"I know not what I said;
I've said too much unless I could speak all.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
****** You've raised the storm
Will sever us for ever ******
The rugged hand of fate has got between
Our meeting hearts, and thrusts them from their joys."
FATAL MARRIAGE.
"Farewell; God knows when we shall meet again;
I have a faint cold fear thrill through my veins
That almost freezes up the heat of life."
SHAKESPEARE.
The following morning I got up with that jaded feeling which
an anxious and sleepless night produces. As I went into my
dressing-room I saw a note lying on the chimney, and
recognised Henry's handwriting. I darted upon it and tore it
open; the few words it contained gave me the sincerest
pleasure, and put an end for the moment to the difficulty
under which I laboured. This was his note:--"Alice was
confined a few hours ago of a small and delicate, but I hope
healthy boy. They are both, I am happy to say, doing as well
as possible. Ask Edward if I can come and dine with you
to-day?"
On a separate paper in the same cover were written these
words:--"You need be under no fresh apprehensions from what
occurred last night. It is as I thought, but you had better be
civil to Escourt; he is a dangerous enemy."
I burnt this last note, and carried the other to Edward. He
read it, and put it down without making any comment upon it.
"Shall I send an answer directly, or wait to call there in the
carriage after breakfast?"
"Just as you please."
"Is Henry to dine here?"
"Of course, as he proposes it."
I sat down to write a note in acknowledgment of Henry's, and
to tell him that we should expect him to dinner. In the
afternoon, when I drove out in the carriage at the usual hour,
I went to his house to inquire after Alice. He came down to
the door of the carriage and gave me a good account of her,
but he looked gloomy and preoccupied. "How long does _she_
stay?" I inquired, with a timid glance at the window.
"Ten days, I believe--ten mortal days. It is hell upon earth
to play the hypocrite, from morning to night."
"If you have any good feeling you ought to be happy to-day."
"Are _you_ come to preach to me too? Are _you_ going to talk
of the _duty_ of being happy? But, come, I will be happy if I
can; take me a drive, Ellen--I want air and change--my head
aches horribly."
Before I could answer he had made a sign to the servant to let
down the step, and had seated himself by my side. We had often
driven alone together; and though after what Edward had said
to me the night before, I should very much have wished to
avoid this display of intimacy, I knew it would have the
appearance of caprice if I refused so simple a request, and
Henry did not seem in a humour to be trifled with. I said,
however, in a whisper, and glancing at the windows, "Do you
think this judicious?"
"She is out," he answered, in the same way; "and when we come
back, you can put me down at the comer of the street."
I could not repress a sigh, but desired the coachman to drive
towards the King'-road. "If I had known that she was out I
should have gone up-stairs to see your child."
"Poor little thing," answered Henry; "I am more pleased with
it than I should have thought possible. It is quite pretty, as
white as wax, and has Alice's small regular features. It was
pleasant to see her smile again as she used to do, when she
kissed it this morning, and held it to her heart. Do you know,
Ellen, that this child will be a great blessing to her and to
me too. He will fill up her thoughts, occupy her time, and
engross her affections."
"He will be a link between you," I said; "it is impossible
that with such a wife as Alice, and a child to love and
educate together, you should not end by finding happiness in
your home. Do not deny it, Henry; do not tell me I am wrong."
"You only talk for effect, that is all. You know perfectly
well that happiness, in the sense in which you mean it, can
never be mine."
"Well, then, the less is said on that subject the better," I
interrupted impatiently. "And now, may I know why there is
nothing to fear from Mr. Escourt, except his general
ill-nature?"
"I must tell you that I had an explanation with Mrs. Tracy
this morning. She was in tolerable good humour with me; I
suppose because she had not found me quite such a brute as she
expected. I mean that I showed some natural anxiety about
Alice, and some joy at her safety, which was indeed what I
felt. When she is not angry, I have a great deal of power over
her; and I got her to tell me everything about Harding. She
confessed he knew a great deal of what concerns us, partly
from his father, and partly from herself, for one day that he
brought her home some account of my proceedings she was so
exasperated that, in her anger, she betrayed to him the whole
history of Julia's death. It seems that a short time ago
Escourt met him accidentally in the street, and asked him if
he was not James Harding's son, and Mrs. Lovell's cousin. He
had known something of his father for many years; and after
one or two more interviews with him, he offered to engage him
as a gamekeeper. Harding, who had no situation, and had given
up carpentering, jumped at the offer. Just before Mrs. Tracy
left Bromley he came and told her this. She warned him not to
let out what he knew; for, half from fear of me, half, I
believe, from some vague hope that I am growing attached to
Alice, she seems anxious to keep her promise in the spirit as
well as in the letter of it. She seems at last to understand,
that she cannot do you a mischief without injuring Alice at
the same time; and she has taken pains to inculcate the same
idea on Harding's dull brain. In the course of the same visit,
he confessed to his aunt that Escourt had often questioned him
about Alice; and on one of these occasions had made some
coarse allusions to our intimacy, which drew from him
(Harding) the boast that he could, any day, get you turned out
of your husband's house. This, then, explains sufficiently
Escourt's manner last night; but he will not get anything more
out of Harding, or I am much mistaken."
"I own that I do not understand, or share that confidence."
"The fact is, that Harding has found out, or thinks he has
found out, that Escourt has taken a wonderful fancy to Alice;
he is just the sort of man to _be_ taken by that innocent
placid kind of beauty. Now, I am next to certain that his game
is to get me out of the way by pushing on matters to an
extremity between Edward, you, and myself, and to accomplish
this by means of Harding's knowledge of what he calls our
intrigue."
"Good God!" I exclaimed, with painful emotion, "if Edward was
to hear the words you use, the things you say to me, and which
are said of me, by such men as those! No woman has ever been
so deeply degraded, so cruelly insulted, before." I threw up
my veil and pushed back the hair from my checks, which felt
burning with shame and indignation.
"It is useless to think what Edward would feel or say if he
were to be acquainted with all these things; but he must and
shall be kept in ignorance of them, if you will learn a little
self-command, if you will only be reasonable--"
"Reasonable! Reasonable! Henry, do you know these lines?
'Go to the raging sea and say be still,
Bid the wild lawless winds obey your will,
Preach to the storm, and reason with despair,
But tell not Misery's child--'"
I could not finish the line; an overpowering sob shook my
whole frame, and I threw myself back in the carriage, weeping
passionately.
"Ellen, what are you doing? put down your veil and sit up.
Here is the very man we have been speaking of."
I gave a violent start, but did as he bid me, and looked up in
time to see Mr. Escourt riding with two other men, and taking
his hat off as he passed me with the lowest possible bow. I
returned it haughtily, and then turning to Henry, I said, with
the utmost bitterness, "This is the consequence of your
selfish determination to force your society upon me at all
times and in all places. Edward is on the point of suspecting
me. I have no doubt that, before to-morrow, it will be all
over London that I was met driving alone with you; and,
drowned in tears! This is _your_ doing, _your_ work, and you
expect me not to hate you, not to curse the day on which--No,
I do not mean all I am saying; I do not hate you, Henry; but
it is hard to suffer as I do, and not to grow wicked. Stop the
carriage, I implore you, and walk home."
"My dearest Ellen, this will only make matters worse. It will
seem as if you were ashamed of being seen alone with me. Now,
considering the closeness of our connection and our old
friendship, any appearance of that sort would have a much
worse effect than anything else. Drive straight to your own
house, and I will walk home from there. It is much better that
Edward himself should see how little you dread observation."
I gave way in silence; but as we drew near home I looked
anxiously at the windows, for I felt that after Edward's
remarks on the preceding evening, to drive in that way with
Henry, was very like braving him. I felt relieved at not
seeing him, and as I walked through the hall I inquired if he
was at home.
"No, Ma'am, Mr. Middleton called an hour ago to say that two
gentlemen, beside Mr. Lovell, would dine here to-day; that I
was to tell you so when you came home."
I went up to the drawing-room and sat down at the piano-forte,
to try to get over the time till Edward's return as well as I
could. I was bent upon mentioning to him the drive I had taken
with Henry, as I quite agreed with the latter that any attempt
at concealment would fatally endanger my future peace, and I
had made the firmest resolution that nothing should ever lead
me again into an unnecessary act of deceit. It was
dressing-time, and still Edward was not come home. I walked
impatiently up and down the room, and at last it grew so late
that I was obliged to ring for my maid and to begin dressing.
While I was doing my hair, Edward rushed into the room in a
great hurry, and said as he held the door open, "Ellen, love,
dress as quick as you can, and go into the drawing-room. Sir
Edmund Ardern and Escourt are arrived." Changing into French,
he added, "I should not have asked Escourt, as I know you do
not like him, if it had not been that when I pressed Ardern to
come, he said before him that they were engaged to dine
together at the club, which obliged me to invite them both."
I was inexpressibly annoyed, especially at having had no
opportunity of informing Edward of my drive with Henry. As
soon as I was dressed I went to his room; but he desired me so
impatiently to go to the drawing-room, that it took away my
courage to tell him all I had intended to say.
Pride enabled me to make a strong effort over myself and to
meet Mr. Escourt without embarrassment; but turning
immediately away from him, I entered into conversation with
Sir Edmund. He took up a newspaper and read it assiduously,
till first Henry, and then Edward came into the room.
We went down to dinner, and nothing passed for some time but
conversation on general subjects. I could not conquer my
uneasiness. Whenever I heard the sound of Mr. Escourt's voice,
or felt his eyes fixed upon me, a kind of shudder ran through
me, and the cold dry manner in which I answered his questions,
though each time I repented of it, still re-occurred the next
minute. I knew that this was bad policy, and that it made
Edward angry; but much as I had deceived in my life, I had
never been able to dissemble; and the effort to do so in this
case was beyond my strength.
After one of those pauses during which everybody wonders who
will speak next, and which had been brought on by some short
answer I had given to a question of Mr. Escourt, he abruptly
turned to me and said, "By the way, Mrs. Middleton, you could
decide a bet we made this morning, Ardern and I. Did you
happen to observe if it was Mrs. Ernsley that we passed a few
minutes after we met you on the King's-road this morning?"
"I don't know, I did not observe."
"Did you, Mr. Lovell?"
"It struck me that it was Mrs. Ernsley."
"Then I am afraid I have lost my bet, unless Mrs. Middleton
would try to remember the contrary. Come, Mrs. Middleton, make
an effort in my behalf. Did Mr. Lovell turn to you and say,
'Is not that Mrs. Ernsley?' or did he positively say, 'There
is Mrs. Ernsley.' A great deal would depend upon that."
My mouth quivered while I repeated, with what must have had
the appearance of ill-humour, that I remembered nothing about
it. In vain I tried to turn the conversation; he continued to
appeal alternately to Henry and to me about the gay appearance
of the nursery gardens we had passed, and the style of
architecture of the new church at Chelsea, until he had
succeeded in plainly establishing the fact that we had been
that day taking a long drive together. While this was going on
I had not ventured to look at Edward; but when at last another
subject was started, and I had heard him make some indifferent
remark in his natural tone of voice, I raised my eyes to his.
He was pale, and his lips were firmly compressed, but he
exerted himself and talked a great deal. I was so entirely
occupied in watching him, that, when Henry bent forward and
said to me, "Sir Edmund is asking you to drink wine with him,"
I gave a violent start, and my hand shook so, that I could
hardly hold the glass.
I left the room soon after, and as I walked into the
drawing-room, its very look of brightness and comfort made my
heart ache. It would have been a relief to cry, but I dared not
give way; it _would not do_ (that phrase which Henry was
eternally repeating to me); it would not do to be found in tears.
I would _not_ think. I tried to play; but whether the tune was
sad or gay it seemed equally to affect me. I took up book
after book from the table; but whether it was "Macaulay's
Reviews," or "Southey's Poems," a volume of Shakespeare, or a
book of sermons, there was in each page some passage or
expression, which, by its eloquence or its simplicity, its
gaiety or its grief, touched the spring of sorrow which was
swelling up to the brink, and that was only kept down by a
sort of passive resistance.
I took refuge in an Annual, and page after page of short tales
and addresses to Finden's Beauties, I glanced over
successfully, till the following lines, by Miss Landon, caught
my eye, as I was rapidly turning over the leaves:--
"I see the clouds pass o'er the moon, and my spirit
Grows dark with the terrors that round it are thrown;
O Surrey, whatever my lot may inherit,
I care not, so suffering but reach me alone."
I do not know that they are good lines--very likely not--but
they burst from the heart and from the lips like a groan or a
sob, and they gave words to what I had felt since I had looked
upon Edward's face, and seen in it, for the first time since
our marriage, not anger, not sternness, but suffering.
I shut the book hastily, and snatched up a newspaper, as I
heard the door of the first drawing-room open.
Henry brought me some flowers which I had left in the
dining-room, and said to me in a low voice, "For Heaven's sake
don't look so miserable! Exert yourself; this will never do."
There are sometimes particular phrases which try one, and jar
upon one's feelings; and this last was of that number. I
darted upon Henry a look of angry reproach, and said in a
hurried manner, "_It will never do_ to be goaded in this way!
I cannot answer for what I may say if you stay here. Your
presence and your advice are insults which drive me mad, and
if you do not go, I feel that I shall lose my head."
As I spoke, I tore the flowers in my hand into pieces, which I
flung one by one into the fire.
"Have mercy upon your bouquet, Mrs. Middleton! You are
beheading those beautiful camellias in the most cruel manner,"
exclaimed Sir Edmund.
"The organ of destructiveness must be strong in you, fair
lady," observed Mr. Escourt, with one of his blandest smiles.
Again an icy chill ran through me; but I hated this man so
intensely, that not even terror could subdue me: and when Sir
Edmund asked me if I had courage to kill an insect, I
answered--"There are insects so loathsome and contemptible,
that to crush them is a pleasure."
I felt that I was making an odious speech; I saw in Edward's
face an expression almost of disgust. I felt that I was
sinking every moment in his opinion; perhaps, losing ground in
his affections. I felt that this was the work of those men
who, one under the cover of a devoted attachment, the other of
playful gallantry, were ruining and exposing me.
A spirit of reckless defiance took possession of me, and I
completely lost my head. A torrent of words burst from my
lips, of which I hardly knew the meaning, as I uttered them. I
said there were crimes worse than murder. I said that to
torture was worse than to kill: to make life a curse worse
than to take it away. I pointed to the insect that was
crawling on the table, and asked if it would not be mercy to
kill it, and cruelty, damnable cruelty, to tear off a wing one
day, and a limb the next, and so on, till nothing remained of
its tortured frame but the quivering pulse of life. I spoke of
men who die on the scaffold, or who drag on existence in jails
and hulks, and whose hearts are not so hard, whose spirits are
not so brutal, as those of others who come into our houses,
who sit at our tables, with smiles on their lips and poison in
their tongues, whose language is refined, and whose thoughts
are devilish.
Strange and terrible words they were which I spoke in that
hour; there was eloquence and power in them, for what is so
eloquent as the pent-up agony of years, when at last it finds
a vent? What is so powerful as the outpouring of the soul,
when it breaks down the barriers it has long respected?
They quailed before my glance, those two men whose victim I
was. Mr. Escourt's pale cheek was flushed, and Henry's grew
pale. He trembled for himself and for me. The fabric which he
had raised by his cunning, and maintained by his arts, was
tottering to its base. Like to Samson in the temple of the
Philistines, strength had returned to me in the hour of
abasement; and I was dragging down upon him, and upon myself,
the ruin which had so long hung over my head.
"I would advise you to choose another theme for the display of
your eloquence, than the apology of _murder_."
A convulsive shudder seized me as Edward addressed to me these
terrible words. If he had charged me with the guilt of murder,
I could not have trembled more violently.
"You are ill, Mrs. Middleton; I am sure you are ill!"
exclaimed Sir Edmund, springing forward to support me.
I felt myself falling, and stretched out my hand to take hold
of Edward's; when I grasped it, it was as cold as ice. He led
me out of the room; and when he had placed me on the sofa in
my dressing-room, he rang the bell. As soon as my maid came
in, he left me without a look or a word.
I did not attempt to recall him; I was stunned and exhausted.
I felt an inexpressible longing to forget the anguish I was
enduring; and, while my maid was for a moment out of the room,
I hastily took a large dose of laudanum, which first
stupified, and then sent me to sleep.
When I woke again it was with that sense of complete
bewilderment which that sort of sleep produces. The shutters
and curtains were closed, the candles were lit on the
dressing-room table, and my maid was sitting on a chair near
the fire. I called her and asked in a drowsy voice what
o'clock it was.
"It is near nine o'clock, Ma'am."
"Why is it so dark? Why are the shutters shut? Have I been
ill?"
"You have been sleeping a long time. Ma'am. The doctor thinks
you must have taken a little too much laudanum."
"Laudanum! How? When?"
Gradually the recollection of the scene of the preceding
evening returned to me, and of the sedative I had so rashly
taken. I held my head with my hands, and asked where Edward
was?
"Mr. Middleton desired to be told when you should awake,
Ma'am; and he wishes the doctor to see you too."
She went out of the room, and I felt as if some new form of
misery was hanging over me. Why had Edward desired to be
informed of my waking instead of watching over me himself? If
my long sleep had been alarming, ought I not to have awoke in
his arms? I now remembered all that had occurred during the
last two days, and I felt as if a crisis was approaching. The
door opened, but instead of Edward, Dr. Harris came in; and
after hoping I felt pretty well, and feeling my pulse, he
asked me some questions about the quantity of laudanum I had
taken. I named a certain number of drops at a guess, for I had
hardly measured the quantity. He left me, and a moment
afterwards I heard him speaking with Edward in the
dressing-room. I sprang out of bed, glided to the door, and
listened.
"Indeed I can assure you," I heard him say, "that you need be
under no alarm about Mrs. Middleton's health. The quantity of
sedative she has taken can produce only temporary
inconvenience if she keeps quiet. It cannot affect her
materially. I would not tell you so if I did not feel
convinced of it. Indeed, the very fact of being under its
influence will make the intelligence you have to communicate
less likely to affect her in an alarming manner than at any
other time."
"Then I shall go to her at once."
I hurried back into bed; my teeth chattering with cold, and my
heart throbbing to suffocation. An instant after I heard his
step, and he walked up to the bed. His face was as pale as
death, and he wore his travelling fur coat. I uttered a faint
scream, and clasped my hands.
"Do not agitate yourself, Ellen."
I burst into tears; for although he had not said one word of
kindness, he had called me Ellen, and that was something. He
went on in a dry, broken, and hurried manner: "I have, indeed,
bad news to tell you; but I hope and pray that the case may be
one of more alarm than of actual danger. Your uncle has sent
an express for me; he believes himself to be dying, and he
charges me not to lose a minute in hurrying to him. The
carriage is at the door, and I must take leave of you. Here is
your aunt's letter, and one from the physician at Hyeres. This
last affords considerable hope that Mr. Middleton may yet be
spared to us..."
"Oh! may I not--should I not go to him too?"
"The state to which you have reduced yourself by your
imprudence makes it impossible."
"For God's sake, let me go with you, Edward."
I took his hand, but he drew it abruptly away. I mentally
cursed the day on which I was born.
"Calm yourself," said Edward, sternly; "I cannot speak to you
now: I shall write to you. A new state of things must begin
between us; but this is no time for an explanation."
"No, no! you _cannot_, you _shall_ not leave me with so
horrible a doubt, so dreadful a fear..."
"Have you forgotten that your uncle is dying? Is this a moment
for theatrical display?--for the exhibition of a feigned
tenderness?"
"Feigned! Good God! is it come to that?"
"Have you no message to send him?--no pardon to implore of him
as well as of me?"
"Edward! what are you saying? Edward! Edward!--do you know?
Have you heard?--Do you forgive? I am innocent!--on my knees I
swear that I am innocent!"
"Innocent! Yes, I believe you are what you have learned to
call innocent,--and may God keep you so. I dare not trust
myself to say another word. I have struggled to be calm; I
have prayed earnestly for strength against myself,--strength
not to cast you off, and it has been given me. God bless you,
and forgive you! I shall write to you soon and often, and, I
hope, send better accounts of Mr. Middleton. Write to me and
to your aunt."
He coldly held out his hand to me, and I felt as if I was
dying. I opened my arms wildly, and cried, "Kill me, but do
not leave me so!"
A convulsive emotion passed over his face; he bent over me and
kissed me. I threw my arms round his neck and clung to him.
Oh! did not all the love of my soul pass into his, in that one
last embrace? As my throbbing heart was pressed to his, did
not each pulsation tell all its passionate tenderness? For an
instant he seemed to feel it, for he drew me closer and closer
to him; but suddenly he started back, as if he recoiled from
my touch, and almost flung me from him; and, disengaging his
hand from mine, he left me abruptly.
I heard his steps down the stairs; I heard his voice in the
hall; then there was a moment during which I heard nothing;
and then there was the sound of the carriage-wheels; and then
the hall-door was shut; and then all was over; and I wrung my
hands, and thrust the bed-clothes into my mouth to stifle my
groans. I felt as if my head would burst. Sob after sob rose
in my chest and shook my frame; and all night the doctor was
by my side, and he and my maid gave me draughts to drink,
which I took eagerly, for my mouth was parched and my lips
burning; and towards morning I fell asleep again.