"We take fair days in winter for the spring."
YOUNG'S NIGHT THOUGHTS.
"O how this spring of love resembleth
The uncertain glory of an April day,
Which now shows all the beauty of the scene,
And by and by a cloud takes all away."
SHAKESPEARE.
Edward, I kneel to you in spirit while I write this record of
our married life. By all the trembling hope I feel that a day
may come, not of mercy, but of justice--a day when, though you
will not forgive me, yet you will believe in me--when, though
you will not open your arms to me, yet you will say, "She was
false, but not false to me." By this hope I gather strength to
write. But as I pace up and down my narrow room, or lay my
head on the marble slab, the only cold place it can find, dare
I think of what has been, of what is not? Shall I not go mad,
and in my madness shall I not accuse you, Edward? Shall I not
tell God and man, that you have shut your heart against me,
and broken mine? And on the day of judgment, will not God ask
you what you have done with her, who, however guilty, was
guiltless to you? Oh, deeply loved and deeply mourned, ever
absent from my sight, ever present to my thoughts! lord of my
bosom's love, object of its idolatry, I do not accuse you. If
a fallen spirit banished from Heaven ever mourned over his
fall, without a murmur for the past or a hope for the future,
his feelings are like mine, when in my solitude I think that
once you loved me and called me yours.
Can it be that such things are and pass away, and leave no
traces behind them, save broken hearts and mental agonies?
Does Nature, while it rejoices with those who rejoice, never
weep with those who weep? Does the sun shine as brightly on
the forest glades of Hillscombe as when I wandered through
them with Edward? Does the stream dash through them with the
same reckless joy as when he helped me over its mossy stones?
Is the thyme as sweet, is the heather as purple, as when by
his side I scrambled over its wild moors? And thyself, Edward,
thyself--art thou as strong, as beautiful, as stern as ever?
Hast thou driven me from thy side, and when the first anguish
of that hour was gone by, hast thou said, "The bitterness of
death is past," and raised again thy stately head in its
beauty and its pride?
Is joy more sacred than grief, or is it so strange to the
human heart that, when present, we dare not scan its fleeting
form, nor recall its image when it is past. One short dream of
bliss was mine; it stands alone in a life, which, though not
long in years, has been long in sorrow. Once the cup has been
raised to my lips; one draught I took of that for which my
soul longs with a burning and quenchless thirst. Happiness!
yes, happiness; one hour of which reveals to us what an
eternity of bliss can be; for time and space, beginning and
end, are as though they were not, in that intense life of the
soul.
For seven days the sun rose in cloudless majesty; for seven
days he sunk to rest "in one unclouded blaze of living light."
Sunshine streamed on the grassy hills; it gilded the fields of
ripening corn; it pierced into the depths of the forest; it
bathed the world in light, and gladdened the heart of man. And
I too, for a while, was glad; in the fierce fever which for
some hours had robbed me of my senses, the anguish of my soul
seemed to have passed away. Nothing was changed in my fate,
but I felt weak, and there is something in weakness which
resembles peace; and in the love which we give to man, when it
is entire and undivided, there is a power which is strong for
good or for evil, as the hand of the master wields it.
We were alone; no familiar faces--no accustomed objects
reminded me of myself--of that self which had so straggled, so
sinned, and so suffered. I gazed on the beautiful works of
God; I raised my eyes from the green sward on which we trod,
to the soft blue sky, and my soul was melted within me. I
listened to Edward's words, and in that blessed solitude
nothing disturbed the silent echo which his voice of music
left upon my ear. As I closed my eyes in sleep, I blessed him;
as I opened them again I beheld him; and when he knelt in
prayer, I knelt too, and said, "God be merciful to me a
sinner!"
"Ellen, my love, shall you be ready to set off at nine
to-morrow? We must be at Elmsley by six.--In tears, Ellen?
What is the matter, my love? Now, really, this is childish."
"I cannot bear to go--I cannot bear to leave this place. I
shall never return to it if I leave it now. In the murmur of
the river--in the songs of the birds, in the rustling of the
leaves, there has been all day a voice of lamentation which
has haunted me; something mournful which has sounded to me
like an eternal adieu. I have tried to exclude these thoughts,
but they return in spite of me; and when you spoke of going,
your words--"
"My dearest Ellen, I really cannot listen to such absurd
nonsense. You know how much I admire your love of the beauties
of nature--how much I appreciate your eloquence in describing
them; but when all this degenerates into sentimentality, I own
I cannot stand it."
"Dearest Edward, for you everything in nature wears a smile,
and I thank God that it is so. You have never had cause to
shrink from what is pure and bright and beautiful, with an
aching heart and a self-accusing spirit."
As I raised my eyes to Edward's face, I was startled at its
expression. There was a sternness in it which made me tremble.
"Ellen," he said, "listen to me, and mark my words. Either a
morbid sensibility, which I despise, or a mawkish affectation,
which I detest, injures the tone of your mind, and the truth
of your character. Never let me hear again of wounded spirits,
and self-reproaches, and poetic sufferings. When you were a
girl you almost frightened away my love for you by these
mysterious exclamations, and I hate the very sound of them. Do
not let me hear that my wife cannot look upon the face of
nature with a calm and hopeful eye, or on her past life with a
self-approving conscience. I know there is no reality in such
language, God knows, I should not speak so calmly if I could
suppose there was; but as you value my love, or dread my
anger, never use expressions again which in your mouth are
senseless."
"You are severe," I said, with an attempt at a smile, which
made my mouth quiver; "your wife should indeed be perfect, for
it is evident that her faults would meet with no mercy from
you."
"You think me harsh, Ellen? Perhaps I am. But look here; there
are four lines in this book (and he took up a volume of
Metastasio's plays which was lying on the table), which
makeup, in my opinion, for all the sentimental non-sense it
contains." He pointed to these lines:
"La gloria nostra
E geloso cristallo, e debil canna
Ogni aura ch'inchina, ogni respiro ch'appanna."
"My feelings are, perhaps, exaggerated, but I own it fairly to
you. I can conceive that, as a woman's reputation might suffer
from trifles light as air, so a man's love might vanish from
what would appear but a slight cause for such an effect. You
were about to speak, Ellen, and you have checked the words
that were rising to your lips, but I read them in your eyes,
and I will answer them. It is not because my love is weak,
that a fault in you would seem to me as a crime in another. It
is because, to discover that you were not pure and good and
true, beyond any other woman in the world, would be so
dreadful to me, that I doubt if in that overthrow of all my
pride and my happiness, my love could survive. My pride, I
say, as well as my happiness, for I _am_ proud of you, my
beloved wife, when I look at your dark eyes--at your clear
brow--at your curling lip, and feel that no word has ever
passed those lips which an angel might not have uttered, nor
any eye has ever been raised to yours but with respect and
affection. They are glorious gifts, Ellen, precious treasures
which you possess--an innocent mind and a spotless reputation.
Beware how you accustom yourself to talk, for effect, of
remorse and self-reproach. They _are_ too dark and too bitter
things to be trifled with."
"True," I answered, "they are too dark and too bitter subjects
for us to discuss. You are right. Forgive me my folly. I shall
not fall again into the same error."
And back into the deepest recesses of a swelling heart were
thrust regrets, fears, hopes, which were thus commanded never
again to trouble the smooth surface of married life.
Henceforward I was ordered to stand like a painted sepulchre,
in all the outward form and show of virtue, nor ever dare to
utter in Edward's hearing that life was not always fair, its
memories sweet, and its prospects bright. The dream was over,
and its danger too, for in its happiness my soul had grown
weak; it had pouted forth its love, and in the rushing tide of
feeling the secret of its misery was escaping it. Now the
barrier was raised again--now the mental separation was begun;
for as we drove out of sight of Hillscombe on the following
day, with that self-command which, while the heart is aching,
teaches the tongue to utter some common-place remark in an
indifferent voice and careless manner, I turned to Edward and
asked him some trifling question, while at that very moment
burning tears stood in my eyes, and a passionate farewell was
uttered in my soul.
One of the strangest feelings in life, is that of gliding into
a new state of things with a kind of matter-of-course facility
which we do not beforehand imagine to be possible. This struck
me much, when, on the day of our arrival at Elmsley, I found
myself once more seated at dinner in that well-known
dining-room, in which every bit of furniture, from the picture
of a certain Admiral Middleton, which stood over the
chimney-piece with a heap of blue cannon-balls by his side, to
the heavy, sweeping, red curtains in which I had often hid
myself in a game of hide-and-seek, was as familiar to me as the
face of a friend. Here, in the house where in despair I had once
refused Edward, I was sitting as his bride, and bowing in return
for the healths which were drunk in honour of my marriage; and
Henry--Henry, who had so often threatened, upbraided, once
almost cursed me--greeted me now with a smile, and the bridal
nosegay of white camellias and jessamine which I held in my
hand was gathered and given by him. Alice, also, the child of
Bridman cottage, the tradesman's daughter, was sitting by Mr.
Middleton in all the quiet dignity of her natural manner. For
the first time she was dressed in an evening gown of white
muslin, and a wreath of shining holly was in her hair. Mr.
Middleton seemed particularly happy; he had obtained the great
object of all his wishes; he had married me to Edward.
Edward's return for the county was next to certain; and such
was the softening influence of this state of things that he
asked Henry to drink wine with him, and nodded to him
good-humouredly as he did so. Mrs. Middleton, on the contrary,
looked anxious and careworn, and once or twice I saw her eyes
filled with tears, as she turned them alternately upon Alice
and me.
In the evening Henry spoke to me but little, and nothing could
be more amiable and gentle than his manner. He carefully
avoided every subject that could have been painful to me, and
whatever he said was soothing. He was out of spirits, but
there was no bitterness in his depression. In trifles which
will not bear recital, by some scarcely perceptible change of
tone, by an answer given in the right place, by a look of
assent when no word was uttered, he gave what at that moment I
wanted--sympathy, and that silent, constant, unobtrusive
sympathy, fell like oil on troubled waters.
"Does she like Elmsley?" I asked, as Alice sat opposite to us,
earnestly reading a book which she had just taken out of the
bookcase.
"I hardly know. The kind of life she leads here, quiet as it
seems to us, is so new to her that I fancy it almost oppresses
her. She has not been quite like herself since she came here.
I cannot call it a cloud, but a shade has sometimes passed
over her face whose expression formerly never used to vary. Do
you remember the first day you ever saw her?"
"Don't I--the old fountain and the blooming children: what a
picture that was! But look at her _now;_ is she not like what
our fancy, aided by the loveliest conceptions of genius,
presents to our thoughts, when we think of _her_ whom all
generations call blessed?"
I murmured in a low tone, more to myself than to him, the
beautiful appellations of the blessed Virgin--"Lily of
Eden--mystic rose--star of the morning!"
Henry added, in as low a voice, and without looking at me,
"Notre Dame de bon secours."
I understood him, and acknowledged to myself the truth of his
prediction, that there was one share in my soul which nothing
could ever rob him of, and that was that undefinable communion
of thought and feeling, which an extraordinary fatality of
circumstances, and a natural congeniality of mind, had created
between us.
The next day there was nothing but bustle and excitement in
the house, and in the neighbourhood. The polling was to begin
at twelve o'clock that morning; and, at an early hour, we all
drove to the town of--, to take up our quarters for the day in
the drawing-room of the inn which belonged to my uncle, and
the landlord of which was one of Edward's staunch supporters.
The loud cries of "Middleton for ever!" the enthusiastic
cheering as we drove along; the occasional groans and hisses,
which were too feeble to depress our spirits; the flags; the
music; the bustle; Edward's heightened colour and animated
countenance; the interest felt and expressed by all those
about us; the eagerness of contest; the anxiety for success;
the anticipated triumph over the enemy--all this together
worked me up into such a state of excitement, that I could
hardly sit still in the carriage, or at the window, or forbear
to shout with the shouting mob.
Henry seemed as much interested as any of us; he was
continually going backwards and forwards from the poll to the
inn: he won even my uncle's heart, by the look of dismay with
which he brought, at one moment, the news that our antagonists
were unexpectedly getting ahead of us, and the burst of joy
with which, towards one o'clock on the second day, he dashed
into the room with the account of Edward's triumphant return
by a considerable majority. His face had worn a look of
zealous anxiety during the hours when the result had been
doubtful; and, not my uncle, in all the gratification of party
spirit, and of successful influence; nor myself, when I saw
Edward chaired and cheered, and extolled to the skies; were
more intensely pleased, or more wildly gay, than Henry.
I was bent upon hearing Edward speak in the Town-hall, and
insisted upon going there with Henry and Alice. Mr. Middleton
made some objections to this, but I overruled them all; and
soon I found myself in a kind of gallery, which had been
hastily adorned with flags and ribbons of our political and
family colours.
As I bowed, in return to the bursts of cheering which greeted
me, at once as a bride, and as the wife of the successful
candidate; as I looked upon that dense mass of human beings,
who were all vociferating the name I loved, and calling for
long life to him whom I adored,--never before having witnessed
a scene of popular excitement, I felt carried out of myself by
the tumultuous agitation of that moment. I felt that the eyes
of the multitude were upon me; and, for the first time in my
life, I felt certain and glad that I was handsome.
There ran a murmur of applause through the crowd; the air was
rent by cries of "Long live Middleton's bride! Long live the
bride of Elmsley!" and, as Edward walked into the hall, and
looked up at the gallery where I was, the smile that lighted
up his features, and the earnest gaze which he fixed upon me
for an instant before he began to speak, conveyed to me more
than any words could have done, that the beauty which had
excited the enthusiasm of the mob reigned over his heart, and
captivated his proud spirit.
He began to speak: I mechanically seized Henry's hand, while I
listened with breathless attention. His first words were
uttered slowly; but they were well chosen, and well applied.
Gradually he warmed with his subject; and, in the summary
which he gave of his political opinions, there were that good
sense and power of expression, which indicate a high order of
eloquence--above all, there was in his countenance, and in his
words, that consciousness of unsullied worth and integrity,
the moral effects of which no flights of genius and no zeal of
party can supply. When he spoke of responsibility and its
duties, it was responsibility to God as well as to man: when
he spoke of the welfare of the people and of the country,
there was not a human being, private friend or political
opponent, (enemies he had none,) who could not have borne
witness, that each day of his life was spent in unwearied
efforts for the good of others; and, therefore, he had a right
to speak of God, for he served Him; of His church, for he
honoured it; of his country, for he loved it; of virtue, for
he practised it; of character, for his was unblemished; of
honour, for his was unstained; and among all that assembled
multitude, there was not one whose hand could point to a word
or deed of his, that had not made his light to shine before
men, and glorified his Father in Heaven, or whose voice could
have named his name as connected with aught of shame or
dishonour.
"Speak on, Edward, speak on, and let all who hear you and see
you to-day, feel for an instant what I spend my life in
feeling, that if many have done virtuously, you excel them
all."
* * * * * * * * * * * *
"Ay, that's fine speaking for the husband of she as killed the
child, and got the property!"
Was that a voice from the lowest depths of hell? Had I heard
those words--and did I not fall down upon my face, and call to
the mountains to fall on me, and to the hills to cover me? No;
I sat on and grasped Henry's hand, and saw his deadly pale
face turned to the gallery over our heads; and I heard a
scuffle above, and a row beginning, and a sound of voices like
the hoarse murmur of the sea when the waves are rising; then
Edward's voice ceased, and loud deafening cheers rang through
the building; and Henry dragged me through the crowd; and
among that world of faces, and in that rushing noise, and in
that hurrying to and fro, I felt as if I must eternally
wander, and hear again and again those words which had curdled
my blood, and sickened my heart.
"Oh, no!" I cried, as Henry carried me to the carriage, and
placed me by Alice's side, "Oh, no!" I cried, regardless of
her presence, and almost wild with despair, "now, my
punishment is greater than I can bear. I must leave him,--I
must fly,--I must hide myself for ever... I am mad. Don't you
see I am mad, Henry? Don't try to stop me. She must know
it--he must know it--all the world must know it now. Let me
go, let me go!"
I sunk back into the carriage; and the last thing I heard,
before I fainted, was Henry saying to his wife, "The
excitement has been too much for her. I fear the brain fever
will return."