"There was a laughing devil in his sneer,
That raised emotions both of rage and fear;
And where his frown of hatred darkly fell,
Hope withering fled, and Mercy sighed farewell."
THE CORSAIR.
From this day forward Henry's manner and conduct lost that
degree of gentleness and consideration which had marked it
since the moment that I had thrown myself on his mercy at the
time of my hasty engagement to Edward. Whenever I was alone
with him, he spoke of his attachment as of a matter of course;
and with alternate bursts of anger and of tenderness, met
every attempt I made to check or resent this: sometimes with
bitter scorn he hinted that I had lost all right to do so, and
asked, with a sneer, if I supposed that he was to be treated
like any presumptuous admirer who happened to make love to me.
In a hundred trifles he contrived to make me feel his power.
He engaged me in a course of petty deceits and contrivances;
he humbled me in my own eyes, and practically pointed out to
me the degradation of my position, and the deterioration of my
character. He held me now, indeed, completely in his power;
for if I made the slightest attempt to struggle against his
tyranny, he threatened to abandon Alice, and to seek in
absence and change of scene, relief to the sufferings which
his hopeless passion caused him. He knew well that such a
project must drive me to despair, on her account as well as my
own; and one evening (about a fortnight after the conversation
I last recorded), when I had turned abruptly from him, and
refused to accede to his usual threatening offers of
reconciliation after a very violent scene, he wrote to me to
announce his determination of carrying this resolution into
effect. His letter was as follows:--
"Do not upbraid me--upbraid yourself for the step to which you
drive me. You must foresee what it is, and you probably
rejoice at the prospect which it holds out to you of escape
from an attachment which, though it has often stood between
you and danger and disgrace, you treat with contempt when not
forced to have recourse to it. My self-control is at an
end--my powers of endurance are exhausted--I can struggle no
longer--and if I leave my wife at a moment when she should
most require the support of my presence, and such comfort as
it would afford her, it is because the discovery of all which
I have hitherto laboured to conceal, would be a more severe
blow to her than my absence will prove. I shall endeavour to
give as plausible an appearance as I can to the step which I
am about to take. It is madness to hazard it; but you drive me
mad. I cannot trust myself to take leave of you; by the time
you awake to-morrow, I shall have left Elmsley, unless I
receive from you some token of regard, some expression of
regret, some promise, that for the future you will have
patience with me. Is it much to ask that my love should be
_endured?_ Would not others in my place exact more? My fate,
yours, and Alice's, are for a second time in your hands. I am
still near you--near her; she is sleeping quietly, unconscious
that the fate of my life and of hers is at this moment
deciding. Write to me one word of kindness, and I am still
ready to conquer my stormy feelings--to subdue my selfish
impulses--to be to her a kind and constant protector--and to
you, a friend. I shall wait here, and count the minutes till
your answer reaches me, and each will seem to me a century;
but do not imagine that I write this only to frighten you into
a reconciliation. I solemnly swear, that, if you do not bid me
stay, and bind yourself to a patient, constant, and generous
indulgence to feelings, which, if concealed from others, must
be appreciated and respected by you; if you do not send me
such an answer, I swear that I have seen you and Alice for the
last time; and that the misery which may in consequence befall
her and you, my sister, and Edward himself, is your doing, and
not mine. Ellen, decide!"
I read this letter in my dressing-room with my maid waiting in
the passage, and in momentary expectation of Edward's coming
up-stairs. Bewildered, I stood with it in my hand, unable to
think or to decide. In five minutes there was a knock at the
door; and my maid said--"Mr. Lovell is waiting for the answer,
Ma'am."
The clock struck twelve; the door of the billiard-room opened,
and I heard the voices of the men preparing to leave it. I
snatched a bit of paper on the table and wrote hastily in
pencil upon it--"Do not go, I implore you. I forgive, and will
bear with you."
I sealed and gave it; and the instant afterwards would have
given worlds to recall it--but it _was_ gone; and when we all
sat down at breakfast the next morning, and everything went on
as usual; and when, for a few days at least, Henry seemed to
take no advantage of my cowardly concession, I did not feel
its folly, or its guilt, as I ought to have done.
I could not find out by Alice's manner how far her suspicions
had been awakened, or her feelings wounded, by the discovery
of my letter to her husband. She was certainly a different
person from what she had been in the early days of her
marriage. She had altogether lost the childish artlessness
with which she used to communicate her thoughts, and relate
the incidents of her daily life and innocent occupations; but
on the other hand, she no longer avoided those subjects of
conversation, or those books, which related to the actual
state of society, or the history of the human mind. She read a
great deal; book after book I saw her carry up to her own
room, and the intense interest with which I watched, without
daring to question her, made me closely observe her course of
reading. Her mind seemed to feed upon it, and her intellect to
expand; but at the same time her cheek grew pale, and in the
expression of her countenance, what once was peace, had become
composure; and in her character, what had been only
simplicity, had grown into reserve. Her eyes were often
rivetted upon Henry, with an expression not of love or of
fear, but of deep and painful interest.
It was at the end of the third week in October that we moved
to London, and that I took possession of my new house there.
Alice's confinement was near at hand, and so was the departure
of my uncle and aunt. This was a pang which some time before
would have been inexpressibly painful to me, but now I grieved
over it--more from the recollection of what had once been my
happiness with my aunt, and of the manner in which that
happiness had passed away, than from the actual grief of
separation itself. Since my marriage, her manner to me,
without being cold, had grown constrained, and she had often
been on the point of giving utterance to something that seemed
to agitate and distress her, but which had, however, never
passed her lips. I fancied it might have reference to Henry
and Alice, and I dreaded so much her speaking to me on a
subject on which, alas! I could give no explanation, nor in
any way change my own conduct, that instead of seeking her
society during those last days in London, I, on the contrary,
avoided it, and shrunk with nervous dread from being alone
with her. They went; and when she took leave of me, she folded
me in her arms, and whispered in my ear, "God guide thee--God
bless thee! my beloved child!"
I hid my face in her bosom; and the burning tears which I shed
there, were my only answer to a blessing which seemed to heap
coals of fire on my head. I turned from the window whence I
had watched their departure, and a sense of desolation took
possession of me. I had never opened my heart to her; I had
never _told_ her that I was wretched; but if at any moment the
cup was too full, and my heart-strings stretched to bursting,
I could turn to her and say, "My soul is heavy within me," and
she never said, "Why is it thus with you?" She never told me
that life was fair, and my share of its blessings great, and
that I _ought_ to be happy. She did not _know_ that I was
miserable--but she _felt_ it; and to me, young, strong and
blooming as I then was--to me the idol of the man I
adored--the spoilt child of fortune--she had in those moments
the heart's instinct to say--"Earth, my child, has a grave;
and in Heaven there is rest."
We went for the few days which intervened between Mr. and Mrs.
Middleton's departure and the meeting of parliament, to the
Moores' at Hampstead; and I enjoyed more quiet there than I
had done since we had left Hillscombe.
Rosa was absent; and the society might have been reckoned
dull; but to me it was a time of comparative peace, and
sometimes almost of happiness.
Edward was in good spirits; and the emotion which he evinced
on seeing again the spot where our destinies had been sealed,
was a proof how truly he loved me. And, oh, with what
tenderness, with what affection, I regarded him; but how I
feared him too, and with what moral weariness I strove to keep
up before him, in very fear, the appearance of that character
which he fondly supposed me to possess. He sternly reproved me
for each act, for each word, that fell short of that standard
of perfection which his imagination had drawn. He attributed
to me merits and qualities which I did not possess; but, on
the other hand, he looked upon me as a spoilt and fanciful
child, who must be taught to see life as it is, and to fulfil
its every-day duties. His praise and his blame depressed and
discouraged me alike.
I was idle, for repose was a strange luxury to my weary
spirit; and Edward gave me books to read, and plans to draw,
and subjects to discuss, and called me severely to task when
my eye was abstracted, and my manner listless. As long as he
spoke to me of his affection,--as long as he listened, with
fond delight, to the words of love which I addressed to him,--
I forgot every painful thought, every fear, and every regret,
in the happiness of the moment; but as soon as my attention
was forced away from ourselves, and directed to abstract
subjects, it wandered to the thousand objects of alarm and
disquietude which compassed me about.
When Edward spoke to me of establishing family prayers in our
house, I tremblingly objected. I went to church as often as he
did; but always let him draw near to the altar alone; for,
unforgiven, unabsolved, unreconciled, I dared not approach it.
On the Sunday which we spent at Hampstead, and on which this
occurred, I wandered about the churchyard in solitary
wretchedness, as if a spirit of evil had possession of me, and
kept me away
"From Mercy's inmost shrine."
When Edward joined me again, he was low and depressed; there
was a struggle in his countenance, and we walked home in
silence.
In the evening, as I was sitting writing in my own room, he
came in; there was a deep shade of gloom in his face; and when
I knelt by his side, and threw my arms round his neck he
disengaged himself from me, and, leaning his head on his hand,
said, with a voice of emotion, "I little thought when we
married, that on the most sacred of all subjects, we felt so
differently."
I drew from my bosom a paper, on which I had been writing the
following lines, and held it out to him:--
"Self-banished, self-condemned, I stand alone,
And the closed doors between us seem to rise
In judgment and in wrath: a dull hard stone
Is in my breast; a cloud before my eyes.
I kneel; but my clasped hands are raised in vain;
They sink, weighed down by mem'ry's spell again.
My soul is mute, no melodies arise;
No sacred accents, from her shattered chords;
And speechless prayers alone, in broken sighs,
Struggle for utterance, and find no words.
But is there not a strange mysterious cry,
A mute appeal in each unconscious sigh--
A silent prayer in every secret tear,
Which man discerns not, but which God will hear?"
Edward gave me back the paper, and said coldly, "Poetry is not
religion; and sentiment is not piety."
"But they may lead to them, Edward."
"They _mislead_ you, I fear."
He turned away and took up a book; so did I: it was the Bible;
and as I opened it, my eyes fell on the following passage:--
"Hadst thou know, even thou, in this thy day the things which
belong to thy peace, but now they are hid from thy sight." How
long? my God, how long?
Upon our return to town, I found how much truth there had been
in Henry's remark, that for the present London would suit me
better than any other place. He had foreseen and calculated
upon what, in fact, did happen.
I felt an involuntary relief in the way in which Edward's time
was taken up, and his attention engrossed by a variety of
affairs relative to his estates, as well as by a diligent
attendance upon the House of Commons. When he came home to a
late dinner, or took a short ride with me in the park, there
was in those brief moments so much to talk about, so much to
interest us both, such intense enjoyment in each other's
society, that there was no opportunity for Edward to find
fault with me, or for me to show him anything of that wayward
and gloomy abstraction which irritated and displeased him. The
echo of his step, the sound of his voice, was like music in my
ears; and as I rushed to meet him, with a bright smile and an
eager welcome, he received me with a tenderness which was too
often changed to severity, when, in an hourly association, he
had to observe the thousand faults which marked the course of
my daily life.
There is no existence much more lonely than that of a woman
just married, whose husband is constantly engaged in business,
or in politics, and who happens to have no near relations or
intimate friends about her. This was the case with me; I had
formed none of those intimacies which fill up so large a
portion in a woman's life; and the love of reading and of
study; which had been strong in my girlish days, had latterly
completely given way to the necessity for constant stimulus
and excitement.
I found it, unfortunately, in Henry's society. As a matter of
course, he was admitted to me whenever he called, and he
assumed that the order, or the prayer, whichever it was, that
had prevented his leaving us, gave him an indisputable right
to maintain, in their fullest extent, those privileges of
intimacy, which the nearness of our connection, as well as the
ties that had bound us to each other, had established between
us.
I had so often vainly struggled to assert my independence,
that I felt afraid and ashamed of entering into further
contests with him. There seemed to be more dignity in
submitting, to a certain extent, to his demands, than in
renewing those harassing scenes which we had so often gone
through. I allowed him, day after day, to sit for hours alone
with me; to read to me the most exciting books; to discuss
with me subjects of the deepest interest; and to talk of his
attachment to me in a way which I now never attempted to
check.
Nothing could be more baneful to my character than such a
state of things. The very struggle to appear better than I was
in Edward's eyes, wearisome as I often found it, kept up a
certain degree of straining after better things, and some
remorse at the contrast which the reality presented to the
outward appearance.
With Henry, on the contrary, there was no necessity to conceal
the evil that was in me; and the more I gave way to the
waywardness and impetuosity of my undisciplined character, the
more he fed me with that most insidious of poisons, the
constant homage of a blind and passionate admiration.
The beginning of that winter in London was one of those
periods of false peace which sometimes occur in our lives. My
hardened conscience, like the guilty prophet's of old,
prophesied peace where there was no peace, and spoke smooth
things while destruction was hovering around me. Now and then
I made an attempt (not to repulse Henry, in very pride I dared
not begin another contest with him, but) to see more of Alice,
and to re-establish between us our former habitual
intercourse; but there were dangers and difficulties in this
which I could hardly surmount. As the time of her confinement
drew near, she would seldom leave her own house; and her
grandmother occasionally visited her there, which, during the
preceding year, she had not done. I therefore never paid her a
visit without previously ascertaining from Henry if there was
any chance of meeting with this old woman, which I dreaded
beyond expression; and while I was with her I could not
command a restless nervousness which she evidently attributed
to another cause. She was neither unkind nor repulsive in her
manner to me, but a shade of coldness and reserve showed me
that her eyes were, to a certain extent, opened. With regard
to Edward, Henry practised a degree of caution which, though I
did not dare counteract it, disgusted me at times with him and
with myself. His self-command was complete; and in his
presence, no word or look ever betrayed that devotion, which
in his absence was so constantly displayed; and his visits
were so skilfully conducted, that Edward never suspected their
frequency or their length. To remain passive in such a system
of deception, and when practised with regard to Edward, was
sometimes more than I could do; and it occasionally happened
that, in a moment of irritation, I exposed him in some
artifice, or betrayed him in some scheme, in a way which
required all his presence of mind to meet, and his consummate
skill in dissimulation to carry off. After this had occurred,
he generally left me in anger; and the nervous feeling which
such an abrupt separation caused me--the means of revenge
which were constantly in his hands--the helpless ignorance in
which I remained--and, in truth, I must add, the way in which
I missed the excitement of his society--made me eagerly
welcome, and sometimes even seek, a renewal of intercourse.
One day that Henry called at the usual hour, and that Edward
happened to be at home, I saw that he was put out and annoyed
at the impossibility of speaking to me alone. He gave me
various hints that he had something important to say; and at
last, as he was standing behind Edward, he wrote on a bit of
paper, which he contrived to give me, the following words:
"Alice asks to have her grandmother with her during her
confinement; what can I do?" It had often occurred to me that
this would happen; and much as it complicated and aggravated
all my difficulties, I was not heartless enough to urge him to
refuse such a request, made at such a moment. I conveyed this
to him by a few words; and soon after he took his leave.
I did not see him again till two days afterwards, when he
joined us at the play. Mr. Escourt was in our box. Edward had
met him in the lobby, and had asked him to come in and renew
his acquaintance with me. I received him coldly but civilly.
My heart beat quickly each time that the door of the box
opened, at the idea of a meeting between him and Henry. I did
not know if they were on speaking terms; and after the
insolent manner in which he had alluded the year before to
Henry's devotion to me, I felt my cheeks flush as I thought of
what would pass through his mind, when he should see him take
his place by my side. When he did arrive, to my great
surprise, I saw them shake hands, and exchange a few words
with perfect civility.
How strange it is to those who are in some sense new to the
world, to see the way in which time can scar those wounds
which we should have imagined that nothing could have healed;
wounds which we should have expected to see bleed afresh at
the sight of the inflictor, as it was said of old, that those
of the murdered did at the approach of the murderer. Sometimes
we almost feel as if nothing was real in that singular
existence called _the world_. Like the performers, who laugh
and talk behind the scenes after the close of some dreadful
tragedy; we see around us men who have ruined the fortunes and
destroyed the happiness of others, women who have betrayed and
been betrayed, whose existence has been perhaps devoted to
misery and to infamy by the first step they have taken in the
path of guilt, and whose hearts, if they did not break, grew
hard; we see the victims and the destroyers, those who have
loved and those who have hated, those who have injured and
those who have been injured, mix together in the common
thoroughfares of life, meet even in social intimacy, with
offered hands and ready smiles; not because "Blessed are the
merciful, for they shall obtain mercy;" not because "To those
who forgive, shall much be forgiven;" but because what is
genuine and true, what is deep and what is strong, takes no
root in that worn-out soil on which we tread, thrives not in
that withering air which we breathe, in that fictitious region
which we live in, and which we so emphatically and so
presumptuously call _the world_.
I started when Edward turned to me and said, "How very grave
you look, Ellen! One would imagine by your face that a tragedy
and not a farce was going on."
I smiled and shook my head.
"Mrs. Middleton looks like the Muse of Tragedy herself,"
observed Mr. Escourt. "Have you ever acted, Mrs. Middleton?"
"Never."
"Indeed, I should think you would excel in it. Such a
countenance! Such a play of features! Your thoughts speak in
your face! Mr. Lovell, would not Mrs. Middleton make an
admirable actress?"
"Where the part suited her."
"_That_ would be no test of talent. I would pledge my
existence that she could act to the life the most contrary
characters, and enchant us in each. Which of the passions, of
love or of hatred, would seem to you most difficult to
represent, Mrs. Middleton?"
"Scorn would be easier than either."
"To my mind a sudden transition is finer than anything: an
instantaneous change of expression, for instance, from _scorn_
to _fear;_ it is one of the most striking pieces of acting
that can occur, and most interesting to observe." He stopped,
and fixed his eyes upon me; I riveted mine upon the stage.
In a moment, with a totally different manner, I heard him say,
"Pray, Mr. Lovell, do you know anything of my new gamekeeper,
Robert Harding?"
I did not start, I did not move an eyelash; I heard Henry
answer in a husky, uncertain manner, "Very little."
I felt that he had lost his self-command; and by a strong
effort I retained mine. I made two or three remarks in an
indifferent tone, and then asked Edward to change places with
me, alleging that the light was in my eyes. Mr. Escourt left
the box and seated himself in one exactly opposite a moment
afterwards. Some friends of Edward came in, and while he was
speaking to them, I whispered to Henry, "Does he know? Is it
all over with me? If he does, I destroy myself! I have lived
through much; but to be in _that_ man's power... Never! never!"
"Hush, take care; do not get excited. I am _sure_ he does not
know. Harding may have dropped some obscure hint and I see
clearly by his manner what he suspects; he thinks Harding was
a messenger, or something of that sort, between us. It is all
the better that he should think _that;_ but I must try to get
Harding away from him. Ellen, my home is insufferable; the old
woman is come, and watches me like a lynx; Alice looks
miserable, and she sees it."
"But then, for Heaven's sake exert yourself! Make her happy;
do not neglect her as you do. Oh, Henry, is she unhappy? that
is worse than anything! Would to God I were dead! you would
all be at peace!"
"Hush, do not talk so wildly. I will exert myself, if you
promise never to be harsh or cold to me again. Do not turn
away; I do not ask you to love me. Don't I know that you adore
_him?_ Don't I see it in your eyes? don't I hear it in your
voice, twenty times in the day? Would you not have been mine
long ago, but for that cursed attachment to Edward..."
"The curtain has dropped, Ellen; don't you intend to go?"
I hastily got up, put on my cloak, and taking Edward's arm,
went down stairs with him. When we got into the carriage, I
knew by the determined silence which he maintained, that he
was displeased with me.
As we were waiting for some tea in the drawing-room, he said
to me abruptly, "Pray, why did you treat Escourt in the way
you did this evening?"
"I have a bad opinion of him, and I cannot endure him."
"On what is that bad opinion founded?"
"I have been told that he is thoroughly unprincipled."
"Who told you this?"
I did not feel courage to name Henry; and as I hesitated,
Edward went on: "If you think that a sufficient reason for not
treating a person with common civility, I own I cannot
understand your strict and intimate friendship with Henry. I
feel a regard for him, founded on early association, and his
many captivating qualities; on the same grounds, and as Mrs.
Middleton's brother, it is very natural that you should feel
the same; but there is a wide difference between this kind of
regard, and the confidential and intimate footing you are on
with him; and it is, to say the least, in very bad taste,
that, at home and in the world, you should neglect my friends
and acquaintances, in order to sit for hours gossiping with
Henry. It seems to me extraordinary that he should devote so
much time to society when Alice is unwell, and so near her
confinement. Have you seen her to-day?"
"No; not to-day; her grandmother is with her."
I said this supposing he would think it a sufficient reason
for not going there, as none of the family had seen Mrs. Tracy
since the marriage, or had had any communication with her.
"You do not mean that you intend not to see Alice while her
grandmother is with her?"
"Neither my aunt nor any of the family have met that woman..."
"They may do as they please about it; but I shall suffer no
such ridiculous pride to stand in the way of your being of as
much use and comfort to Alice as you possibly can. She is only
too good for Henry; and he ought to bless the day on which she
married him. Go there to-morrow, Ellen, and behave civilly to
Mrs. Tracy."
"I really wish, Edward, that you would let me judge for myself
on this subject. I love Alice dearly, but I cannot go there
now. Henry himself does not wish it."
"Is Henry's opinion to be followed rather than mine?"
"No, dearest Edward, do not take it in that way; but _pray_ do
not insist upon my doing this."
"I _do_ insist upon it, and beg to hear nothing more said
against it. I desire you to go there to-morrow morning; I am
sorry you have not right feeling enough to do it of your own
accord, but whether you agree with me or not you must obey
me."
I was going to persist; but Edward's countenance was so stern
that I dared not utter another word; and all night long I lay
awake racking my brain to find out some expedient, some
pretext, some excuse, for eluding this order, which it seemed
to me equally dangerous to obey or to resist.