mrs.
Middleton, Alice, and I, were left alone together. I had
leisure then to look at Alice, and to observe that her
situation had become very evident, and that her face, though
as beautiful as ever, was paler and thinner than usual. Mrs.
Middleton remarked it too; and Alice told her that she
expected to be confined in four or five months. The quiet tone
of voice, and the gentle smile with which this was said,
seemed in strange contrast with the stormy scene in which that
fact had been disclosed to Henry.
Mrs. Middleton seemed delighted at finding that this was the
case; and asked her several questions, and gave much advice
about her health. I fixed my eyes upon them both, and a train
of thought was started in my mind, which engrossed me
completely, while they went on conversing in a low tone. There
we were, sitting quietly together, with smiles on our lips,
and the whole appearance of peace, harmony, and comfort,
around us. If any one could have looked upon us, themselves
unseen, could they ever have imagined on what frail foundation
that peace and that comfort rested?
Alice's little hand (which she had just held out to me, as I
seated myself at the back of the sofa where she was placed)
was looked in mine; Mrs. Middleton, who had shaken off the
depression which had weighed upon her in the morning, now
talked gaily of my marriage, and the occupations it imposed
upon her--of her approaching expedition, and the delight with
which she should again return to us in the spring.
If, like the angel who conducted Parnell's Hermit, some
heavenly guide had pointed out to an invisible witness of this
quiet scene of domestic happiness, the secrets that were
buried under its smooth surface, what a start of horror would
he not have given, how would he not have shuddered if that
angel had said, "Look upon those three women! See that fair
young creature, in whose pure eyes there is a depth of holy
thought and tranquil peace, such as this world can never give
or take away; and it is well for her that it should be so;
for, beautiful as she is, and priceless as are the treasures
of her heart and mind, she has been delivered over to one who
counts these treasures as dross, and whose perverted taste
sees more of beauty in the turbid stream than in the pure
lake,--in the flashing eye and stormy brow, than in the calm
gaze of purity and love. She stands alone in the strength of
her faith, in the might of her innocence; but even now a new
link has wound itself round her heart; and though her step be
firm, and her soul be strong, they must wax firmer and
stronger still, for the sake of the child whom she bears in
her womb. Now she is chained down to earth; now she can no
longer say with St. Paul, 'To die is gain.' Now she can no
longer pass through the world as if she belonged not to it.
She must cling to him whose name she bears; she must follow
his steps; she must watch his eyes;
'She most pour her hearths rich treasures forth,
Although unrepaid for their priceless worth;'
for he is the father of her child; and what God has thus
joined together, nothing in Heaven or on earth can put
asunder. But who stands between her and her husband? Whose
eyes draw away the glances that should be fixed on hers? Whose
ears hear and tolerate the words of love which should be hers
alone? Do you see the girl that holds her hand, and leans on
the back of the couch where she sits? One hair of her unworthy
head is more dear to that infatuated man, than all the
matchless beauty, the sacred purity, the unstained affection
of his young wife. Look at that other woman, whose eyes are
fixed with such tender and ardent affection on the same girl,
whose childhood she has blessed, whose youth she has watched
over, and on whose head she has heaped blessings without end;
in whose existence she has centred all the happiness of her
own. _That_ girl, with that very hand which has been so often
and so fondly kissed by a childless mother; _that_ girl
(cursed be her anger, for it was fierce, and her wrath, for it
was cruel!) hurled to a watery grave the only child of that
devoted friend, of that more than mother; and there she sits
by the side of her whom she has made childless; and she holds
the hand of the wife whose husband adores her, and whose love
she dares not check; there she sits, as if a mine was not
ready to spring under their feet; and even now a smile is on
her face, for some gay remark has been addressed to her, and,
like the Indian at the stake, she must die before she writhes,
and must look upon the deeds she has done, and the pangs she
endures, as if her nerves were of iron, and her heart of
stone."
A servant came up-stairs to tell Alice that her husband was
waiting for her in the carriage, and a moment after she was
gone Edward announced to us that everything was settled about
his standing for the county, and that he should start at six
o'clock the next morning for Elmsley. "Lovell will go with
me," he added; "he has not been well lately, and thinks the
change of air will do him good." And turning to Mrs.
Middleton, he continued, "Henry promises to help me in
canvassing, and as neither you nor Ellen can be with me, his
eloquence will be invaluable. You do not think Mrs. Lovell
will be annoyed at his going?"
"Not at all," answered Mrs. Middleton; "and we will ask her to
come and stay with us here during your and Henry's absence.
How long will it be do you suppose?"
"Not more than three or four days, I should imagine; and now I
must consult you upon a plan which my uncle and myself have
formed, but for which we require your sanction, and Ellen's
consent. The election will take place in about a fortnight,
exactly the time we had fixed upon for our marriage; Lawson
has just told us that the settlements could without much
difficulty be got ready by this day week; and if we were
married on that day, we could go and spend a week at
Hillscombe, and then join you at Elmsley, where my uncle is
quite determined to go for the election."
My aunt was preparing to make some objections to this plan,
when Mr. Middleton came into the room, and by assuming that it
was thus settled, and declaring that any further discussion of
it was unnecessary, put a stop to the conversation. Edward
took me into the next room, and asked me if I had any
objection to the arrangement. As I saw by his face that he
would be exceedingly annoyed if I did object, I expressed my
perfect readiness to agree to it. He seemed altogether so much
pleased and excited, that my self-tormenting disposition
immediately suggested to me, that politics interested him more
than anything else, and that no one day since our engagement
had he appeared so satisfied and so cheerful. I was also
foolish enough to be annoyed at his seeming so thoroughly
reconciled to Henry; I felt a kind of vague irritation at
Henry's accompanying him on this journey, and the more his
spirits rose, the more mine fell. As I did not seem to take
much interest in his electioneering concerns he dropped the
subject, and began to talk of Alice, whose beauty and manners
he warmly praised. "You do not think that Henry appreciates
her, do you?"
"Who can tell," I exclaimed, "when a woman is appreciated?
Once secure in the affection he has inspired, a man's lore
often waxes wondrous cool." As I said this I had what the
French call "des larmes dans la voix."
Edward fixed his eyes on the ground and knit his brows, but
after a moment looked up into my face and said, "How well
Lovell knows you!"
I coloured, and asked him what he meant.
"I heard him say one day that it was difficult to tell if you
felt what you acted, or acted what you felt."
This severe sarcasm cut me to the heart, and to have Henry
quoted against me by Edward, was more than I could bear. Pride
and anger struggled for a moment with grief in my breast, but
were soon conquered by it. I must have looked intensely
unhappy, for Edward took my hand in his, and drawing me kindly
to him, said, "My dearest love, I did not mean to vex you."
"If you had you would have succeeded," I answered with
bitterness. "No, Edward," I continued, passionately; "from you
I can bear everything. Reprove me as often and as severely as
you please; treat me harshly when I deserve it; I shall never
be weary of _your_ reproof, nor complain of _your_ severity;
but that you should allow Henry to influence you against
me--that you should quote his sarcasms and call them truth,
even when their object is to make you doubt the reality of my
feelings, the sincerity of my affection--"
Edward got up, and walked up and down the room; his
countenance was more disturbed than it had yet been at any
time since our engagement. At last he stopped before me, and
after looking at me in silence for a few minutes, he said,
"You are a spoilt child, my Ellen, in the fullest sense of the
word. Your life has been too happy"--(Good God! was _that_ the
conclusion he had come to?)--"you have known nothing of the
real trials of life, or you would not take pleasure in
creating them for yourself. Believe me, Ellen, do not plant
unnecessary thorns in a path where they will spring up but too
naturally. What is there wanting to your happiness _now?_ Is
not our mutual love as strong as ever? Is not my whole soul
devoted to you? In a few days you will be my wife, and when I
promise to love and cherish you until death shall part us, it
will be no empty vow that will pass my lips, but a solemn
pledge which my whole life shall redeem. But do not expect
from me the language of romance, the cant of sentiment; I look
upon you as the dearest and most precious treasure that was
ever consigned to a man's keeping, but not as an idol before
which I must bow. I must strengthen you with my strength,
rather than yield to your weakness; in my very harshness,
Ellen, there is a tenderness which you may trust in, for
though it may sometimes wound, it will never fail you."
Penitent and subdued I listened in silence to Edward's words.
Earnestly and humbly I pressed his hand to my heart, and when
we parted that night I felt that though I feared him more, I
loved him also with a more solemn tenderness and a deeper
reverence than ever.