"'T is done **** the fatal vow
Has passed my lips! Methought in those sad moments,
The tombs around, the saints, the darkened altar
And all the trembling shrines with horror shook."
TANCRED AND SIGISMUNDA.
The following morning, when Henry came to breakfast with
Edward previous to their departure, Mrs. Middleton had a long
conversation with him. She proposed to him that Alice should
come and stay with us during his absence. He gladly accepted
this offer, and wrote a line to his wife recommending her to
do so in a way that left her no option.
Edward had left me in a state of mind which made Alice's
society very acceptable to me; my spirits were subdued, and
Henry's absence removed the restless irritation which I
usually felt in his presence. My time was taken up in a great
measure by the number of little occupations which my
approaching marriage occasioned. Presents came pouring in
daily from relations and friends; I had also to answer letters
of congratulation, and all the business of that great change
in one's existence was in the full tide of activity.
The second morning after Edward's departure, I asked Alice to
go with me to a shop in St. James's-street, where I wanted to
buy a present for Mrs. Hatton. We set out together, but as the
day was fine and not too hot for walking, we resolved to go
first into Hyde Park. The dusty burnt-up grass was still
pleasanter to tread upon than the broad flag-stones; and there
was a breeze that felt pure and refreshing to lungs that had
been obliged for so long to inhale the foggy atmosphere of
London. Alice was talking more eagerly than usual; and when
she mentioned Henry, there was an expression in her lovely
face which I had never seen in it before. As we were speaking
of the probable day of Edward's return, she drew from her
pocket the note which Henry had written to her that morning,
and holding it out to me she said, "You see he talks of coming
back on Friday." The note was a kind one, and by the way in
which she read it over, as I gave it back to her, and then
folded it carefully and replaced it in her bosom, I could see
the pleasure it had given her. As we entered the Green Park, I
saw a man who seemed to me to be watching us. There was
something in his figure and in the way in which his head was
set on his shoulders, which seemed not new to me; but I did
not look back long enough to ascertain this, and only walked
faster from the suspicion that we were followed. On turning
out of the gate of the park into Piccadilly I gave another
glance, and saw the man in question standing by the side of
the basin with his eyes fixed on the water. As we went on
towards St. James's-street, I saw him once again, walking in a
parallel line with us on the other side of the street. After
awhile he disappeared, and I concluded that the whole thing
was accidental. We entered the jeweller's shop and were busily
engaged in examining several brooches, among which I was to
choose one for my present, when on turning to show one which
took my fancy to Alice, whose back was to the door, I saw
against one of the panes of the shop-window the face of the
man who had followed us, and whom I now recognised as that
cousin of Alice's whom I had seen at Salisbury and once again
at Brandon; but who Henry had given me to understand had left
England for America some months before. I gave an involuntary
start and turned my head away, for there was something very
dark and unpleasant in this man's countenance. Alice perceived
nothing, gave me her advice about the brooch, and when I had
taken and paid for it we prepared to go. I gave a hurried
glance towards the window; the man was gone, and I breathed
more freely. We walked out of the shop, and I debated with
myself whether there could be any harm in questioning Alice
about this person, and in telling her that he had been dodging
us in this strange manner. While I was hesitating about it we
had arrived at the turning into Berkeley-street. Suddenly
Alice drew her arm out of mine and turned abruptly round. She
gazed intently for a moment down Piccadilly, and then turning
to me she said, "I thought I had seen my cousin, Robert
Harding. It was foolish of me to imagine it," she added,
smiling, "for he is at New York. What strange fancies one has
sometimes!"
"Who is Robert Harding? Your cousin, did you say?"
"Yes; the son of James Harding, my uncle."
"What sort of man is he?"
"I know him very little. I have scarcely spoken to him since
we have been both grown up; but he was very fond of me when I
was a little girl, and I have always felt a kindness for him."
"Were you brought up together?"
"Oh, no; when I was about eight years old the scarlet fever
was in our house, and I was sent to my uncle's for two or
three weeks. Robert was then twelve years old; he was called a
very naughty boy, and nobody liked him or said a kind word to
him. The first day I came there he asked me to play with him,
and I was going to say yes, when my aunt called out, 'Don't
play with him, Alice,--don't speak to him; he is in disgrace,
and nobody must talk to him.' He scowled dreadfully and walked
out of the room. In the evening I was dressing my doll in a
room up-stairs, where I was to sleep with Anne Harding, when I
heard somebody sobbing in the next room. I went on tip-toe to
the door and opened it gently. I saw Robert sitting on a bed
and crying bitterly. Anne had told me he never cried, not even
when his father beat him; but he was crying now, and I stood
looking at him till I began to cry too. At last he got up, and
climbing on the bed, he pulled off his handkerchief and tied
it to the post. I did not know what he was doing, but he
looked so odd and so red in the face, that I felt frightened,
and called out 'Robert.'
"He turned round and said, 'What are you doing there? Go away,
you must not see what I am about to do.'
"'It must be something very wrong then,' I said, 'and I hope
you won't do it.'
"'Why not?' he muttered. 'What's it to you? I'm going to hang
myself; but you must not tell, for they'd come and cut me down
and punish me very much.'
"'Perhaps they would,' I said; 'but not so much as God will
punish you if you do such a wicked thing.'
"'It isn't wicked,' he answered. 'Nobody loves me or cares
about me. They won't let you play with me, and, perhaps, when
I've hanged myself, they'll be sorry for it.'
"'But I'm sorry for you _now_,' I cried; 'and though I must
not play with you while you are naughty, I will play with you
and love you very much if you are good.'
"'Are you sure you will.'
"'Quite sure, Robert.'
"'Well, if you do I don't much care who doesn't. But mind if
you don't love me I'll hang myself.'
"'But I will, indeed,' I said; and all the time I staid at my
uncle's, Robert was very good, and we played every day
together. After I went home again I did not see him very
often. When he came to us he always brought me some little
present of his own making; and he had a great turn for cutting
things in wood with his knife. About three years ago he made
my grandmother angry, I don't know how, but she would not let
him come and see us any more."
"And he is now in America?" [I] asked.
"Yes," replied Alice. "My grandmother told me he was gone to
New York a few days before I was married. I should have liked
to have said good-bye to him. How like that man in Piccadilly
was to him!"
We reached home just as Alice said this; and I felt glad that
I had not told her that the man she had seen must have been
the same who had dodged us, and that it could have been no
other than this Robert Harding, whose countenance had remained
indelibly impressed on my mind; but I resolved at the first
opportunity to tell Henry of this circumstance, for I felt
afraid of this man, and anxious to know whether his return to
England was a secret to the rest of his family as well as to
Alice.
When the post came in the next morning, we received letters
from Elmsley. Edward's to me was kind and affectionate, but
short and hurried. He had written a long one to my uncle, full
of all the details connected with his canvass, which promised
to be very successful. One phrase in this letter particularly
attracted my attention:--"Henry's exertions in my behalf, and
anxiety for my success, are beyond what I could have expected
even in the early days of our friendship. He is most amiable
and agreeable; and when I compare his destiny to mine (much as
it may have been his own imprudence that ruined his
prospects), I feel that there is generosity in the warm
attachment which he shows me. We shall be in town on Saturday,
and I hope and trust that nothing will prevent our marriage
taking place on Monday, as we must be here again at the
beginning of the ensuing week; and one week, at least, I must
have for Ellen and for Hillscombe, before I plunge again into
all the business and excitement of the election."
Henry's letter to his sister was as follows:--
[I have never known or understood how Mrs. Middleton came to
give me this letter to read. She handed it to me with several
others, which had reference to my marriage; and I imagine that
it must have slipped among the rest unawares to her. I
returned the whole packet to her without making any
observation upon it, and she made none either.]
"My dear Mary,
"Can you understand me when I say that I retain a livelier
sense of the loveliness of those scenes which are connected in
my mind with acute sorrow (provided they be beautiful in
themselves), than of those where I have only known happiness?
Or does this seem to you nonsense? There is a spot in the
world where I once stood for a quarter of an hour alone,
suffering so intensely, that even now, when I think of it, I
wonder how, at the end of that time, I could meet the eyes of
others as I did, and show no outward signs of the anguish I
was enduring. Well, Mary, strange as it may seem to you, there
is not another spot in the world, the natural beauties of
which are so indelibly stamped on my recollection, or which
seem to have so entered into my soul. I never feel so much the
unalterable beauty and perfect harmony of the material world
as when the moral world within me is shaken to pieces and
leaves me not even a reed to lean upon. It is the same with
music. Once, when a fearful struggle was going on within me,
and (no matter whether right or wrong) I thought myself very
near death, an organ in the street played a Scotch air which I
had heard a thousand times before; but then, for the first
time, I understood it. Each note had a meaning, each
modulation had a sense, which has never been lost to me since.
Suffering and emotion are necessary (I believe it firmly) to
expand our faculties in every line, and, with our powers of
comprehension, increase our powers of admiration. I shall
never feel the real beauty of military music, or the full
sense of the muffled roll of the drum, till it leads me to
battle, or marshals me to execution. Is it the same with my
affections? Perhaps it is. Perhaps it is not in my nature
passionately to love where I have never suffered. Perhaps if
it had been my fate, after having from the days of childhood
formed to myself an ideal image of what my soul could worship;
after having met with the realisation of that dream of my
fancy--a realisation as much more beautiful, as much more
enchanting as life is superior in its most perfect form to the
highest stretch of genius in the painter; if it had been my
fate, after having watched, and followed, and loved, and
doated on this woman during a year, which seemed to me but as
an hour, so great was the love I bore her; had it been my fate
to possess her, to call her mine, perhaps I should only have
been, after a while, very fond of her, as men are of their
wives--very glad to find her at home, after a day spent in the
House of Commons, at one time of the year, or in shooting, at
another. She might only have been one object to me among many
others. It might have been so, though it is difficult to
believe it; but we must believe what we see, nor dare to
assert that the idol enshrined in our heart in hope, in fear,
and in suffering, would have maintained its sway in the dull
atmosphere of secure possession.
"We arrived at Elmsley on a lovely evening, and not a room in
the house, not a spot in the grounds did I leave unvisited.
While Edward and Lawson were engaged on the county registers
and reports, as if their whole souls were bound up in them, I
stood on the verandah, and looked on each well-known object in
that lovely view till the whole was wrapt in darkness. That
gradual obscuring of each spot which, when I first stood
there, was glowing in the light of the evening sun, reminded
me of my last conversation with you, when, in answer to the
confession you extorted from me, you took up a book from your
table and pointed to these lines, which I only read once, but
have remembered ever since:--
'Nay, rather steel thy melting heart
To act the martyr's sternest part;
To watch, with firm unshrinking eye,
Thy darling visions as they die;
Till all bright hopes and hues of day
Have faded into twilight gray.'--_Christian Year_.
"But enough of all this. Our canvass has been eminently
successful; Edward has exerted himself amazingly. On the
nomination-day he really spoke admirably. It is impossible not
to be struck with his strong sense, his uncompromising
rectitude and steady moral decision of character. He is so
animated, too, by all these subjects; quite enthusiastic, in
his way, about the interests of the people, and the new field
of exertion which his present prospects open to him. It is
plain that he has a genius more fitted for active than for
contemplative life,--and so much the better for him; for a
man, this is the happiest of dispositions: and he will be
happy; for there is nothing in his character incompatible with
quiet enjoyment; no violent passions and feelings; no morbid
sensibility; with him all is sober, practical, and rational.
"Good-bye, my dear Mary. I am happy to think that Alice is
with you. Remember what you promised me; watch over her as you
would over a flower which a breath might, sully or a breeze
destroy. Thank God, you and I are no longer strangers to each
other's thoughts and hearts.
"Your ever affectionate brother,
"H. LOVELL."
Could Mrs. Middleton have intended me to see this letter? Had
she, perhaps, promised Henry to show it me? No, this was
entirely, utterly impossible. It must have been a mistake; and
I would not inform her of it, lest it should agitate and
distress her. Henry had evidently imparted to her the secret
of his unconquerable attachment to me. Was this wise in his
own interest? Did it correspond with his usual caution, and,
above all, with his recent behaviour? It seemed to me strange;
but Mrs. Middleton was easily worked upon: she did not know
Henry as I knew him; she thought him like herself; and because
their minds were in unison, she fancied their hearts were
alike. His power was so great over those who loved him, when
he chose to exert it, that it seemed to me, now, as if he had
taken up a new position, and, through his wife and his sister,
meant to rivet the chain which bound us together. Never did
two people know each other as well as Henry and myself. I
always read his motives through the veil which he flung over
them, and which, perhaps, concealed them sometimes from
himself. He was a practical artist; his own life was the
canvass on which he worked; and that was the reason why, with
a selfish heart and an unprincipled mind, he possessed all the
graces of emotion, all the charms of feeling. This letter
(clever and well aimed as it was--for it touched upon the very
wound which had been rankling in my heart during the last few
days) failed in its object, if, indeed, he had hoped that it
would meet my eyes; for, as I read his account of Edward--as I
felt the pain it was meant to inflict--as I acquiesced in the
truth of some of his remarks, and indignantly repelled others,
the cry of my heart, as I threw it from me, was in these
words: "Rather be _his_ slave than _your_ idol."
On the following Saturday they both returned to London, and
when I found myself again with Edward, I forgot everything in
the joy of the moment. But when I was told that the day of our
marriage was positively fixed for the following Monday, it
seemed to me as if it was the first time that I had really
believed it would take place, as if I had never considered
before all that that step involved. For the first time I
thought of what it would be to one in my peculiar situation,
not only to love as I had long done, but to be bound by
irrevocable ties to one who, ignorant of all the circumstances
of my miserable fate, would wonder over each inequality of
spirits I betrayed, condemn every tear I shed, read every
letter I received, and, at the slightest appearance of
equivocation or deceit, would banish me from his heart, and
overwhelm me with his just anger. But it was _too late_, I
said to myself--too late to retract, too late to think. I
mentally closed my eyes, and passed through the next
twenty-four hours like some one walking in his sleep.
On the next day (Sunday) I saw Henry for one moment as we were
walking out of church. I told him, in a low voice, of Robert
Harding's appearance in the parks on the last Wednesday, and
of his following us through the streets.
"_You_ saw him," he exclaimed. "Then it was not Alice's
fancy?"
"No, no--I could swear to him. He had followed us, and stood
at the shop-window long before Alice observed him."
Henry looked extremely discomposed, and muttered something to
himself; then turning to me, he said--
"That fellow has been desperately in love with Alice for
years--since she was quite a child. Her grandmother turned him
out of the house on that account three years ago. Just before
our marriage took place, he made some outrageous scenes; I
threatened to give him into custody, and warned Mrs. Tracy
that I should do so. Two or three days after, she told me he
had sailed for America, and from that day to this I had heard
nothing more about him; but I must find out if she knows of
his return. Perhaps she employs him as a spy. I shall let you
know what I hear."
After a pause, I said, with a great effort--
"You must not write to me on any account; remember that,
Henry. Edward will read all my letters; he is already in the
habit of doing so."
"It was exceedingly foolish of you not to object to it. Pray,
how am I to communicate with you if anything should occur to
make it desirable? Is your maid to be trusted?"
I coloured with anger and with shame, and gave Henry a look of
indignant reproach.
"I really beg your pardon if this offends you; but it is not
for my own sake that I ask the question. You yourself employed
a third person when you required my assistance."
"I was not married then, Henry; and deceit, contemptible as it
always is, was not as guilty as it will henceforward be. For
God's sake, spare me the shame of a secret correspondence. You
need not be afraid of my being too happy, or of my forgetting
that you hold my fate in your hands."
"Do not impute to me as a crime, Ellen, that, unfortunately,
_your_ safety depends on _my_ conduct. I have exercised the
greatest control over myself lately, and I had hoped that you
would have done justice to my motives."
As he said this we had reached the door of our house, and
anxious not to part with him in anger, I whispered to him, as
we shook hands--
"I do you justice, Henry. Forgive, and spare me!"
He wrung my hand and walked away, without waiting for his
wife, who had gone into the house with Mrs. Middleton.
Mr. Lovell, who was at that moment calling on my uncle, took
her home in his carriage. When I heard my aunt arrange with
them at what hour they were to be at church the next day, and
ask them to come home to luncheon afterwards, I stood by in a
sort of stupified bewilderment. I then went into the back
drawing-room, and wrote a note to Mrs. Hatton, to ask her to
be present at my marriage the next day. As I was finishing it
my aunt came in, and tried on the wreath of orange flowers,
and the veil which she had chosen for me.
I walked up and down the room--I stood at the window--I wished
that Edward would come; I was getting frightened at my own
nervousness. I went to the pianoforte, and sang Mrs. Hemans's
"Two Voices," that cry of alternate mournful depression, and
highly-wrought enthusiasm, in which the words and the music
seem to be but the expression of one thought. My voice was
unnaturally loud and thrilling; there was a sound in it which
I could not bear. A moment afterwards I was desired to go to
my uncle in the library; Edward was with him, and Lawson, the
man of business. I was directed to sign some papers. I did so,
and Lawson left the room. My uncle then said to me--
"On you, Ellen, and on Edward, I have settled all my property.
Since the day that I lost my only child this has been my fixed
purpose. I was anxious to live long enough to see it
accomplished, and I am thankful that wish has been granted. I
have one request to make to you both. Call your eldest girl
_Julia_--make her wear this chain--it was round my child's
neck when she died--and if I live, let me see her often. Now
go, and God bless you both!"
I don't know what I said or did; these words fell like burning
lead on my soul, and I almost sank on the ground. Edward took
me out of the room; and the only hour of relief which that day
afforded was when, with his arm around me, and my head on his
shoulder, he suffered me to weep in silence.
...Then he raised my head gently but forcibly; then, with his
sweet smile, and his low deep voice, he whispered to me that
his happiness was unutterable--his love boundless--his soul
mine for ever. His words--words of passion from him whom I
worshipped--at whose side I felt myself unworthy to live--at
whose feet I would have been content to die;--those words,
those looks, those tones, thrilled through my whole frame, and
wrought on my brain, turning remorse for the past, and fear
for the future, into a delirious dream of joy, even as
laudanum can change pain itself into ecstacy.
I dreamed that night that I was in church, and that everything
was prepared for my marriage. We stood before the altar, and
the priest opened the book for the marriage service; but as he
began, it was the burial service that he read. They stopped
him, and he turned the pages; but ever as he began again to
read, the same words came to his lips, and the book in his
hands grew larger and larger, and the words, "For the Burial
of the Dead," stood out in bloody letters, and seemed to rise
from the page. I looked up into the priest's face, and that
was changing too. I had seen those features before; but I knew
them not till the thin lips moved, and said--"Julia's
murderer--Julia's murderer!" And then the book and the altar
were gone, and a coffin stood in its place; and the same voice
said, "Open it!"--and the lid rose, and there was a corpse in
its shroud. It lifted itself up slowly, and I could not see
the face; but I cried out in terror "Who is it?" and the
grave-clothes fell--it was Alice! I closed my eyes and
shrieked; and the same voice said, "Look again--look again!" I
looked, and it was Edward. Over and over again, during that
night, I awoke in speechless terror; and when I went to sleep
again, the same dream, with slight variations, haunted me
anew.
The last time I woke, Mrs. Middleton was standing by my
bed-side; and as she pressed me to her heart, I clung to her
convulsively, and repeated wildly, "Save me--save me!"
"From what, my child?" she whispered--"from what? Speak to me,
Ellen. One word only; and at whatever cost it may be, it shall
be done. Is it possible you do not love Edward?"
"O, too much! only too much!" I exclaimed, and burst into an
agony of tears. Mrs. Middleton seemed relieved--assured me I
was only very nervous--gave me something to drink, which
calmed me--and stayed with me while I dressed.
We sat down to breakfast, and Edward soon arrived; he remarked
my paleness, and spoke to me with a tenderness which brought
again into my eyes the tears which I had resolutely repressed
during the last hour. The time drew near, and I was taken to
my room to put on my wedding-gown. By the time I was dressed,
and the whole of the family were gathered together to look at
me, and blessings were pronounced, and good wishes were
uttered, and kisses were given, I had become quite calm again.
I had gone through so much that the power of emotion seemed
almost worn out, and I felt as if I had grown callous and
cold. We drove to church, and I looked quietly out of window
while my hand was locked in Mrs. Middleton's. I saw two or
three acquaintances as we drove along, and read the names on
the shops that we passed, with that kind of mechanical
attention which fixes our eyes without occupying our thoughts.
When we came into the vestry of--church, there were a number
of people in it,--all my relations, and some friends. My eyes
sought out Henry; he was speaking to Mrs. Brandon; and, except
that he was much flushed, there was nothing unusual in his
appearance. Alice was standing by him. Mr. Middleton came for
me, and the door of the vestry was opened. We walked up to the
altar. The clergyman was already there, with the open book
before him. I felt as if I was dreaming again. I trembled
violently, and my teeth struck against each other. My aunt,
Alice, and Henry, took their places on one side of the altar,
and the rest of the people sat down in the surrounding pews.
The clergyman bent forward and beckoned to my uncle, who went
up to speak to him. At that moment I heard a step behind us,
and somebody passed on Edward's side. I looked up, and saw a
tall woman in deep mourning, and with a veil over her face,
take her place in a pew which was nearly opposite to me. A
vague terror seized me, and I could not take my eyes off this
person. When everybody rose at the beginning of the opening
exhortation, she remained sitting, till, when the priest said
these words--
"Therefore, if any man can show any just cause why they may
not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak or else
hereafter for ever hold his peace."
She slowly rose, drew back her veil, and fixed her eyes upon
me; her thin lips moved as I had seen them move in my dream,
and she seemed about to speak. I gave a hurried glance of
despair at Henry; our eyes met, and then mine were rivetted to
the ground, and my limbs and my heart seemed turned to stone.
I _felt_ that woman's gaze upon me. I knew that at the close
of the exhortation she sat down, and that she rose again when
the clergyman said--
"Who gives this woman to be married to this man?"
When Mr. Middleton took my hand and placed it in Edward's, the
sound of a groan reached my ears; and when I raised my eyes,
and, for the second time, fixed them by a kind of fascination
on those malignant features and glassy eyes, they glared upon
me with an expression which I cannot describe, and hardly dare
to recall. The service went on, and when we knelt down to
pray, while my face was buried in my hands, I heard the sound
of receding footsteps; I looked up; she was gone, but I felt
that she had cursed me as she went.
The ceremony was concluded. I was Edward's wife. I rose from
my knees and looked about me. Henry was gone. Alice was pale,
and her eyes were full of tears; she, too, was like what I had
seen in my dream. We went into the vestry and signed some
papers. As I was stepping into Edward's chariot to drive home
again, a paper was thrust into my hand; I took it
mechanically, and held it unconsciously in my clenched hand. I
smiled when Edward spoke tome, and looked at him with
inexpressible affection when he drew me to him, and called me
his wife--his own beloved wife!
We arrived in Brook-street, and I went to dress for the
journey. They brought me some biscuits and wine and water. I
drank some hastily, but could not eat. Mrs. Middleton gave me
her last kiss, and my uncle took me down to the carriage. I
stepped into it, and Edward after me. The door was closed. I
opened mechanically the paper in my hand; it contained these
words--"Your sin shall find you out." I crumpled it again, and
flung it out of window. I talked fast and eagerly to Edward.
After an hour or two I fell into a heavy sleep. When we
reached Dashminster, I awoke in a burning fever. Edward
carried me upstairs, and laid me on a bed. I grew delirious,
and raved all night. They bled me, I believe, and in two days
I was better, and able to proceed to Hillscombe.