Ellen Middleton—A Tale

CHAPTER XVII

During our drive to London, Edward asked Mr. Middleton how long he intended to remain in town, and where he meant our marriage to take place.

"Why that must depend on you both," said my uncle. "What do you say to being married at Elmsley?"

The proposal struck me so painfully, that I looked at Edward with the anxious wish that he might make some objection to it, though I could scarcely hope so. As I feared, he only turned to me, and asked what my wishes were; before I could answer, however, Mrs. Middleton said, that considering all that was to be done about getting my trousseau, and making various preparations for the wedding, she thought it would be better to remain in London. Edward then added that it would be his interest to keep us there, as the settlements would often require his presence in town, but that we might go to Elmsley to be married, if my uncle wished it. To my inexpressible relief, Mrs. Middleton again objected; and urged, that as my uncle and herself would go abroad soon after my marriage, it was useless to add a journey to Elmsley, and back again, to the one they would subsequently undertake. I looked at my aunt with surprise, but she made me a sign not to pursue the subject any further for the present. I gladly acquiesced; but the idea of this journey abroad weighed on my spirits, and made me silent during the rest of our drive.

As we came into London, and arrived in Brook-street, it seemed to me that months instead of days had elapsed since I had left it; and when I entered the drawing-room, I sat down on a chair near the window, and leaning my head on my hand, I tried to realise to myself all that had occurred during the last eventful week. The busy tide of life was at its height in the streets, the noise was stunning, and the air close and disagreeable, after what we had been used to at Hampstead. Nobody had followed me into the drawing-room, and I sat there for an hour or two absorbed in thought, and reviewing in my mind the principal events of my past life. One by one they passed before me; my aunt's first arrival at Elmsley, the day of Julia's birth, when I was called from my drawing-lesson to come and kiss my little cousin in her cradle; the happy time of childhood and of early youth; my hours of study with Mrs. Middleton; my walks and rides through the beautiful scenery that surrounds Elmsley, sometimes with Edward and with Henry, or only with old James behind me; my favourite chesnut wood, where I used to throw the bridle over Selim's neck, and leave him to follow his own fancy, unguided and unchecked, through the winding paths and bushy dells; the sound of his hoofs on the crushed leaves, and the murmur of the little waterfall, were in my ears, as when I took Edward there on my fourteenth birth-day, and as we were coming home, after much hesitation, and with a beating heart, asked him if I might take care of his Newfoundland dog, Hector, when he went back to town; and I did not remember the events of the last week more distinctly than I did his nod of acquiescence, and the gush of delight with which I received that permission.

Then came in succession the recollections of Julia's illness – of her recovery – of her death; of the acute and then protracted anguish that followed it; of the delirious agony that seized me on the day of her funeral. I lived over again the time of Edward's departure, the feverish dream of excitement which followed it; I visited again in fancy the cottage at Bridman, and the cavern at the sea-side in Dorsetshire. I thought of the day of Edward's return to Elmsley, and of the Ash-Wednesday service in the village church – that same church where Julia was buried, and where Edward's lips had said Amen! to the curse which had seemed to light on my guilty and shrinking head; and there they had proposed that I should be married to him I —there, in sight of the vault where she lay! within the walls which had rung with that curse!

"O, no – no," I exclaimed; "not at Elmsley – not at Elmsley!"

A hand was gently laid on my shoulder, and Edward said —

"Why not at Elmsley?"

As I turned suddenly towards him, and then away from him, to hide the tears which were streaming down my cheeks, he said, coldly —

"Are you weeping now over the excess of your happiness?"

I did not answer immediately, for in truth I could not; and, taking a book, Edward walked away, and sat down by the chimney. Other people came in – I had to dress for dinner, and it was not till late in the evening that, by alluding artfully, though not altogether untruly, to the pain with which I had heard of my aunt's probable departure from England (for it had, indeed, been the original cause of my deep depression), I succeeded in removing the tacit displeasure which had obscured Edward's countenance.

I had rather expected that Henry would call in Brook-street that evening, but he did not.

The next day, while I was dressing, Mrs. Hatton asked to see me. I was anxious to know what construction she had put on the commission I had entrusted to her; and I hardly knew how to treat it myself, for if I allowed her to suppose that there was nothing but a trifle in question, she might, at some future time, allude to it without any scruple.

After she had sat down for a few minutes, and answered my inquiries about her numerous nephews and nieces, to whom she was the most beloved, the most tyrannised over, and the happiest of aunts, she said with a smile, "I hope you got the letter in time, dear Miss Middleton?"

"Quite in time," I answered, colouring in spite of myself.

"I thought you would," she rejoined, "for I had calculated that Tuesday being the 5th of July, there would be plenty of time to write again and get an answer before the 9th, in case the patterns did not suit you. I remember so well, in old times, we used always to have little contrivances about Mrs. Middleton's birth-day."

This was exactly what I had feared. Henry had made up some story connected with his sister's birth-day, to account for our secret correspondence; or else he had taken up this idea from her own suppositions; and now there was no reason why she should not, when the day was past, inquire after the result of what had been settled between us before any one who might happen to be present. I therefore resolved to tell her as much of the truth as I could venture to do; and, taking her hand in mine, I said, "My dear Mrs. Hatton, either Henry, with very good intentions, has deceived you on the subject, or your own suppositions have misled you. The letter which I wrote to him, and the answer which he sent me, related to something of the greatest importance, in which the welfare and the happiness of more than one person are closely involved: both would be endangered if the most absolute secrecy was not observed by you as well as by us, as to this correspondence between Henry and myself. If I felt justified in doing so, I would explain to you – "

"Don't, my dear, don't; I had rather not have it explained; I had rather not hear a secret," cried Mrs. Hatton. "I never liked them; it is much pleasanter not to know things which concern other people; but you may be sure I shall never breathe a syllable to any one about the letters. I only hope, my darling Miss Ellen, that you will always be as happy as you ought to be, so good as you are, and always trying to do good to people, and to be of use. God bless your Sweet face!"

My heart smote me at the praises of this excellent woman; and I answered with a deep sigh, "My fate is a far happier one than I deserve, or ever can deserve, dear Mrs. Hatton; for I am engaged to Edward Middleton, and am to be married to him in a fortnight."

"Well, my dear Miss Ellen, I do wish you joy, with all my heart!" (and what a heart it was; there are not many such.) "How happy you will all be! Of all the husbands you could have had, I would have chosen Mr. Edward Middleton for you – so handsome – so good – so clever as he is! I remember one day, that poor little Julia was still alive, I said to Mrs. Middleton, 'Now, what a nice thing it would be if your little girl was to marry her cousin some day, and those two fine fortunes were to make but one.' 'No, no,' she cried, 'he admires Ellen too much to wait for Julia;' and then she added – 'Mrs. Hatton, I am afraid that I love Ellen more than Julia; is it not dreadful?' 'And if you do,' I answered, 'what does it signify? Julia will never be the worse for it; there is enough tenderness in your heart for both of them.' But I am grieving you, dear Miss Ellen, by talking of that poor dear little cousin of yours; but you know, dear, everything is for the best, and the dear child might have lived to be wretched, poor thing! Well, well, I will say nothing more about it; but only that it is very pretty of you, my darling, to have kept all your love and your sorrow for Julia so fresh in your heart, in the midst of your own happiness. No doubt, she is a blessed little angel now; and, perhaps, she can see into your thoughts, and is blessing you even now, for remembering her so kindly, and loving her still so much."

Alarmed at the excess of my emotion, which I could no longer command, Mrs. Hatton's distress was so great, that she almost groaned at finding that, instead of soothing me, every word that she uttered increased my agitation. At last, recovering myself, I abruptly changed the subject, and a few minutes after she took her leave.

Later that day I had a long conversation with my aunt; she explained to me, that the doctors had assured her, that it was of the greatest importance that my uncle should spend the following winter in a southern climate; that he was himself extremely opposed to this plan, chiefly on account of his inveterate dislike to leaving Elmsley for such a length of time; and that, she was afraid that if he returned there at all that year, she should never be able to persuade him to leave it again. She seemed very much out of spirits; and she, who seldom gave way to her feelings, although their secret workings were evident enough to me, who knew every turn of her countenance, at this moment seemed unable to struggle with her deep depression.

After a few efforts to overcome it, she threw her arms round me, and hid her face on my neck.

"Dearest child," she said, "never let me suffer through you; anything else I can bear. I see things through a dark mist to-day, and there is a gloom about me which I cannot shake off. I do not often talk to you of myself, Ellen, at least not lately – not since the days when we lived but for each other, and I would not do so now, if an irresistible impulse did not urge me to it. In a few days you will be married, and then will come a separation, which I shall bear with courage; but which will require courage, my Ellen, for I have loved you too much as an idol, too much as a treasure, which nothing could rob me of, and to which I have clung with all the tenacity of a crushed but ardent spirit. All my life I have had to meet indifference, and to struggle with disappointment in various forms. Self-devotion was the dream of my youth; I conceived no other happiness, and wished to live for no other purpose. My father was one of those men who can so little understand this sort of feeling in others, that, with perfect kindness and perfect candour, I am sure he would have said, if his daughter had done for him what the Russian girl, Elizabeth, did for her father, 'I suppose she was tired of Siberia, and liked the journey.' When I married, I found in your uncle a character exactly opposed to my father's, but not perhaps more suited to mine. The invincible reserve, the minute despotism, or rather absolutism, of his nature, raised between us the same barrier, which worldliness of mind and absence of warm feelings had caused to exist between my father and myself. You have seen and observed this drawback to our happiness, Ellen, or I should not have pointed out to you this single imperfection in as amiable and excellent a character as ever existed. Your uncle's favourite maxim is, 'Deeds, not words;' and well has he acted up to it himself; but his mistake is, in not perceiving that there are characters in which, without words, there can scarcely be deeds; for which sympathy and encouragement are as necessary as air is to life, or sunshine to vegetation. For some time after I was married, I struggled to supply the want of responsiveness in his nature, by the expansive enthusiasm of mine; but, worn out at last, by the fruitless and fatiguing exertion of heart and mind, which this kind of continual drawing upon one's own feelings entails, bruised and jarred by the unflinching positiveness which met them at every turn, I gave up the attempt in despair. I did my duty; I performed the deeds required of me; but the words, the unsubstantial, but not unreal, part of our daily lives, of our busy minds, – which must assert itself in some shape or other, – which must find vent in some form, or recoil upon ourselves in moral or physical suffering, – that half of my being remained closed to him, whom I loved and respected, but between whose mind and my own the point of contact was wanting. Of Henry, for many reasons, I had rather not talk to you. You know that I have never hesitated to tell myself the truth, or to destroy an illusion, which in the secrecy of my heart I have felt to be such; but it requires a courage and a strength which, to-day especially, I do not find in myself, to trace the progress of estrangement in an affection once as intense as a mother's; and which still asserts its own existence by the sufferings it inflicts. Do not look inquiringly at me, Ellen; I have nothing to tell, nothing to explain, nothing to complain of; I only know that there was a time when my whole soul was wrapped up in Henry, as it has since been in you; – a time when his eyes would seek mine in the hour of joy or of sorrow, – a time when his thoughts were mine, and mine were his; – till something, I know not what, – a mysterious influence, a nameless cloud, passed between him and me, and threw a cold shade over the spirit of our affection; each succeeding year has widened the chasm, has seared the wound, without healing it, and loosened without breaking the links which bound us together. Hush, dear Ellen I do not attempt to speak to me on the subject; there has been a secret sympathy between us lately, which has supplied the place of those unreserved communications, which once were our habit and our joy. Where we have not spoken, we have felt together; and, without the utterance of a word, we have shared each other's sorrows, and each other's fears. And now, child of my heart, be happy if you can. Let nothing of gloom, of suffering, or of bitterness, be connected with my thoughts of you; let no cloud ever obscure your spotless character; let your name never be pronounced but with blessings; your presence never be hailed but with joy. Then, when in absence, I call to mind your loved features, your proud smile, and the light of your dark eyes, I shall need no other vision for my waking hours, no other dream for my nights."