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ELLEN MIDDLETON 
 
 a ^ale. 
 
 LADY GEORGLiNA FULLERTON 
 
 " I have read of a bird which hath a face like, and yet will prey upon, a man, who, coining 
 to the water to drink, and finding there by reflexion that he had killed one like himself;, 
 pineth away by degrees, and never after enjoyeth itself. Such was in some sort the 
 
 condition of . This accident that he had killed one put a period to his carnal mirth, 
 
 and was a covering to his eyes all the days of his life. Death was so sent to liim as to allow 
 him time to rise up on his knees and to crie, ' Lord have mercy upon me.' "— Fuller' t: 
 Worthies, vol. ii., p. I/- 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON : 
 EDWARD MOXON, DOVER-STREET. 
 
 MDCCCXLIV. 
 
LONDON : 
 BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITEKRIARS. 
 
V'i 
 
 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
" From each carved nook, and fretted bend, 
 Cornice and gallery, seem to send 
 Tones that with Seraph hymns might blend. 
 
 " Three solemn parts together twine, 
 In Harmony's mysterious line, 
 Three solemn aisles approach the shrine. 
 
 " Yet all are one, together all, 
 
 With thoughts that awe but not appal. 
 
 Teach the adoring heart to fall." Christian Year. 
 
 •* But let my due feet never fail 
 To walk the studious cloister's pale, 
 And love the high-embowered roof, 
 With antic pillars massy proof, 
 And storied windows richly dight, 
 Casting a dim religious light ; 
 There let the pealing organ blow, 
 To the full-voiced quire below. 
 In service high and anthems clear, 
 As may with sweetness through mine ear 
 Dissolve me into extasies, 
 And bring all heaven before mine eyes." Milton. 
 
 ** What child of sorrow 
 Art thou, that com'st wrapt up in weeds of sadness, 
 And mov'st as if thy steps were towards a grave ? " 
 
 Otwav. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 It was on the 15th of October, 18 — , that one of 
 the best and most respected clergymen of the town 
 
 of , and a canon of the cathedral, turned 
 
 his steps towards the eastern door of that ancient 
 pile. It was a little before the hour of evening 
 service ; the rays of the declining sun were shining 
 brightly through the windows of painted glass, and 
 producing that mellow and chastened light that 
 accords so well with the sensation of religious awe, 
 which a gothic edifice, the noblest of the works of 
 man, is calculated to inspire ; a work where he 
 has been enabled to stamp on what is material an 
 indelible impress of that spirit of devotion, which 
 
 b2 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 unites the utmost simplicity of faith with the 
 highest sublimity of creed. 
 
 Mr. Lacy's attachment to this particular cathe- 
 dral had grown with his growth and strengthened 
 with his years. In his youth he had learnt to love 
 its long deep aisles, its solemn arches, its quaint 
 carvings. During the pauses between the several 
 parts of divine service, his childish imagination 
 would dwell upon the topics of thought sug- 
 gested by the histories of saints and martyrs 
 depicted in the glowing colours of the glass-stained 
 windows, or in the intricate workmanship of the 
 minster screen. The swelling peal of the organ, 
 the chaunting of the choristers, awoke in his young 
 mind strange and bright imaginings of those things 
 " which the eye of man has not seen, nor his ear 
 heard, and that it has not entered into his heart to 
 conceive." 
 
 To wander in the cloisters, and gather the flowers 
 growing there among the old tombstones, and to 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 think the while of the lilies of the field, which 
 Solomon in all his glory could not excel ; or of the 
 wilderness that blossomed like the rose, at the word 
 of the Lord ; to collect in his own hands at 
 Christmas as much holly as his puny strength 
 could carry, and add it to the shining heap already 
 standing at the cathedral door; to follow it in, with 
 timid steps, and watch with wondering eyes, the 
 adorning of the altar, the pulpit, the stalls, and the 
 pews ; to observe with childish glee two tall bran- 
 ches, all glowing with their coral berries, placed by 
 the bench where he knelt in church with his mother; 
 to sit at home by that mother of an evening, and 
 with his Prayer Book on his knee, learn from her 
 lips how that glorious hymn which he so loved to 
 chaunt in church, and which spoke of angels and 
 martyrs, of saints and apostles, of heaven and earth, 
 uniting in one concert of adoration, had been 
 bequeathed to the holy church universal by a saint 
 who had served his Creator from the days of his 
 
b INTRODUCTION. 
 
 youth, and never wandered from the sacred shade 
 of the sanctuary; for the baptism of another, who, 
 after straying far and wide in the ways of sin and 
 the maze of error, followed the while by a mother's 
 prayers and tears,' returned at last to the foot of 
 the cross,* 
 
 " With that free spirit blest, 
 Who to the contrite can dispense 
 The princely heart of innocence ;" 
 
 to hear her tell how the three solemn parts of his 
 beloved cathedral, all approaching the shrine in 
 distinct majesty, and in mystical union, were a 
 type and an emblem of the " Holy, Blessed, and 
 Glorious Trinity," so devoutly worshipped in the 
 opening verses of the litany ; to be often re- 
 minded by her, when the deep melodious bells of 
 the old tower spoke their loud summons to the 
 house of God on festival and holiday, of the time 
 when the faith in Christ was a matter of danger 
 
 * The Te Deum is supposed to have been composed by St. 
 Ambrose, Archbishop of Milan, for the baptism of St. Augustine. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 7 
 
 and of death, and the sanctuaries were laid among 
 the vaults and the tombs — when in darkness and 
 in silence Christians knelt on the cold stones, and 
 a short hurried bell from the altar alone warned 
 them of the moment when the blessed pledges of 
 salvation were consecrated there. These were the 
 joys of his childhood. These were the thoughts 
 and the feelings which entwined themselves into 
 his very being, and wound themselves round his 
 heart ; blending the memory of the past with the 
 hopes of futurity. And when Mrs. Lacy, whose 
 health had been gradually declining, died soon 
 after her son had received the sacred rite of 
 confirmation, and for the first time knelt by her 
 side at the altar ; it was not before her trembling 
 lips had pronounced a blessing on the child, who, 
 with her hand locked in his, and his eyes fixed on 
 hers with the steady gaze of earnest, but, as far 
 as this world was concerned, of hopeless affection, 
 had given her the assurance that her people should 
 
8 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 be his people, and her God his God ; that where 
 she had lived there would he live, there would he 
 die, and there also would he be buried. 
 
 As soon as his age warranted it he became a 
 priest ; and in the course of time, a canon of the 
 
 cathedral of — . What had been the joys of 
 
 his boyhood, became, afterwards, the safeguards 
 of his manhood, and finally the support and 
 comfort of his declining years. The business 
 of his life was prayer, and the exercise of the 
 most unwearied and ardent charity. Its ruling 
 principle, love to God, and to man. In the few 
 hours of relaxation which he allowed himself, he 
 found his pleasures in the study of ecclesiastical 
 architecture, of the lives of saints and martyrs, 
 above all, of everything that was in any way con- 
 nected with the foundation, and the history of the 
 several parts of that minster which he loved with all 
 that holy love which men are wont to feel for the 
 country of their birth and for the home of their 
 
INTRODUCTION. V 
 
 youth, and, moreover, with a feeling akin to that 
 which made Jacob exclaim, as he rose from his 
 resting-place at Bethel, " This is the house of God, 
 and the gate of heaven ! " 
 
 As I am not writing Mr. Lacy's history, it is 
 not necessary to enter into further details as to the 
 events of his life, if events they can be called, that 
 chiefly consisted in the casual opportunities vouch- 
 safed to him, of soothing some extraordinary 
 sorrow ; of recalling to the fold of Christ some 
 wandering sinner, and of performing works of 
 mercy and self-denial such as are seldom practised, 
 or heard of in this luxurious and self-indulgent 
 age. I will, therefore, revert to that hour of even- 
 ing prayer which this chapter began by describing, 
 as it will introduce us at once to the subject of 
 this story. 
 
 Mr. Lacy had seated himself in his stall, and his 
 eyes were glancing over the small congregation that 
 had gathered together, on a week-day, for divine 
 
 b3 
 
10 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 worship, when his attention was attracted by 
 a woman who was sitting on one of the benches 
 generally occupied by the poorest inhabitants of 
 the town. She was very simply dressed, in deep 
 mourning ; but there was something about her atti- 
 tude and countenance which plainly indicated that 
 she belonged to the higher classes of society. It 
 was impossible to guess at her age ; for although 
 the slightness of her figure and the delicate beauty 
 of her features gave her the appearance of youth, 
 her face bore a wild and haggard expression that 
 we seldom see in those who have not far advanced 
 on their pilgrimage through life. Her arm was 
 thrown against one of the adjoining pillars, and just 
 before the beginning of the service she laid her 
 head upon it, and neither stirred or looked up 
 during the time the prayers lasted. She neither 
 knelt when others knelt, nor stood when they stood. 
 Once only, when the organ sounded the first notes 
 of one of the most beautiful anthems of our church. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 11 
 
 she rose from her seat almost mechanically, and an 
 instant after resumed her former attitude. At the 
 conclusion of the service, when the worshippers had 
 all left the cathedral, Mr. Lacy passed near the 
 place where the stranger still remained in a state of 
 apparent abstraction ; the sound of his approaching 
 footsteps startled her ; she hastily withdrew, and 
 walked rapidly out of the church, and down one of 
 the small streets that faced the entrance door. Two 
 or three times during the succeeding fortnight, 
 Mr. Lacy noticed the same person occupying the 
 same place, and conducting herself in the same 
 manner. His interest was powerfully excited, but 
 he neither ventured to address her, nor could he 
 succeed in ascertaining from the pew-opener, or 
 from one or two other persons whom he questioned 
 on the subject, anything respecting her. Chance, 
 however, as it often happens in such cases, threw 
 the information he sought in his way. 
 
 He was sitting one evening in his room, busily 
 
12 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 engaged in preparing his sermon for the Feast of 
 All Saints, which occurred on the ensuing day, and 
 on which it was his turn to preach, when he was 
 disturbed by a knock at the door, and the subse- 
 quent entrance of an elderly woman, whom he had 
 known for many years, and who had been in the 
 habit of consulting him whenever any little scruple 
 of conscience disturbed her in the exercise of her 
 line of business, which was no other than that of 
 lodging-letting. Mr. Lacy was so well acquainted 
 with the character of his old friend, and with the 
 nature of the difficulties usually submitted to him, 
 that, after begging her to sit down, and draw her 
 chair close to the fire, (for the last day of October 
 was ushering in with suitable severity the first of 
 November,) he immediately began — 
 
 " Well, my good Mrs. Denley, any more drunken 
 lodgers, whom you keep on, for fear that no one 
 but yourself would help them up to their rooms, 
 and see that they did not spend the night in a less 
 
INTRODUCTION. 13 
 
 comfortable place than their beds ? or are you still 
 doubting as to the propriety of giving notice to 
 quit to the gentleman who spoils your furniture, 
 and never pays his rent, thereby keeping you from 
 sending Johnny to school, as you had intended?" 
 
 " No, no, sir ; it has nothing to do with drunken 
 lodgers, or with poor dear Johnny's going to school, 
 or with not getting the rent paid, and all that, 
 what 's disturbing me now ; but only just the 
 contrary." 
 
 As it was difficult to understand, without farther 
 explanation, how the contrary of these three things 
 could be disturbing Mrs. Denley's mind, Mr. 
 Lacy looked at her inquiringly, and she continued: 
 
 " You see, sir, it is not exactly, as one might 
 say, any business of mine ; and I mind well what 
 is said in St. Paul's Epistle to Timothy, that 
 women should not be tattlers and busy bodies ; but 
 for all that, I hope it is no sin to wish a young 
 creature that 's under one's roof, and that 's dying 
 
14 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 by inches — of something — the Lord only knows 
 what — for Dr. Reid doesn't. He saw her walking 
 in, sir, the other day, and I made so bold as to ask 
 her if she wouldn'^t speak to him, but she wouldn't ; 
 and he says as how he can*'t guess what 's the 
 matter with her; and if he can''t, why, who should? 
 Well, as I was saying, sir, I hope it isn't a sin to 
 wish the poor young thing not to die, without 
 medicine for her body, or means of grace for her 
 soul." 
 
 *' Assuredly, you are quite right in forming such 
 a wish, and in endeavouring to prevent so terrible 
 an occurrence. But who is the person you are 
 alluding to ? " 
 
 " She is my lodger, sir, and has been for the last 
 six weeks.*' 
 
 " What is her name ? " inquired Mr. Lacy. 
 
 " Mrs. Rodney, sir." 
 
 " Has she no friends that you know of ? How 
 came she to hear of your lodgings ? " 
 
INTRODUCTION. 15 
 
 " Why, she stopped (on a Monday, I think it 
 was) at the ' Rose,' and she asked Mr. Chapman if 
 he could tell her of a quiet kind of respectable 
 lodging in the town ; now, Mr. Chapman is always 
 willing to do one a good turn. It was him, sir, 
 that sent Johnny back to Ashby, on Tuesday last, 
 in a return post-chaise, after he had sprained his 
 ancle. A very good man, and a neighbourly, is 
 Mr. Chapman ; and, as I was saying, he likes to 
 do one a good turn ; so that when the lady asked 
 for decent respectable lodgings, he said he knew of 
 the very thing as would suit her ; and sure enough, 
 the next morning she came to see the rooms, and 
 took them at once ; and nothing would serve her 
 but to pay down at once the rent for six months ; 
 and when I made so free as to say she had better 
 not, for fear of changing her mind about them, she 
 grew quite savage like ; for ail that she is a gentle 
 looking creature, and said as violent as could be, 
 * It must be so — take the money."* Well, thought 
 
16 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 I to myself, may be she fancies I don't like her for 
 a lodger ; so I just said, in an easy kind of manner, 
 ' Well, ma'am, and I hope, when the six months 
 are past, that you may take them on for another 
 half year.' But ' No,' says she ; ' six months 
 will do,* which, to be sure, was a natural thing 
 enough for her to say; but I take it, that if 
 you had been there, sir, and had heard her 
 say it, you would not have thought it quite natural 
 either." 
 
 " Is this lady whom you are speaking of in deep 
 mourning? and does she occasionally attend the 
 cathedral service ? " 
 
 " She does, sir ; and is always dressed in black. 
 She sits near the pillar where Mrs. Jones used to 
 sit, poor soul, when she was alive."" 
 
 " I have remarked her ; she does indeed look 
 both ill and unhappy. Do you know anything of 
 her history ? " 
 
 " Not a word, sir ; she wears a wedding ring, 
 
INTRODUCTION. ]7 
 
 but her clothes are marked with an E. and an M., 
 for all that she calls herself Mrs. Rodney." 
 
 "Does she ever enter into conversation with you ?" 
 " Sometimes, a little. Last week, Joe Irving, the 
 under-gardener at Clomley lodge, brought me, as 
 a present, a large nosegay of dahlias and china- 
 asters. I carried them up-stairs, and while Mrs. 
 Rodney was in church, I put them into jars, on 
 the table, and on the chimney-piece, and very 
 bright and pretty they looked. So when she came 
 in, she noticed them and thanked me, and spoke 
 quite cheerful. As she was standing a-talking to 
 me about them, an insect ran out from between 
 the leaves, and I tried to kill it, but she caught my 
 hand and stopped me ; and her hand, sir ! — why it 
 was more like one of those bits of hot coal there, 
 than the little white soft thing it looked like, and 
 when I looked at her face, there was a bright fever 
 spot on each cheek, and her lips were as white as 
 could be. 
 
18 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 " ' You are very ill, ma'am/ says I to her ; ' your 
 hand is burning hot/ She put it to her forehead 
 and ' it does not feel hot to me/ says she, and 
 walks away to the window and opens it, for all that 
 it was almost as cold and raw as to-night. But, 
 now, and that 's what I 'm come about, sir, she has 
 taken to her bed, and is in a very bad way indeed, 
 I take it." 
 
 " What ! and has not she seen the doctor ? " 
 " No, indeed, Mr. Lacy ; she won't as much as 
 let him come into the house. When she found 
 herself so ill, that she could not do for herself, she 
 sent me to get one of the hospital nurses ; and as 
 Mary Evans was to be had, the girl that you was 
 so good to last year when she broke her arm, I 
 got her to come, and she has been with her these 
 two days.*" 
 
 " Has she never spoken of seeing a clergyman ?" 
 
 "Why, to say the truth, sir, I made so bold 
 
 as to ask her on it ; it was yesterday when Mary 
 
INTRODUCTION. 19 
 
 Evans and I had been a begging of her to let us 
 fetch the doctor. ' No, no/ says she, * he can do me 
 no good ;' and she fell to crying, which I had not 
 seen her do before. ' Well, ma'am,' says I, 'if he 
 can do you no good, I know some one that would.' 
 ' And who is that ? ' says she, sitting up in her bed, 
 and looking hard at me. * Mr. Lacy, ma'*am,'' I 
 said, ' the clergyman that read prayers last Sunday 
 afternoon.' She laid down again, disappointed like, 
 and I went on to say how you was quite a saint 
 and a martyr, and a luminary of the church, as 
 Johnny's schoolmaster says ..." 
 
 " Hush, hush, my good Mrs. Denley ; take care 
 how you apply, or rather misapply, such names as 
 those. But did Mrs. Rodney decline seeing me, 
 or any other clergyman ? " 
 
 '* She did, sir, and begged me not to mention it 
 again." 
 
 " This is, indeed, a sad case : a woman young, 
 friendless — dying, perhaps, and probably labouring 
 
20 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 under some mental affliction, and yet refusing 
 to have recourse to the consolations of religion, 
 and the ministry of the church," said Mr. Lacy, 
 speaking rather to himself than to Mrs. Denley. 
 " Have you," added he, turning to her, '' any reason 
 to suppose that this poor woman, notwithstanding 
 her occasional attendance on the cathedral service, 
 is a dissenter ? " 
 
 " No, sir, I think not ; she has a small prayer- 
 book, which I sometimes see lying on her table." 
 
 "Well, my dear Mrs. Denley," said Mr. Lacy, 
 after a few moments' reflection ; " we must both 
 pray that God, of his infinite mercy, may dispose 
 the heart of this young creature to turn to Him, 
 and to the means of grace, which He has Himself 
 appointed. To-morrow, when we kneel in the 
 house of God, rejoicing with joy unspeakable over 
 the glory of the church triumphant, and meditating 
 on the blessedness of that holy multitude 
 
 * Who climbed the steep ascent to Heaven 
 Through peril, toil, and pain,* 
 
INTRODUCTION. 21 
 
 each in our place, we will bear in mind this suffer- 
 ing lamb of the fold, and pray earnestly that to her, 
 as well as to us, 
 
 * Grace may be given, to follow in their train.' 
 
 " I will, sir ; I will,*" replied the good old 
 woman, with tears in her eyes. " But won't you 
 try and see her ?*" 
 
 ''I cannot force myself into her presence," an- 
 swered Mr. Lacy ; "but every day I will call at your 
 house to inquire after her health, hoping and trust- 
 ing that the hour will come when she will cease to 
 shut her doors against one commissioned by our 
 Lord, to bear words of peace to the wretched, and 
 of pardon to the guilty. Whatever you can do to 
 hasten that moment, I know you will do, my good 
 friend, and so farewell to you.'' 
 
 " Good night to you, and thank you kindly, Mr. 
 Lacy ; it must be a heavy heart indeed, that goes 
 away from you no lighter than when it came to 
 you:" and so saying, Mrs. Denley put on her 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 cloak, took up her lanthorn, and trudged home, 
 through the dark streets of the old town. 
 
 The next morning Mr. Lacy's thoughts were 
 divided between the joyful contemplations which 
 the holy festival it was ushering in was calculated 
 to inspire, and the painful solicitude which the con- 
 versation of the preceding evening had left on his 
 mind. In church, however, the latter feeling sub- 
 sided, and gave away to that earnest calmness, and 
 that intense devotion, which absorb for the time 
 the cares and troubles of the soul, " Uke motes in 
 light divine." When from the pulpit this aged 
 minister dwelt in glowing words on the com- 
 munion between the saints above and the saints 
 below ; on the link that unites the church militant 
 here on earth, with the church triumphant in hea- 
 ven ; above all, when in terms of the deepest rever- 
 ence and of the intensest love, he spoke of our Lord 
 Jesus Christ, and prayed that he himself, and all 
 those who joined with him in prayer that day. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 23 
 
 might each, in God's own time, enter into the ful- 
 ness of his presence, and worship in his courts 
 evermore, yea in time and in eternity, tfiere was 
 something so ardent in his aspirations, and yet so 
 chastened in his devotion, that the assembled mul- 
 titude heard him with a reverence, mingled with 
 awe ; they felt as if Elijah's car of fire might bear 
 him away from their sight ; from the shelter of 
 the sanctuary on earth to the glories of the new 
 Jerusalem on high. 
 
 After the conclusion of the sermon, Mr. Lacy 
 remained absorbed in earnest prayer, till the last 
 of the worshippers had withdrawn, and the parting 
 strain from the organ had died away on the walls 
 of the cathedral. As he was slowly descending the 
 aisle, he paused before the place where Mrs. Rodney 
 had been seated some days before; as he stood 
 musing on the account which he had heard of her 
 from Mrs. Denley, he observed a few lines written 
 in pencil on the column against which she had been 
 
24 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 in the habit of leaning. They were so faintly 
 marked, and had probably been so much effaced 
 since, that he found great difficulty in making 
 them out. At last he succeeded in doing so, and 
 they were as follows : — 
 
 " My aching heart is breaking, 
 My burning brain is reeling, 
 My very soul is riven, 
 I feel myself forsaken. 
 And phantom forms of horror, 
 And shapeless dreams of terror, 
 And mocking tones of laughter, 
 About me seem to gather ; 
 And death, and hell, and darkness 
 Are driving me to madness." 
 
 It would be difficult to describe the revulsion of 
 feeling which Mr. Lacy experienced on reading 
 the expression of a despair that contrasted so 
 strikingly with the joy and the peace which had 
 been filling his own heart. There was also some- 
 thing which indicated a kind of reckless helpless- 
 ness in the fact of leaving that confession of mental 
 agony to be scanned, perhaps, by indifferent eyes. 
 It must have been done in one of those moments 
 
INTRODUCTION. 25 
 
 when the tortured heart would break if it did not 
 in some mode or other give vent to its anguish. 
 Mr. Lacy, after some minutes'" consideration, took 
 out of his pocket a pencil and a bit of paper, and 
 transcribed upon it the lines he had found, and then 
 carefully effaced them from the pillar on which they 
 had been written. As he slowly walked out of the 
 cathedral, and towards Mrs. Denley's house, he 
 revolved in his mind the means by which he would 
 be most likely to gain admission to Mrs. Rodney's 
 presence. It struck him that if she could be made 
 aware that he had read the words that were now in 
 his possession, she would feel less reluctance to enter 
 into communication with him ; but it was difficult 
 to convey this fact to her without wounding her 
 feelings. When he reached the house and knocked, 
 he was still undecided as to the course he should 
 pursue. Mary Evans, the girl who was in attend- 
 ance upon Mrs. Rodney, came to the door; and 
 when Mr. Lacy inquired after Mrs. Rodney's 
 
 VOL. I. c 
 
26 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 health, answered : " Why, sir, she says as how she 
 is wonderful better to-day, and so strong that she 's 
 been a getting up and walking about her room ; 
 but, I take it, her strength is fever strength, for 
 her cheeks are red as crimson, and she seems as if 
 she could not sit still." 
 
 " She should not be allowed to exert herself in 
 that way," observed Mr. Lacy ; — " she may do 
 herself much harm.'* 
 
 " Indeed, and that's quite true, sir ; but there's 
 no persuading her when she 's in one of her ways. 
 She speaks as gentle as a lamb in common, and 
 never scolds or complains ; but when she gets into 
 a tantrum about something as one wants her to 
 do or not to do, she grows to look quite wild like. 
 It's just now that Mrs. Denley saw you a-coming 
 down the street ; and says she to Mrs. Rodney 
 (Mrs. Denley had stepped up to see how the fire 
 was burning, sir,) — well, says she to Mrs. Rodney, 
 'There's Mr. Lacy a-coming down this way, ma'am; 
 
INTRODUCTION. 27 
 
 I think he '11 be after asking to see you :' and Mrs. 
 Rodney on that turns round and says so sudden, 
 * If I am to be persecuted in this manner, I shall 
 leave the house at once,' that Mrs. Denley let 
 fall the coal-scuttle, and she says as how it gave 
 her quite a revulsion. But won't you walk in, 
 sir?" 
 
 " No ; I came only to inquire after Mrs. 
 Rodney's health ; and as, from what you have just 
 told me, she certainly would not be inclined to see 
 me, I shall send up no message on the subject."'* 
 And so saying, Mr. Lacy took his departure. 
 
 On the Sunday following, a few minutes after 
 the beginning of evening service, he saw, gliding 
 to her usual place, with a noiseless step, the poor 
 woman who during the past week had so much 
 occupied his thoughts. Her shrunken form and 
 flushed cheeks revealed the fatal progress of a 
 disease which betrays its victims all the more 
 surely, by imparting to them, at certain stages of 
 c 2 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 its course, a false strength, that lures them to 
 exertions only serving to accelerate its fearful ter- 
 mination. As Mr. Lacy mounted the pulpit, he 
 breathed an ardent prayer that something in the 
 words he was going to utter might carry a token of 
 peace to this poor creature's breast, a ray of hght 
 to her mind. In the course of his sermon he in^ 
 troduced the following sentences : — 
 
 " When the heart of man is breaking, and his 
 brain is reeling, who should he turn to, but to Him 
 who said, ' Come unto me, all ye that labour and 
 are heavy laden, and I will give you rest ? ' When 
 the soul of man is shaken, and he feels himself 
 forsaken, who should he turn to, but to Him who 
 once cried out upon the cross, ' My God, my 
 God, why hast thou forsaken me?* When phantom 
 forms of horror, and shapeless dreams of terror, 
 assail the soul of man, who should he turn to, but to 
 Him who was once in such great agony, that his. 
 sweat fell like drops of blood upon the earth? 
 
INTRODUCTION. 29 
 
 When mocking tones of laughter are wildly ring- 
 ing round him, who should he turn to, but to Him 
 who was jeered at, and reviled on the cross, because 
 others he saved, but himself he could not save. 
 When death, and hell, and darkness, are driving 
 man to madness, who should he turn to, but to 
 Him who took from the grave its victory, from 
 death its sting, and from hell its prey ? — to Him 
 who died and rose again the third day, in order 
 that death, and hell, and darkness, should never 
 more drive men to madness." 
 
 On the evening of this day, Mr. Lacy received 
 the following note. It seemed written at once 
 with difficulty and with rapidity, and in parts was 
 somewhat illegible. 
 
 ** If you still wish to see me, Mr. Lacy, — if you 
 are not wearied with vainly seeking admittance to 
 one who is not worthy to wipe the dust from your 
 feet, come to me now. You spoke to me to-day, 
 
30 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 though you never turned your eyes towards me. 
 I looked into your face, and it seemed to me as if 
 it had been the face of an angel ; and when your 
 lips uttered the words that my hand had written, I 
 hung upon your lips. It was as a voice from hea- 
 ven ; my heart melted within me, and I wept ; not 
 as I have often wept, for my eyes are vrorn out with 
 crying ; not tears that scorch the eyelids as they 
 flow, but tears that seemed to loosen the iron band 
 that binds my temples, and to melt the dull hard 
 stone in my breast. I came home, and knelt by 
 my bedside — my Prayer-book was in my hand ; I 
 opened it, and these words met my eyes, ' The 
 order for the Visitation of the Sick.' I closed the 
 book, and read no more. Mr. Lacy, I am sick in 
 body, and sick at heart. Will you come and visit 
 me ? You will not question me ; you will not ask 
 me why my sorrow is like no other sorrow ; but 
 you will pray for me, and by me. Perhaps you 
 may say some words like this morning's — not words 
 
INTRODUCTION. 31 
 
 of comfort, words of hope, but words that will 
 make me weep, as I wept then. Ellen." 
 
 The next morning at twelve o'clock, Mr. Lacy 
 was at the door of Mrs. Denley's house. His 
 Prayer-book was in his hand ; and as he entered, he 
 slowly pronounced the appointed blessing, " Peace 
 be to this house, and to all that dwell in it.'' 
 Mrs. Denley led the way up stairs, and opened the 
 door of the room, where Ellen was lying on a sofa, 
 supported by cushions. Her face was paler than 
 the day before, but a sudden flush overspread it as 
 Mr. Lacy entered. 
 
 " You are welcome," she said, extending to him 
 at the same time her thin transparent hand. " It 
 is kind of you to come, and kind of you (she added, 
 turning to Mrs. Denley, and to Mary Evans, who 
 were standing by,) to join in these prayers. There 
 are responses to be made, I believe." 
 
 Mr. Lacy perceived that she was anxious that he 
 
32 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 should begin the service at once, without previously 
 entering into conversation with her; and feeling 
 deeply himself that no words of his could bring 
 such powerful consolation to the soul, if burdened 
 with sorrow, or so forcibly awaken the sense of sin, 
 if guilt and remorse were troubling it, as those 
 which the Church supplied him with, he knelt at 
 once by Ellen's couch, and with more emotion than 
 he had perhaps ever felt before in the exercise of 
 this portion of his sacred ministry, he read the 
 solemn prayer for mercy, with which this service 
 opens. 
 
 After the Lord's Prayer, in which Ellen had 
 feebly joined, Mr. Lacy and the two women, who 
 knelt opposite to him, repeated alternately the 
 impressive sentences of the Litany, which imme- 
 diately follows it. 
 
 There was something in these supplications that 
 seemed to accord, in some extraordinary manner, 
 with the state of Ellen's mind. When the minister 
 
INTRODUCTION. 33 
 
 prayed " that her enemy should have no advantage 
 of her," she started convulsively, and gazed wildly 
 about her, as the women responded, "Nor the 
 wicked approach to hurt her." When the words 
 " From the face of her enemy " were uttered, she 
 hid her face in her hands, and a slight shudder 
 shook her frame. After a pause, Mr. Lacy read 
 the prayers that follow, and then rising from his 
 knees, turned towards Ellen, and addressed to her 
 the beautiful and touching exhortation, that forms 
 part of the service ; but when towards the end of 
 it — " Forasmuch as after this life there is an 
 account to be given unto the Righteous Judge, by 
 whom all must be judged, without respect of 
 persons " — he required her to examine herself and 
 her estate, both towards God and towards man, so 
 that accusing and condemning herself for her own 
 faults, she might find mercy at our Heavenly 
 Father's hand for Christ's sake. Then Ellen 
 trembled. When he rehearsed to her the Apostles' 
 c3 
 
34 INTRODUCTION, 
 
 Creed, and asked her if all these articles of the 
 Christian faith she steadfastly believed, she 
 bowed her assent. And now they had arrived at 
 that solemn period in the service when the minister 
 was bound by his sacred office to examine whether 
 she truly repented her of her sins, and was in charity 
 with all the world; — when he was to exhort her 
 to forgive from the bottom of her heart the persons 
 that had offended her ; and if she had offended any 
 other, to ask of them forgiveness ; and where she 
 had done injury or wrong to any man, to make 
 amends to the uttermost of her power. He did so 
 in words of awful warning, and at the same time of 
 soothing tenderness ; but no answer came from he;* 
 lips — she turned her face towards the wall; and, to 
 use the expressive words of Holy Scripture, she 
 lifted up her voice and wept. 
 
 Mr. Lacy directed Mrs. Denley and Mary 
 Evans to leave him alone with Ellen, but to remain 
 within call in case their presence was required. 
 
INTRODUCTION. 35 
 
 When the door was closed he addressed her in the 
 following words; — "Your conscience is troubled 
 with some weighty matter — the heaviness of guilt is 
 on your soul, ay, and that of deep anguish too," 
 he added, as the heart-rending expression of her 
 countenance, which she suddenly turned towards 
 him, revealed the acuteness of her sufferings. 
 " Perhaps, too, you may have been more sinned 
 against than sinning. Perhaps the hand of man 
 has been against you, and you have wandered, 
 young as you are, through the wilderness of the 
 world, and found no rest for the sole of your foot. 
 You have longed, perhaps, like the dove, to flee 
 away and be at rest." 
 
 In a hoarse voice Ellen murmured, " There is no 
 peace for the wicked ! " 
 
 " But there is pardon for the penitent, and peace 
 for the pardoned," rejoined Mr. Lacy. 
 
 '' Pardoned! pardoned!" exclaimed Ellen, press- 
 ing her hand to her forehead, *^ I shall never feel 
 
36 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 myself pardoned ! Mr. Lacy, I have sometimes 
 opened the Bible, and I have read in it words 
 of pity, words of mercy, words of promise, and 
 for a moment they seemed to bring comfort to 
 my soul; but the dark spirit within me would 
 still whisper, They are not written for thee, — not 
 for thee. O God! O God! when shall I ever 
 feel forgiven ?" 
 
 " When, laying aside all human pride, all human 
 fears," solemnly replied Mr. Lacy, " in meek dis- 
 trust of your own judgment, in deep humility of 
 spirit, you make, as the Church requires, a special 
 confession of your sins to one, who, if you truly 
 repent and believe, can absolve you from them, by 
 the authority committed to him by our Lord Jesus 
 Christ." 
 
 Ellen listened to these words in deep silence, and 
 Mr. Lacy did not interrupt her meditation. After 
 a long pause, during which she seemed absorbed in 
 the most intense thought, she once more extended 
 
INTRODUCTION. 37 
 
 her hand to him, and said, " I think, I hope, that 
 a change has come over me. Thoughts are crowd- 
 ing upon my mind, that never came there before, 
 and things begin to appear to me in a new light. 
 Perhaps it is from the approach of death, which 
 since yesterday has seemed to draw very near to 
 me; and to one who has suffered as I have 
 suffered, death, if it could be robbed of its terror, 
 ought not to be very dreadful. I have often said, 
 ' Would that I could lay myself down and die ; ' 
 but now, now that I see death coming in its 
 stern reality, I would fain shrink from it ; and yet 
 nothing but the cold hand of death will ever still 
 the passionate th robbings of my heart, and teach it 
 to love less wildly, or to hate less fiercely. Forgive 
 me, forgive me, Mr. Lacy ! Oh, do not turn away 
 from me ! God has sent you to me as an angel of 
 mercy, not as the minister of his wrath. You bade 
 me confess my sins. See, I confess them ! I will 
 kneel to you 1" and Ellen, in spite of Mr. Lacy's 
 
38 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 ejBTorts to prevent her, flung herself on the ground 
 at his feet, and clung to them in an agony of tears. 
 He instantly raised her, and, replacing her on the 
 sofa, with a voice of authority desired her to be 
 calm, and to compose herself. She obeyed, and in 
 a few minutes, and with an altered manner, she 
 again addressed him. " I cannot confess my sins 
 without revealing the history of my life ; my guilt 
 and my sorrows are so closely linked together, that 
 they cannot be separated : but I wish to keep no 
 secret from you — you have brought a vision of 
 peace and of hope before me ; and perhaps, when 
 you know how miserable I have been, though how 
 guilty, you may not think me utterly unworthy 
 of it." 
 
 *' None are unworthy of pardon in the eyes of 
 our adorable Saviour," said Mr. Lacy, " who 
 heartily repent and sue for it ; but remember that 
 we must forgive as we hope to be forgiven." 
 
 " Since I have seen you and heard you," said 
 
INTRODUCTION. 39 
 
 Ellen, " I can pray, I dare pray, and I will pray 
 that God may change my heart, and teach me to 
 forgive as I hope to be forgiven : and now as I 
 am not strong enough to speak much at a time, and 
 that I wish to open my heart to you without reserve, 
 I will put into your hands a history of my life, 
 which, during days of solitude and nights of 
 weary watchings, I have written — and which will 
 disclose to you all the secrets of my soul ; it is the 
 most complete confession I can make. When you 
 have read it, Mr. Lacy, you will return to 
 me. By that time, perhaps, the grace of God 
 will have quelled the storms within me, and I 
 may then hear from your lips the blessed words of 
 absolution. 
 
 The following history was contained in the 
 manuscript which Mr. Lacy carried home with 
 him. 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 What thousand voices pass through all the rooms, 
 What cries and hurries ! 
 
 ***** 
 
 My cousin's death sits heavy on my conscience ; hark ! 
 ***** 
 
 In every room confusion, they're all mad, 
 Most certain all stark mad within the house." 
 
 Beaumont and Fletcher. 
 
 I WAS born and educated in the house of my 
 uncle, Mr. Middleton, one of the wealthiest squires 
 
 in D shire. He had received my mother with 
 
 kindness and affection, on her return from India, 
 where she had lost her husband and her eldest 
 child. She was his youngest and favourite sister, 
 and when after having given birth to a daughter 
 
42 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 she rapidly declined in health, and soon after ex- 
 pired, bequeathing that helpless infant to his pro- 
 tection ; he silently resolved to treat it as his own, 
 and, like most resolutions formed in silence, it was 
 religiously adhered to. At the time of ray birth, 
 my uncle was about forty years old ; a country 
 gentleman in the highest and most respectable 
 sense of the word. 
 
 Devoted to the improvement of his tenants on 
 the one hand, and to that of his estates on the other ; 
 zealous as a magistrate, active as a farmer, chari- 
 table towards the poor, and hospitable towards the 
 rich, he was deservedly popular with his neigh- 
 bours, and much looked up to in his county. He 
 had been attached in his youth to the daughter of 
 a clergyman of eminent abilities and high character, 
 who resided in the neighbourhood of Elmsley. For 
 six years his father had opposed his intended mar- 
 riage with Miss Selby, and when at the end of that 
 time he extorted from him a reluctant consent, it 
 was too late to press his suit; she was dying of a 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 43 
 
 hopeless decline, and to cheer her few remaining 
 days of life by every token of the most devoted 
 affection, and after her death to mourn deeply and 
 silently over the wreck of his early hopes, was the 
 conclusion of an attachment to which Mr. Mid- 
 dleton had looked, as to the source and means of 
 all his future happiness. At the age of thirty-five 
 he became possessed, by his father''s death, of the 
 manor-house at Elmsley, and of the large property 
 adjoining to it. In the happiness which his wealth 
 gave him the means of diffusing around him, in the 
 friendly attachment with which he was regarded 
 by those among whom he now fixed his residence, 
 he found subjects of interest, and sources of grati- 
 fication, which gradually obliterated the traces of 
 his early affliction. 
 
 From what 1 have already said, it will be plainly 
 perceived that my uncle was a man that one could 
 not fail to esteem ; though whether it was as easy 
 to love him, may be questioned. To the strictest 
 
44 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 principles of religious morality, he added a heart 
 full of kind feeling for others, and an invariable 
 serenity of temper, but an unconquerable reserve, 
 a want of confidence in others, and an absence of 
 sympathy in their tastes and pursuits, interfered 
 with the expression, if not with the existence, of 
 those affections, which his merits and his kindness 
 would otherwise have been so well calculated 
 to inspire. I never remember his taking the 
 slightest interest in any of my childish pleasures, or 
 his uttering any but the most formal phrase of 
 commendation when my performances were sub- 
 mitted to his inspection. Young as I was, I felt 
 this want of sympathy, in the only person who was 
 really interested in my welfare, and would have 
 gladly agreed to be less calmly reproved when 1 was 
 wrong, and more warmly praised when 1 was right. 
 Till the age of six years old, I am not conscious 
 of having loved any human being. From acci- 
 dental circumstances my nurses had been so often 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON, 45 
 
 changed, that I had not had the opportunity of 
 attaching myself to any of them ; and as to my 
 uncle, I believe he might have left Elmsley for days, 
 weeks, or months, without causing me the slightest 
 sensation of regret or solitude. He did not often 
 absent himself from home, but on one occasion he 
 did so for three months, and a few days before his 
 return, my nurse informed me that he was married, 
 and that I should soon see my new aunt. The 
 announcement caused me neither pleasure nor 
 pain ; and curiosity was the only feeling with which 
 I anticipated the arrival so eagerly looked for- 
 ward to by the whole of my uncle's establishment. 
 When Mrs. Middleton arrived I was immediately 
 summoned into the drawing-room. The tenderness 
 of her manner, the expressions of fondness with 
 which she greeted me ; the emotion which her 
 countenance betrayed, were all so totally different 
 from anything that I had ever witnessed, that I 
 felt as if a being from another world had come 
 
46 
 
 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 among us. There was something heavenly in the 
 expression of her countenance, there was some- 
 thing original in every word she uttered; in her 
 gaiety there was a bubbling joyousness, an intense 
 enjoyment in enjoyment, that was irresistibly at- 
 tractive, and in sorrow or in emotion, her tears fell 
 unconsciously from her eyes, and would trickle 
 down her cheeks without any of the disfiguring 
 grimaces which usually attend the act of weeping. 
 I loved her from the first instant I saw her, and 
 my childish heart clung to her with all the strength 
 of feeling that had lain dormant in it during the 
 first years of my existence. To use a familiar ex- 
 pression, we took to each other instantaneously ; I 
 do not know that she was fond of children, as it is 
 called ; she did not stop to caress those we met in 
 our walks, and of romping and noise she grew very 
 soon weary ; but there was so much originality in 
 her understanding, and so much simplicity in her 
 character ; she was so in earnest about every em- 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 47 
 
 ployment and amusement which she admitted me 
 to share, that, superior as she was, I never felt that 
 she was making an effort to bring herself down to 
 my level, and consequently in her society never 
 experienced the weariness which children are apt to 
 feel, from those flat and unprofitable attempts to 
 amuse them, which are so often made and so often 
 fail. She required sympathy ; it was as necessary 
 to her as the air of heaven, and what she so much 
 needed herself, she amply yielded to others. I 
 never met in my life with any one who entered into 
 the feelings of those about her as she did. 
 
 Altogether, she was a person more calculated to 
 diffuse happiness than to enjoy it ; perhaps to in- 
 spire more enthusiastic feelings of affection, than she 
 herself often experienced. Be that as it may, she 
 opened a new era in the history of my child- 
 hood; and, during the six or seven years that 
 followed the epoch of my uncle's marriage, my life 
 was as happy as that of a human creature can be. 
 
48 ELLEN MIDDLETON, 
 
 About a year after that event, Mrs. Middleton was 
 confined of a girl, and this circumstance, far from 
 diminishing my happiness, served but to increase it. 
 My aunt was not a person capable of being engrossed 
 by an infant, and though greatly pleased at the 
 birth of her little girl, her affection for me suffered 
 no diminution. The cares which little Julia re- 
 quired — the task of entertaining her, which often 
 fell to my share — formed a delightful amusement ; 
 and I do not remember, till the time when she was 
 eight and I fifteen, having ever felt, or, indeed, 
 having had cause to feel, one jealous pang on 
 her account. 
 
 Mrs. Middleton took great pains with my educa- 
 tion, — at least with those parts of it which were con- 
 genial to her taste and mine ; for, to follow with 
 ardour whatever was the impulse and fancy of the 
 moment, was at once the charm and the danger of 
 my -aunt's character. She could not resist the 
 temptation of initiating me, perhaps too early, into 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 49 
 
 those studies which captivate the imagination and 
 excite the feelings. German and Italian we studied 
 together. The most romantic parts of history — 
 all that was most interesting and bewitching in poe- 
 try, furnished materials for those hours which we 
 devoted to reading. Reading! that most power- 
 ful instrument in the education of the heart ! — 
 silently searching into its secrets, rousing its dor- 
 mant passions, and growing sometimes itself into a 
 passion 1 But there was scarcely less excitement 
 in conversing with my aunt, than in reading with 
 her. She never took a common-place view of any 
 subject, or shrunk from expressing her real opinion 
 upon it, whatever it might be. With regard to 
 her own feelings, she took nothing for granted ; she 
 never persuaded herself (as so many people do) 
 that, because it would be right or desirable to feel 
 and to act in a particular manner, that she did so 
 feel and act, while her conscience bore witness to 
 the contrary. She was a great searcher into 
 
 VOL. I. D 
 
so ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 motives, and fearfully true in her judgment of 
 people and of things : had not her character been 
 one of the noblest, and her mind one of the purest 
 that ever woman was gifted with, there would have 
 been something startling in the boldness of her 
 opinions, and in the candour of her admissions. 
 Had she been within reach of any associates whose 
 feelings and understandings had been in any way 
 congenial to her own, she would not, in all pro- 
 bability, have treated me, not merely as a pupil 
 and companion, but as an intimate friend. She 
 would not have poured out her thoughts to me 
 with the most unbounded confidence, or taught me 
 to feel that I was essential to her happiness ; but, 
 as it was, (for at Elmsley she had neighbours and 
 acquaintances, but no friends,) she did all this, and 
 the intense gratification which I derived from my 
 constant intercourse with one whom I loved with 
 the tenderest affection, kept me in a state of highly 
 wrought excitement, which, while it subdued, and 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 51 
 
 even effaced, the trivial faults of that early age, 
 exercised on my character an influence far from 
 beneficial to my future happiness. One of the 
 subjects on which Mrs. Middleton would often 
 speak to me with eagerness and eloquence, was the 
 self-deception with which most people persuade 
 themselves that their affections flow in their most 
 natural channels, without proving their own feel- 
 ings by the stern test of reality. Fully aware of 
 her partiality to me ; aware, too, how unattractive 
 a child my cousin Julia was, and how unsuited to 
 my aunt's nature and taste must be the cold, slug- 
 gish, selfish disposition which her daughter evinced, 
 and which she seemed painfully alive to, I never 
 for an instant doubted that her affection for me 
 exceeded in kind, as well as in degree, that which 
 she felt for her own child. Often would she lament 
 to me that Julia gave no promise of future excel- 
 lence of mind or character; that in her she never 
 expected to find the innate sympathy, the respon- 
 d2 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS 
 
52 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 give tenderness, that characterised our intimacy, 
 and which shed such a charm over every detail of 
 life. The selfishness inherent in the human heart, 
 superadded to the exclusive nature of a passionate 
 attachment, made me listen to these forebodings 
 with a secret satisfaction, laying, meanwhile, the 
 flattering unction to my soul, that nothing but the 
 purest spirit of devoted tenderness led me to rejoice 
 that I could fill a place in my aunt's affections, 
 which would prevent her suffering from the disap- 
 pointment which my cousin's repulsive and apa- 
 thetic disposition would otherwise have caused to a 
 heart as warm, and a spirit as ardent, as hers. 
 
 A few years (the happiest of my life) carried me 
 .rapidly to the verge of womanhood. I attained my 
 fifteenth year, and began to form acquaintances, and 
 to mix in the society which occasionally met at 
 Elmsley. It chiefly consisted of relations of my 
 uncle and of Mrs. Middleton, who came at 
 certain intervals, and spent a few weeks at the old 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON* 53' 
 
 Priory, which then became the scene of more active 
 amusements than were habitual in our usually re- 
 tired mode of life. Edward Middleton, a nephew 
 of my uncle, and Henry Lovell, a younger brother 
 of my aunt, who were college friends and constant 
 associates, were among our most frequent visitors. 
 The latter, who had lost his mother several years 
 before the time I am speaking of, and whose father 
 held a situation in one of the government offices, 
 which obliged him to remain in London almost all 
 the year round, had been in the habit of spending 
 first his holidays from Eton, and subsequently the 
 Oxford vacations, with his sister at Elmsley. There 
 he formed an acquaintance with Edward Middle- 
 ton, which soon grew into a close intimacy ; and 
 both at college and at Elmsley they were insepa- 
 rable. As it so often happens in such cases, there 
 was hardly any perceptible bond of sympathy be- 
 tween them ; they were so strikingly dissimilar in 
 character and in tastes, that one could scarcely 
 
54 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 understand the pleasure they took in each other's 
 society. It is necessary to the subsequent unfolding 
 of my story that I should give some account of 
 them, and of the feelings with which 1 regarded, at 
 that time, these two men. They were both several 
 years older than myself, but the disparity was not 
 enough to prevent my considering them as friends 
 and companions. They had both left Oxford some 
 two or three years before the time I am speaking 
 of. Henry Lovell was at once like and unlike his 
 sister, Mrs. Middleton ; he was exceedingly attrac- 
 tive ; there was no den}?ing the charm that existed 
 in the rapid intelligence, the quick conception, and 
 the ready humour that beamed in his eyes and 
 countenance, and sparkled in his brilliant repartee. 
 His powers of captivation were as great as hers, 
 but he knew that power, and ever used it for an 
 end ; while in her it was spontaneous as the bub- 
 bling of a stream, as the song of thie birds, or as 
 the joy of childhood. Both had a keen perception 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 55 
 
 of ridicule, but in her it never amounted to ill- 
 nature : she was as severe upon herself as he was 
 upon others ; while she penetrated into their motives 
 she judged them kindly, and was as ready to detect 
 evil in her own heart as he was to suspect it in 
 theirs. His smile was sarcastic, and his remarks 
 were often bitter. If he had not been charming, 
 he would have been odious ; and to have been loved 
 at all, he must have been passionately loved, for no 
 feeling short of passion could have withstood the 
 withering influence of his deep-seated selfishness. 
 He was well versed in the language of feeling, in 
 the theory of enthusiasm ; he could speak of " what- 
 soever things are pure, of whatsoever things are 
 lovely, of whatsoever things are honest, of what- 
 soever things are of good report." Where there 
 was virtue, and where there was praise, there was 
 he ready to descant with eloquence, to discuss with 
 ability; there he was at home, at least in con- 
 versation, for, in the varied range of human 
 
56 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 affections, his intellect conceived what his heart did 
 not feel. 
 
 At the time that I am writing of, when he and 
 Edward Middleton were the two persons who most 
 occupied my thoughts, and interested my girlish 
 imagination, it would have been difficult for me to 
 describe what I thought of each. For Edward I 
 felt an involuntary respect, which made me shrink 
 from expressing, before him, any opinion, or any 
 sentiment which he was likely to condemn ; he 
 seemed inclined to judge me with pecuhar severity, 
 and 1 sometimes felt provoked at the calm stern- 
 ness of his manner on these occasions, especially on 
 comparing it with the smiling indifference with 
 which he would listen to Henry LovelPs satirical 
 remarks, which I secretly felt to be more deserving 
 of blame than my own thoughtless observations, 
 httle as I could withstand myself the extraordinary 
 fascination which his peculiar tone of mind and 
 conversation exercised on those about him. 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 57 
 
 In the summer of the year 18 — , my cousin 
 Julia had a long and severe illness. For some 
 days she lay at the point of death ; and, for the 
 first time in my life, I saw the expression of anguish 
 in the face I loved best in the world. Mrs. Mid- 
 dleton's grief seemed out of proportion with the 
 degree of affection she had hitherto apparently felt 
 for her child ; and there was a wildness in her 
 sorrow which surprised as much as it aifected me. 
 Long afterwards, it struck me that something of 
 remorse, at the preference she had so openly 
 shown for me, and at the coldness with which she 
 had regarded her daughter, might have added to 
 the misery she then experienced. But, at the 
 time, this idea never occurred to me; I thought 
 I had underrated the strength of my aunt''s feelings, 
 and only wondered at the intensity of an affection 
 which had never betrayed itself to that extent 
 before. 
 
 After a few anxious days and nights, my cousin 
 d3 
 
58 .ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 rallied, and by degrees recovered; but did not 
 regain the state of robust health which she had 
 previously enjoyed. My aunt's devotion to her 
 was unceasing : she patiently watched over her, 
 and attended to every wish and fancy that she 
 expressed. JuHa's temper, which had never been 
 good, grew gradually worse ; and it required all a 
 mother's forbearance to endure her continual way- 
 wardness and caprice. She had never seemed to 
 feel much affection for me, but now her indiffer- 
 ence grew into positive disHke, and nothing I 
 could say or do ever succeeded in pleasing her. 
 When left in my charge, she would invariably 
 insist upon doing something or other which I was 
 obliged to prohibit or prevent ; and the slightest 
 opposition to her will would instantly produce 
 such fits of passion, and of crying, that my aunt at 
 her return found her frequently in such a state 
 of hysterical nervousness, or else so pale and ex- 
 hausted by her own violence, that it was some time 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 59 
 
 before she could be restored to anything like 
 calmness or good-humour. I can truly say that I 
 made every possible effort to gain the affection of 
 my little cousin, and I was seldom betrayed into 
 any irritable expression, or sign of impatience, 
 much as I was daily and hourly tried in the 
 manner I have described. 
 
 Once or twice I had observed an expression of 
 displeasure in Mrs. Middleton's countenance, on 
 overhearing Julia's screams, on some of the occa- 
 sions alluded to ; and I had sometimes noticed a 
 sudden cloud pass over her brow, and an abrupt 
 change in her manner, at the moments when she 
 was on the point of giving utterance to those 
 expressions of tenderness, which she was wont to 
 bestow upon me : but that tenderness was so 
 evident ; it had been spoken in words ; it had been 
 proved by deeds ; I had read it in every look of 
 her eyes ; I had traced it in every tone of her 
 voice, during so many years, that I should as soon 
 
60 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 have doubted, that the rays of the sun cheered 
 and warmed me, as that my aunt loved me. 
 
 I am now come to an epoch of my life, the 
 events of which, in their minutest details, are en- 
 graved on my memory as if a burning iron had 
 stamped them on my brain. I will not anticipate, 
 but, with unflinching resolution, record every 
 particular of the day which changed me from a 
 happy child into a miserable woman. 
 
 Some description of Elmsley Priory is requisite 
 to the understanding of my story, and I will 
 endeavour to make it short and clear. 
 
 The house itself, formerly a monastery, was, 
 built on the brow of a steep hill; irregular in 
 shape, it seemed to have been added to, bit by bit, 
 according to the increasing size of the convent. 
 A verandah or balcony of modern date, followed 
 the sinuosities of the old pile, and, from its peculiar 
 position, while at one extremity it was on a level 
 with the grounds, at the other it overhung a pre- 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 6J. 
 
 cipitous declivity. This bank shelved down to the 
 edge of a rapid stream, which chafed and foamed 
 along the base of the hill against which the house 
 stood. 
 
 At one of the ends of the verandah was a 
 rough flight of stone steps, much overgrown with 
 moss, at all times difficult to descend, and, after 
 rain, positively dangerous, from the slippery nature 
 of the footing it afforded. It led to the edge of 
 the river, down the bank already described. A 
 longer and more circuitous path began at the oppo- 
 site extremity of the verandah, and ended at the 
 same point. 
 
 The view which this balcony commanded was 
 one of the most beautiful that can be conceived ; 
 and in the first freshness of a spring morning, in 
 the intense heat and repose of a summer noon, in 
 the glorious beauty of an autumnal sunset, or in the 
 grandeur of a wintry storm, we were wont to stand 
 and revel in the varying aspects which this lovely 
 
62 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 landscape presented to our eyes. It was a combin- 
 ation of wood, stream, and mountain, with a few 
 cottages scattered here and there, as if a painter's 
 hand had placed them where they stood. Alto- 
 gether, they formed a picture which the eye loved 
 to dwell upon, and which memory strives to recal. 
 
 It was on one of those glorious days, when exist- 
 ence in itself, and apart from all other circumstances, 
 is felt to be a blessing, that I stood leaning against 
 one of the pillars of the gallery I have described. 
 
 There had been a thunder-storm, and torrents 
 of rain, in the night, but then the sky was perfectly 
 cloudless ; that thin transparent haze, which in 
 England sobers without obscuring the brightness 
 of a hot sunny day, hung lightly on the distance ; 
 the lights and shades played in the stream below, 
 and the busy hum of insects was the only sound 
 that reached my ears. The rose of May, and the 
 slender jessamine, twined round the pilasters, near 
 which I stood. They were giving out all their 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 63 
 
 sweetness, and seemed to be rearing their graceful 
 heads again, after the storm that had so rudely 
 shaken them. 
 
 I had thrown back my bonnet, to enjoy more 
 completely the warm perfumed breeze ; and was 
 so absorbed by the beauty of the scene, that it was 
 only on being called to for the second time, that I 
 turned round, and saw Julia, standing on the edge 
 of the stone parapet, with her arm round one of 
 the columns. The dangerous nature of her posi- 
 tion immediately struck me ; I told her to come 
 down, and, on her refusing to do so, took hold of 
 her, and placed her on the ground. She instantly 
 set up one of her loudest screams, and, exclaiming 
 that I had hurt her, she rushed past me, and ran 
 into the drawing-room, one of the recesses of which 
 formed an angle in the building. A small paned 
 latticed window, which opened on the verandah, 
 was at this moment imperfectly closed, and from 
 the spot where I stood, I could hear every word 
 
64 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 that was spoken in that recess. I heard Julia 
 complaining to her mother of my unkindness, in a 
 voice broken by sobs, and tremulous with passion. 
 The child's statement of the facts that had led to 
 my interference, was totally false; for an instant 
 I felt inclined to follow her, in order to contradict 
 it, but the bane of my nature, pride^ which always 
 made me hate an explanation or a justification, 
 restrained the impulse, and 1 then caught the 
 sound of Mrs. Middleton's voice; she was speak- 
 ing in a low earnest manner to her husband. 
 
 " This cannot last,"" she was saying ; " it cannot 
 be suffered to last; these children must be sepa- 
 rated, and the sooner the better." 
 
 " But what can be done ? " was the reply ; 
 " Ellen has no home but this." 
 
 I listened breathlessly for the answer. It seemed 
 to me, at that moment, as if my life depended 
 upon it ; my breath seemed to stop, and my whole 
 frame to quiver. 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 65 
 
 " She might go to some good school for a year 
 or two," was the answer : " it would be painful to 
 decide on such a step ; but nothing can signify to 
 us in compaiison with Julia's health." I did not 
 hear any more, but, snatching up my bonnet, I rushed 
 along the verandah till I came to its farthest 
 extremity. I knelt, and leant my head against the 
 stones of the parapet. Every vein in my brow 
 seemed swelled to bursting, and I felt as if I had 
 waked from a happy dream to a state of things 
 which my understanding could scarcely master. 
 
 Was it indeed my aunt ? was it Mrs. Middleton? 
 who had spoken of sending me away from her — 
 away from Elmsley ? Was it she that had said I was 
 nothing to her in comparison with the selfish child 
 whom, for her sake, I had so cared for, so endured? 
 It was even so — I was nothing to her ; I felt con- 
 vinced of it at once ; and it seemed to me in that 
 moment as if a sudden chill struck to my heart, and 
 crept through my whole frame. I have often 
 
TO ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 wondered whether the sensation of moral suffering 
 is as nearly allied to physical pain in every one else 
 as in myself. The expression of an aching heart 
 has always appeared to me to have a literal as well 
 as a figurative sense; there is a sort of positive 
 pain that accompanies certain kinds of mental suf- 
 ferings, different in its nature from the feeling of 
 grief, even in its highest degree; and disappoint- 
 ment in its various forms is perhaps the species of 
 suffering which generally produces it. 
 
 I was, at the moment I have described, expe- 
 riencing this kind of pain in its acutest shape. I 
 felt reluctant to move from where I stood ; the sound 
 of my own quick breathing was oppressive to me. 
 My eyes were closed, that the light of the sun, in all 
 its glorious brightness, should not reach me. The 
 sounds, the smells, that I was enjoying a few minutes 
 before, were growing intolerable to me. No voice 
 could then have been welcome to me (for the voice 
 I loved best, the voice that had ever spoken peace and 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 67 
 
 joy to my heart. I had just heard utter words that 
 had destroyed at one blow the fabric of bliss which 
 my heart had so long framed for itself) ; no voice, 
 I say, could have been welcome to me ; but when I 
 heard the sharp and querulous tones of Julia, 
 God in mercy forgive me for what I felt. She was 
 again standing at the head of the stone steps, that I 
 have described as forming one of the extremities of 
 the verandah ; and as she placed her foot on one of 
 the moss-covered slippery steps, she called out, 
 " I 'm going down — I'll have my own way now." 
 I seized her hand, and, drawing her back, exclaimed, 
 " Don't, Julia ! " on which she said, " You had 
 better not teaze me; you are to be sent away if 
 you teaze me." I felt as if a viper had stung me ; 
 the blood rushed to my head, and I struck her; — 
 she reeled under the blow, her foot slipped, and she 
 fell headlong down the stone steps. A voice near 
 me said, '^ She has killed her !" There was a 
 plunge in the water below ; her white frock rose to 
 
bo ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 the surface — sunk — rose again — and sunk to rise 
 no more. Two men rushed wildly down the bank, 
 and one of them turned and looked up as he 
 passed. I heard a piercing scream — a mother's cry 
 of despair. Nobody said again " She has killed 
 her." I did not die— I did not go mad, for I had 
 not an instant's delusion — I never doubted the 
 reality of what had happened ; but those words — 
 " She has killed her !" " She has killed her !" — were 
 written as with a fiery pencil on my brain, and day 
 and night they rang in my ears. Who had spoken 
 them ? 
 
 The secret of my fate was in those words. 
 
CHAPTER 11, 
 
 ** Whence is that knocking? 
 How is 't with me when every noise appals me ; 
 What hands are here ? Ha! they pluck out mine eyes. 
 Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood 
 Clean from my hand ? " Shakspeare. 
 
 " In the wind there is a voice 
 Shall forbid thee to rejoice ; 
 And to thee shall night deny 
 All the quiet of her sky ; 
 And the day shall have a sun 
 Which shall make thee wish it done." Byron. 
 
 I KNOW not how long I remained in the same 
 place, rooted to the spot, the blood rushing at one 
 instant with such violence to my head, that it seemed 
 as if it would burst from my temples; and the next 
 I felt a cold sweat on my forehead, and a horrible 
 fear creeping over my heart. I could not move. 
 
70 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 and my tongue clave to the roof of my mouth ; my 
 eyes felt as if they were starting out of my head, 
 and I sought to close them and could not. There 
 was that torrent before them ; it roared, it foamed ; 
 and the foam looked like a shroud ; and the roaring 
 of the water sounded like a scream ; and I screamed 
 too — a dreadful scream — and then all at once I grew 
 calm ; for there were hurried steps on the gallery, 
 and terror paralysed me. It was the housekeeper 
 and the doctor ; as they came, the latter said : — 
 " Take the other child to her, — perhaps she will cry 
 when she sees her." And as I was trembling 
 violently, and did not seem to hear what they said* 
 to me, though I did hear every word, the man took 
 me up in his arms, and carried me like a baby into 
 the drawing-room. Mrs. Middleton was there with 
 a face paler than a sheet ; when she saw me her 
 mouth quivered, but she did not speak or cry ; she 
 waved her hand, and then laid her head again 
 against the open door, and seemed to listen with 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 71 
 
 her heart. I felt as if I could hear it beat where 
 I sat. Five or six minutes passed, and then 
 Mr. Middleton rushed into the room. She looked 
 up into his face and shrieked — the same fearful 
 shriek I had heard once before. He took her hands, 
 which she was wringing wildly, and putting his 
 arm round her, he whispered, " Now, Mary, all is 
 over; show me that you believe in God." She 
 struggled for a moment, her chest heaved con- 
 vulsively, and then she burst into a violent fit of 
 hysterical crying. He supported her out of the 
 room, and they went away together. The house- 
 keeper came up to the sofa where I was, and taking 
 one of my hands, she said, " And where were you 
 when the poor thing fell ? " 
 
 I started up as if she had shot me ; I rushed 
 out of the room, across the hall, through the wind- 
 ing passages, and up the stairs into my own room. 
 1 locked the door, and falling on my knees witli 
 my face against the bed-post, I pressed my temples 
 
72 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 with my hands as if to still their throbbing. During 
 the next two or three hours, each knock at my 
 door made me jump as if a cannon had gone off at 
 my ear ; each time I opened it I expected to be 
 accused of Julia's death, — to be told that I had 
 killed her ; and once, when it was my uncle"'s step 
 that I heard approaching, I opened my window, 
 and was on the point of throwing myself out of it : 
 strange to say, the only thing that stopped me was 
 the fear of adding to Mrs. Middleton's anguish. 
 I suppose it was the excessive terror that I felt of 
 being denounced, or of betraying myself, that saved 
 me from a brain fever ; the very intensity of this 
 anxiety subdued the extravagance of my despair, 
 and I calmed myself that I might appear calm. 
 I took some food, because I instinctively felt that I 
 needed strength and support. It never occurred to 
 me, it never once crossed my mind, to reveal what 
 I had done. I felt that if any one accused me, I 
 must have died on the spot — fled, destroyed myself 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 73 
 
 — I know not what; but at the same time there 
 was a rigid determination in my soul, that as in the 
 first moments that had followed Julia's death, I 
 could not, so now I would not, speak. Each hour 
 that elapsed confirmed this resolution ; for every hour 
 that passed by in silence, every word that was uttered 
 by me, or before me, on the subject, made the act 
 of self-accusation grow into a moral impossibility. 
 
 When it became dusk the solitude of my room 
 grew intolerable to me, and I wandered through 
 the house seeking for companionship, and yet start- 
 ing off in a different direction, if the sound of 
 steps or of voices drew near to me. At last I found 
 my way unobserved into the drawing-room, and 
 sat there, or paced up and down for a length of 
 time, till at last the door opened, and my uncle 
 came in. 
 
 He walked up to me, laid his hand on my 
 shoulder, and said, in a voice of subdued emotion, 
 " You are now our only child, Ellen." 
 
 VOL. I. E 
 
74 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 I suppose my countenance bore a very wild 
 expression at that moment, for he looked at me 
 with surprise, and then added in a still more sooth- 
 ing manner, " Go to your aunt, my dear Ellen ; 
 she will not feel herself childless while you are 
 spared to us."*"* 
 
 A choking sensation rose in my throat, and a 
 cold sweat stood on my forehead, but I got up, and 
 walked resolutely to my aunt's room. 
 
 She was overwhelmed with grief ; her hands were 
 feverish, and her head burning. I sat down by 
 her, and silently employed myself in bathing her 
 temples with cold water. She now and then laid 
 her aching head on my shoulder, and burst into 
 an agony of crying, which seemed to relieve her. 
 
 She asked me where my uncle was ; and I could 
 have told her, for I had heard the servants say, as 
 I was coming up stairs, that he was returning to 
 the river side, to make one search more after the 
 body of his child. 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 7^ 
 
 The moon was shining brightly, and several men 
 were employed in dragging the deep and rapid 
 stream ; I pointed that way, and she seemed at 
 once to understand me, for a deep groan was her 
 only answer. Once she said, " Pray for me, 
 Ellen ;" and then for the first time remorse took 
 its place by the side of terror in my mind. I felt 
 I could not pray — no exactly-defined idea of guilt 
 presented itself to my mind, and yet there was a 
 murmur in my ears, the burden of which was, 
 ^* She has killed her — she has killed her ;" (and as 
 when standing on a dizzy height, with a firm hold 
 on some railing or plank of support, something 
 whispers to one, " If I should let it go !") I felt 
 afraid that the next moment I should say out loud, 
 " 1 have killed her." 
 
 The idea of prayer made me tremble. Once I 
 
 said mechanically, " O God ! forgive me," and then 
 
 shuddered. It sounded to myself like a confession 
 
 of murder. I dared not address God as I had 
 
 E 2 
 
76 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 done the day before. One instant I thought of 
 myself as of a guilty wretch, unworthy to live, 
 unworthy to lift up her voice in prayer, or to raise 
 her eyes to the calm and cloudless sky. At other 
 times I felt as if God had dealt too hardly with me : 
 I pitied myself, and my heart waxed rebellious in 
 its grief. I said to myself, like Cain, " My punish- 
 ment is greater than I can bear;" and then I 
 almost cursed myself for having thought of Cain — 
 for I had not murdered my cousin, though some- 
 body said I had killed her. For one instant anger 
 had maddened me ; without thought, without 
 intention, I had struck her — one hasty blow was 
 given, and now my youth was blighted, my peace 
 of mind was gone ; the source of all pure joys, of all 
 holy thoughts, was dried up within me. 1 should 
 never stand again in the sacred silence of the solemn 
 night, and feel as if its whispering winds were 
 bringing tidings from a better world to my soul. 
 And in those days of glowing beauty, when streams 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 77 
 
 of light intoxicate the eye, when all nature breaks 
 into song, or blossoms into flower, never again 
 should I feel myself as in past years, a part of that 
 bright creation, longing only, in the fulness of my 
 heart, to prostrate myself in fervent adoration 
 before Him who gave to the birds and to the 
 streams a voice to praise Him; to the glorious 
 heavens a charge to magnify Him ; and to man, 
 enthusiasm, emotion, poetry, music — all that lifts 
 the soul above itself and the material world around 
 it, to the wide fields of enraptured contemplation. 
 
 But now a chain would evermore weigh down 
 my spirits — a dark remembrance would ever stand 
 between me and the sunny skies — a tone, as of the 
 dying and the dead, would ever mingle with the 
 sounds of melody, with the voice of love, with the 
 words of affection. Yes — 
 
 *' All bright hopes and hues of day 
 Had faded into twilight grey ;" 
 
 or rather into the darkness of night. I wept 
 
78 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 over myself, over my blighted youth, my destroyed 
 happiness, my lost innocence — and I was only 
 sixteen ! 
 
 There I sat, that long night through ; my aunt 
 had sunk into the heavy slumber of exhaustion, 
 her hand in mine, her head on my shoulder. 
 I dared not move — scarcely breathe ; hot searing 
 tears were slowly chasing each other down my 
 cheeks, and the storm within was raging wildly in 
 my breast— but I did not pray ; I could not : a 
 sheet of lead seemed to stretch itself between me 
 and Heaven ; and when the light of day broke 
 slowly into the chamber of mourning, I closed my 
 eyes, not to see the sun in its calm majesty, dawn- 
 ing on the first day of my changed existence. 
 
 The first days that follow a great and sudden 
 misfortune carry with them a kind of excitement 
 that keeps off for a time the stunning sense of 
 desolation from the soul. My uncle returned on 
 the following morning, bearing with him the body 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 79 
 
 of his child, which he had at length succeeded in 
 rescuing from the bed of the torrent, which had 
 carried it down far below Elmsley. 
 
 The preparations for the interment in the village 
 church seemed to rouse the afflicted parents to 
 exertions, that, though intimately connected with 
 the loss that had befallen them, were almost a 
 relief to Mrs. Middleton, after the inactivity of the 
 last twenty-four hours. 
 
 I had hardly left her room all day, and when 
 she told me that my uncle expected us all to meet 
 him at dinner, I felt it would be impossible to go 
 through the trial ; but, as she was going to make 
 the exertion, I could not refuse to follow her. 
 
 When we entered the drawing-room together, 
 Edward Middleton and Henry Lovell were both 
 standing before the fire-place. It was well for me 
 that our meeting took place while the catastrophe 
 of the day before was so recent, that the agitation 
 I betrayed could pass under the garb of sorrow 
 
80 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 and nervousness. I was trembling violently ; 
 I felt a degree of conviction, that amounted to 
 moral certainty, that one of those two men had 
 witnessed the frightful scene, which resembled 
 more a hideous dream, than an actual reality. 
 Both were coming to me with outstretched hands. 
 Could they both mean to take mine ? Did not 
 one of them know what that hand had done ? 
 A mist rose before my eyes, and I fainted. 
 
 When my senses returned, I found myself in 
 bed, my aunt by my side, and a number of restora- 
 tives employed to bring me back from my swoon. 
 I recovered, and the next morning, on awaking 
 after some hours of feverish and restless sleep, I 
 heard a noise in the court under my windows. 
 
 I rose hastily, and saw the funeral procession 
 moving slowly from the house across the grounds, 
 and taking its way towards the village church. 
 The little coffin was carried by four of the grey- 
 headed servants of the house ; my uncle and aunt 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 81 
 
 were walking on foot beside it, and my cousin and 
 Henry Lovell were following them. The rest of 
 the servants, among whom was Julia's nurse, and 
 almost all the inhabitants of the village, closed the 
 procession. I watched the funeral train till it was 
 out of sight, and for the first time I forgot myself, 
 for a few minutes, and my own dreadful share in 
 this calamity, and thought only of my aunt, and of 
 her misery. I called to mind too the image of that 
 child, whom I had so often nursed to sleep in her 
 infancy, whom 1 had carried in my arms, and held 
 to my bosom. When I pictured to myself the 
 little body laid in its narrow grave, and thought 
 how short a time ago life was strong within it, and 
 that it was my hand that had sent her to her watery 
 grave, my agony grew so intense that I wonder it 
 did not kill me, or drive me to some desperate act 
 of madness. It did not ; and pity for myself soon 
 hardened my heart against the sufferings of others. 
 I ceased to weep for Julia ; she was dead indeed ; 
 E 3 
 
82 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 but was not death a blessing compared to such a 
 life as mine would be? My aunt had lost her 
 child ; but was not her sorrow as nothing in com- 
 parison with mine — mine, who had made her child- 
 less ? And now a sudden thought flashed on my 
 brain. Why was I at home ? Why was I alone ? 
 Did they suspect me ? Had the master of my fate, 
 the witness of my crime, warned them to keep the 
 murderess away from the grave of their child ? 
 Was I already become as a monster to them ? 
 Did they loathe the sight of me ? Would they 
 send me to prison ? or would they turn me out of 
 their house ; and should I fly along dusty roads, 
 and through dark alleys and crowded streets, and 
 would the mob follow, as I once read that they 
 followed a woman who was thought to have mur- 
 dered her child, and point at me, and hoot, and 
 groan, and cry " There goes the wretch that mur- 
 dered the child ? " I fell on my knees ; it seemed 
 as if there was a sound of footsteps behind me — a 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 83 
 
 shout of execration in my ears. It was a waking 
 nightmare; I was growing dehrious, and when I 
 felt something touch me, and a warm breath on my 
 shoulders, I gave a piercing scream, and fell with 
 my face on the ground. A low moaning roused 
 me from this state. I looked up and saw my great 
 Newfoundland dog, who always slept in my room ; 
 he was licking my hands and neck. His kind eyes 
 were looking at me from under the rough hair that 
 shaded them ; and he moaned gently as he did so. 
 I was still almost a child, for I suppose that none 
 but a child would have found comfort in this 
 creature's mute sympathy. As it was, I flung my 
 arms wildly round its neck, and sobbed. He did 
 not struggle, but patiently stood there, though my 
 tears were falling fast on his head. " Poor, poor 
 Hector ! you never will be told what I have done ; 
 you never will turn away from me with horror, 
 though all the world should do so. Poor, poor 
 Hector ! my good, my kind dog ! " This little in 
 
84 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 cident had done me good, and the tears I had shed 
 had relieved me. I dressed myself, and when my 
 aunt entered my room at her return from the 
 funeral — when she embraced me with much 
 emotion — when she told me how she and my uncle 
 had hoped that I might have slept over the last 
 trying hour — when she tenderly reproached me for 
 having left my bed — when she drew me to her, and, 
 parting the hair that hung loosely and heavily on 
 my forehead, laid her cold hand upon it, and then 
 pressed me to her bosom — I felt a relief that for 
 the moment almost resembled joy. Under the in- 
 fluence of this momentary reaction I followed her 
 to the dining-room, where we found my uncle 
 sitting in mournful silence ; he pressed my hand as 
 I approached him, and we all sat down to eat, or 
 try to eat, the breakfast prepared for us. This 
 melancholy meal over, I withdrew to the furthest 
 end of the drawing-room, and sat down at my em- 
 broidery frame, which stood near to an open 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 85 
 
 window, and began to work with something hke 
 composure. From this moment everything about 
 us resumed its former aspect, and the habits of our 
 daily life seemed to have experienced scarcely any 
 change. My uncle's reserve and gloom were, per- 
 haps, somewhat deeper than before ; and Mrs. Mid- 
 dleton at times gave way to uncontrollable bursts of 
 grief; but her elastic spirit, bowed down for a while 
 by the pressure of sorrow, rose again with the 
 buoyancy which affliction can repress, but hardly 
 destroy in a nature like hers, to which happiness 
 seemed almost a condition of existence. A sorrow 
 which would have broken this spring within her 
 must have killed her — but this did not ; and the 
 full flow of her affections seemed to return in what 
 had once appeared to be their natural channel — she 
 clung to me with a fondness that seemed every 
 hour to increase. Superior as she was, there was 
 about her a kind of dependence upon others— upon 
 their love and their sympathy — which was in- 
 
86 
 
 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 expressibly endearing. In those early times of 
 sorrow T received her caresses, and listened to the 
 words of love which she addressed to me, with 
 something of the spirit with which I can imagine 
 that the Holy Fran9oise de Chantal may have 
 pressed to her bosom, the burning cross, that 
 stamped upon her breast the sign of salvation,* — 
 at once the object of intense adoration and the 
 instrument of acute torture. 
 
 My cousin and Henry Lovell staid on at 
 Elmsley, and nothing, in the manner of either, gave 
 me the least clue to discover which was the possessor 
 of my dreadful secret. Both were kind to me, and 
 both seemed to regard me with more interest than 
 usual. In Edward's countenance I sometimes read 
 a look of severity, which made the blood forsake my 
 heart ; but then, at other times, his voice was so 
 gentle in speaking to me, his countenance had so 
 
 * Madame de Chantal, the Founder of the Order of the Visi- 
 tation, impressed upon her breast, with a burning iron, the sign 
 of the cross. 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 87 
 
 much sweetness in it, as he turned his eyes full 
 upon me, that I felt re-assured, though, at the same 
 time, intensely miserable. 
 
 With Henry I felt more at my ease — why 1 
 cannot tell, but he was the only person with 
 whom, since the fatal day of Julia's death, I could 
 speak in the same manner as I did before. There 
 was something soothing to my wayward feelings in 
 the thoughtless gaiety which he soon resumed. In 
 the course of a few weeks I persuaded myself nearly, 
 if not entirely, that fancy, allied with terror, had 
 conjured up, in that fatal hour, the cry which had 
 sounded in my ears; at least I pacified my fears 
 by repeating this supposition to myself. It was 
 like a sedative, that numbs without removing the 
 pain we feel. It made me better able to endure 
 what I had to go through. Church was a terrible 
 ordeal to me. I went of an afternoon only, for 
 several following Sundays, because I could not bear 
 to hear the commandments read ; and yet I hated 
 
B8 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 myself for my weakness. One Sunday morning 
 Edward said to me, across the break fast- table, 
 " Pray Ellen, have you made a vow never to go to 
 church of a morning?'' I felt myself turning pale, 
 but answered quietly, " I am going now ;'' and I 
 went, and God only knows what I suffered there. 
 
 Riding grew into a passion with me at that time. 
 There is such excitement in the rapid motion — in 
 the impatience of the animal that bears one along 
 — in the sense of power — in the feeling of life, 
 which is never so strong within one, as when, over 
 a common, or a wild muir, one can dash along at 
 the horse's full speed, with the wind in one's face, 
 and the turf under one's feet. In every weather I 
 rode ; the more heavily it rained, the more wildly it 
 blew, the more I enjoyed excursions that lasted 
 several hours, and after which I returned home, 
 fatigued in body, excited in mind, and able to 
 sleep at night from sheer exhaustion. Henry was 
 my constant companion on these occasions, and 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. OU 
 
 indulged every fancy I formed, as to the length 
 and direction of these excursions. He applauded 
 my courage when, arrested by no obstacles, I cleared 
 fence after fence, or waded through rapid streams, 
 in order to arrive, a quarter of an hour sooner, at 
 some point I had fixed upon. His talent for con- 
 versation was great, and he possessed the art of 
 captivating the attention to an extraordinary 
 degree. Intercourse with him became to me, 
 in a moral point of view, what riding was in a 
 physical. It was an exercise of the mental 
 faculties, that stunned them, and stilled the 
 process of self-tormenting within me. He admired 
 me — I saw it plainly, and far more than he 
 had done before the change that had come over 
 me; at least I fancied so; and one day, as I 
 was turning over the leaves of a blotting-paper 
 book, in the library, I found the following verses : 
 
 " She was a child, and in her dreamless eyes 
 There slept a world of unawakened thought — 
 And in her voice, her laughter, and her sighs, 
 No spirit lingered, and no magic wrought ; 
 
90 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 For as the haze that veils the glorious skies 
 
 At morning prime ; or as the mist that lies 
 
 On ocean's might ; or as the solemn hour 
 
 Of Nature's silence, when the Heavens lower, 
 
 Such was her childhood ; but its hour is past ; 
 
 The veil is drawn, the mist has cleared at last. 
 
 And what though with a storm ! Who does not find 
 
 In wind, in waves, in Nature's wildest strife 
 
 With things material, or in man's own mind, 
 
 A deeper and more glorious sense of life 
 
 Than in the calm of silent apathy ? 
 
 Who would not stand within the Sun's full blaze, 
 
 Though scorched and dazzled by his burning rays ? 
 
 Oh, we can watch with ardent sympathy. 
 
 The stormy floods of rising passion roll 
 
 Their swelling surges o'er the silent soul ; 
 
 And we can gaze exulting on the brow 
 
 Where restless thoughts and new, are crowding now ; 
 
 Each throb, each struggle, serving but to feed| 
 
 The flame of genius, and the source of thought. 
 
 Be mine the task, be mine the joy, to read 
 
 Each mood, each change, by time and feeling wrought, 
 
 And as the mountain stream reflects the light 
 
 That shoots athwart the sky's tempestuous track. 
 
 So shall my soul, her soul's impassioned might. 
 
 As in a broken mirror, image back." 
 
 I read these lines with a strange mixture of 
 sensations. "Does he know the truth?" was 
 my first thought ; and it made the blood rush to 
 my cheeks. The next was, " Whether he knows 
 it or not, he admires me." I smiled with bitter- 
 ness indeed, but still I smiled ; and as I read these 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 91 
 
 verses, over and over again, they seemed to change 
 the current of my feelings. For the first time, I said 
 to myself, " There are things in the world yet worth 
 living for, besides those I have forfeited — peace 
 of mind, and an untroubled conscience. — There is 
 genius, which, as he says, thrives in the atmosphere 
 of suffering ; there is the power which genius gives 
 to " ride triumphant, and have the world at will ;" 
 there are the powerful emotions of the soul when 
 struggling for mastery, when intoxicated with 
 success, when revelHng in homage. If sorrow, if 
 guilt, if despair, have made my eyes more bewitch- 
 ing, and my voice more thrilling; if they have 
 roused the latent spirit within me, it shall not be 
 in vain ; I will drink deeply at these new sources 
 of enjoyment, if not of happiness ; I will cast 
 behind me the burden borne in such anguish ; I 
 will break with the past, the dreadful past, and 
 begin a new era.*" And, seizing the paper which 
 was lying on the table, I walked quickly across 
 
92 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 the library. As I turned the corner of the recess 
 which formed the eastern end of the gallery, T saw 
 Edward sitting by the window, where often, during 
 the preceding summer, we had watched the sunset 
 together. The last rays of the departing light 
 streamed upon him, as he sat absorbed in thought ; 
 a book was on his knees ; it seemed to have dropt 
 from his hand in the depth of his abstraction ; 
 his faultless features, his chiselled mouth, the 
 peculiar colour of his hair, and the light which 
 shed around him a kind of halo, made him at that 
 moment resemble the pictures of saints which 
 Raphael and Domenichino have painted. 
 
 It seemed to me hke a vision ; in the highly 
 excited state in which I then was I almost fancied it 
 such ; and the restless tide of thought within me 
 took a new direction; the tears sprung into my 
 eyes, and I turned away, with a softer feeling at 
 my heart than I had known there for a long while. 
 As I moved towards the door, the rustling of my 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 93 
 
 gown disturbed Edward ; he called to me to come 
 and admire the glowing colours of the sky, where 
 clouds over clouds of red and purple hue were 
 floating in an atmosphere of burnished gold. 
 I went to him, and we stood together for several 
 minutes, till the sun descending quite beneath the 
 horizon, left the room in comparative darkness. 
 I then withdrew, but it was not till I reached my 
 room that I found I had dropt the paper on 
 which Henry's verses were written. I felt annoyed 
 at this, and retraced my steps to the library door, 
 but before I reached it, I met Edward, and in his 
 hand he held the very paper I was come in search 
 of. I did not venture to claim it from him, but 
 he held it out to me at once, and said coldly, 
 " Is this your propert}^ ? " I felt confused, 
 neither venturing to deny, or liking to admit the 
 fact. In my embarrassment I muttered some- 
 thing about a copy of verses that Henry had 
 written out for me, and, hastily stretching out 
 
94 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 my hand for the paper, I took it, and walked away 
 without further explanation. 
 
 On the evening of this day we were all sitting 
 round a table, on which work, books, and imple- 
 ments for writing were spread about. Henry Lovell 
 was even more than usually animated, and spoke 
 well and eloquently on a variety of subjects. Mrs. 
 Middleton joined eagerly in the conversation ; 
 Edward listened attentively, but spoke seldom. 
 I remember every word he said that evening. Once 
 Henry requested us all to say what it was we 
 hated most, and what it was we valued most. 
 I forget what I said, what he said, what my aunt 
 said, but I know that to the first question, Edward 
 answered, duplicity ; and to the second, truth ; and 
 as he pronounced the word truth, he fixed his eyes 
 upon me, accidentally perhaps, but so sternly that 
 I quailed under his glance. A few minutes after, 
 Henry read aloud from a little book that was lying 
 before him, the following question : " Qu' est ce que 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 95 
 
 la vie? Quel est son but? Quelle est sa fin?" 
 " 1 will write my answer on the margin,"*' he cried, 
 and wrote, "Jouir et puis mourir;" and then 
 handed the book to me. I seized the pencil, and 
 hastily added these words, " Souffrir, et puis 
 mourir." Edward read them, and looked at me 
 less sternly than before, but with an earnest inquir- 
 ing expression of countenance ; then lightly draw- 
 ing a line with the pencil across the two preceding 
 sentences, he wrote this one underneath them, 
 '^ Bien vivre, pour bien mourir," and gave me 
 back the book. 
 
 In general he spoke little ; but there was much 
 meaning in what he said. His reserve gave me 
 a feeling of embarrassment with him, which, at 
 the time I am writing of, was particularly irksome. 
 He forced one to think, and I preferred dreaming 
 alone, or drowning thought, in talk with Henry. 
 With the latter I became more intimate than ever : 
 we read together, and it seemed to me that he always 
 
96 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 chose such books as excited my imagination to 
 the utmost, and wrought upon my feelings, without 
 touching on any of the subjects that would have 
 painfully affected me. I tried to write too. From 
 my earliest childhood I had felt great facility 
 in composition, and it was one of Mrs. Middleton's 
 favourite amusements to look over my various 
 attempts, and to encourage the talent which she 
 fancied I possessed ; but now I vainly tried to 
 exert it ; my mind was not capable of a continued 
 effort. I beheve it is Madame de Stael who 
 remarks (and how truly) that to write one must 
 have suffered, and have struggled ; one must have 
 been acquainted with passion and with grief; but 
 they must have passed away from the soul ere 
 the mind can concentrate its powers, and bring its 
 energies to bear on the stores which an experience 
 in suffering has accumulated within us. And it 
 was this very helplessness of mind, this fever in 
 the intellect, which threw me, with such fatal 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 97 
 
 dependance, on the resources which Henry Lovell's 
 conversation and society afforded me. If he 
 left Elmsley for a single day 1 felt the want of 
 them so keenly, that I welcomed him back in 
 in a way that may have deceived others, deceived 
 him, deceived myself perhaps — I know not — I 
 lived but for excitement, and if the stimulus failed, 
 I sunk for the time into momentary apathy. We 
 sung together sometimes, and my voice seemed to 
 have gained strength during the last few months 
 — the old hall at Elmsley vibrated with the notes 
 which, with the impetuosity that characterised 
 everything I did at that time, I threw out with 
 the full consciousness of power. Often of an 
 evening I sat down at the organ that was placed 
 in the gallery of the hall, and, forming various 
 modulations on its deep melodious keys, soothed 
 myself into a kind of dreamy unconscious- 
 ness. 
 
 One day I had gone there as usual ; it was 
 
 VOL. I. F 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 towards dusk, and I was just come home from a 
 long ride on a cold December day. I began play- 
 ing, but, gradually overcome by drowsiness, I fell 
 asleep, my hand still on the keys of the organ, 
 and my head resting against the edge of the high- 
 backed chair I was sitting on. Whether it was 
 the uneasiness of this posture, or my damp un- 
 curled hair that was hanging on my face, or else 
 that in sleep we discern, though it awaken us not, 
 when something is moving near us, I know not, 
 but my sleep was painful in the extreme. I felt 
 as if there was a hard breathing close to me ; but, 
 turn which way I would in my dream, I could see 
 nothing. Then I felt as if some one was laying 
 hold of me, and I tried to scream, but could not. 
 Then I seemed suddenly to stand on the steps of 
 the fatal stairs (I had often, since the day of Julia's 
 death, dreamt the fearful scene over, and the 
 impression which the dreadful reality had left on 
 my mind was such that I had never since ventured 
 
ELLEN MIDDLBTON. 99 
 
 to stand* on that spot,) but now it was not of 
 Julia that I dreamed. I was being dragged down 
 myself to the bottom of the precipice, and the 
 person who was forcing me along into the yawning 
 gulf wore the form of Henry Lovell, and spoke 
 with his voice. 1 called to him to stop — I en- 
 treated him with frantic violence to forbear, but 
 just as we were reaching the hollow he suddenly 
 turned round, and there was Edward Middleton's 
 face looking ghastly pale, and frowning upon me 
 fearfully. I fell back, and the movement 1 must 
 have made at that moment probably awoke me. 
 I roused myself with that uneasy feeling which a 
 terrific dream leaves on one's mind, and timidly 
 looked about me. I was alone; there was the 
 music-book before me, and the two candles burning 
 as I had left them, but by the side of one of them 
 was a coarse bit of paper, and on it was written 
 (oh my God ! how fervently I prayed at that mo- 
 ment that I might yet wake, and find 1 was still 
 f2 
 
100 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 dreaming) — on it was written in large round letters 
 " Beware ! I kxow your secret !" 
 
 There have been so many dreadful moments in 
 my life, all turning upon the one event that put 
 the stamp upon it, that I will not vainly endeavour 
 to describe the misery of each ; but this was one 
 of the worst. I knew not what to think — vi^hat 
 to suspect. Was it indeed some one else, and not 
 Edward Middleton or Henry Lovell, who had 
 seen the share I had had in Julia's death ? But 
 no, it could not be. No servant of the house was 
 at hand, no visitor could have been there, for it 
 had been difficult in the extreme, at the fatal 
 moment, to procure any help ; and every person 
 in the house had accounted for their absence in 
 some way or other. Why, too, should they have 
 been silent till now ? And this paper, these words, 
 there was no demand, no extortion in them — a 
 simple intimation. 
 
 I remained frightened, bewildered, and wholly 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 101 
 
 unable to rally against this new source of anxiety. 
 I kept my bed for two days, confined there by a 
 feverish attack. On the third the doctor pro- 
 nounced me better, and able to go into the draw- 
 ing room. As I was lying there on the sofa, my 
 aunt, who was sitting by me, nursing me as usual 
 with the tenderest solicitude, said, " I have just 
 received a note from Edward, which takes me 
 quite by surprise. You know he left us on the 
 day after the one upon which you were taken ill, 
 to 20 for a week or two to London, and now he 
 writes me word that he is going abroad for a year, 
 and that he will not be able to return to Elmsley 
 to take leave of us. Such a flighty proceeding 
 would be very like you, Henry, but I do not 
 understand it in Edward." 
 
 Gone, and for a year ! the day after I was taken 
 ill, too ! Quick as lightning a sudden thought 
 flashed across my mind. I drew a deep breath, 
 but forced myself to say, " Had he told you of 
 this plan, Henry ?" 
 
102 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 " I have had a letter from him also," was his 
 answer ; " and I thought he looked graver than 
 usual." 
 
 Later in the afternoon, when we were left alone, 
 he came and sat down by me, and, drawing a letter 
 from his pocket, he said, " Ellen, I wish you to 
 read this letter, and to tell me frankly what you 
 think of it— I own I do not understand it. He 
 alludes to some secret, to some sorrow, it would 
 almost seem, that he cannot disclose, and that has 
 rendered Elmsley unpleasant to him. There is 
 but one conjecture that I could make ; but as 
 nothing in his manner or in his way of going on 
 corroborates it, I cannot seriously entertain it, and 
 that is, that he is in love with you ; but you will 
 judge for yourself." Edward's letter was as 
 follows : — 
 
 " My DEAR LOVELL, 
 
 " A circumstance which I can neither explain 
 nor dwell upon, and which had better remain buried 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 103 
 
 in oblivion, has made a further residence at Elmsley 
 so painful to me that I have come to the decision 
 of going abroad immediately, and of remaining 
 absent for a year at least. To your sister I have 
 written to announce my intentions, and at the same 
 time to express my deep sense of her own and my 
 uncle's constant kindness to me. To you I do not 
 wish to disguise the fact that my resolution is not 
 founded on caprice^ — that I have a reason for what 
 I do, however unnecessary it is to state what that 
 reason is. Our friendship makes it incumbent upon 
 me to be so far explicit ; but I beg that you will 
 never allude, by w^ord or by letter, to the cause of 
 my absence, and that you will never question me 
 on the subject. I have left in my room a book 
 which I wish you to give Ellen from me. I dis- 
 like leave-takings, and shall therefore proceed to 
 Dover from hence, without returning again to 
 Elmsley. " Sincerely yours, 
 
 ^' Edward Middleton." 
 
104 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 It was as I had thought, then. There was the 
 secret I had so anxiously sought to discover. He, 
 Edward Middleton, was the possessor of mine ! 
 He had never, then, since the day of Julia's death, 
 looked upon me, or thought of me, but as the 
 murderer of his little cousin — as a wretch whom 
 nothing but his forbearance could keep in the 
 house, from which she ought to have been turned 
 out with horror and execration. He had, how- 
 ever, forborne to ruin, to destroy me ; and a 
 feeling of tenderness stole over my heart at the 
 thought. But that paper — that dreadful paper; 
 was that his last farewell to me ? Did he wish 
 to make me feel that I was in his power ? — that he 
 held the sword of vengeance suspended over my 
 head, and that present, or absent, I was to tremble 
 at his name? This was unhke Edward Middle- 
 ton — this was unworthy of him. He should have 
 come to me, and charged me with my crime. He 
 should have stood before me with that stern com- 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 105 
 
 raanding brow, and pronounced my sentence ; and 
 I would have knelt to him, and submitted to any 
 penance, to any expiation he might have enjoined ; 
 but an unsigned, an unavowed threat, a common 
 anonymous letter — away with it ! away with it ! 
 Base, miserable device for him to resort to ! My 
 very soul sickened at the thought ; and, in the 
 midst of all my other sufferings, I suffered at 
 feeling how low he had fallen in my estima- 
 tion. 
 
 I was so completely absorbed in these reflec- 
 tions, that I was only roused from my abstraction 
 by Henry's asking me, in an impatient tone, 
 " Well, what do you gather from that letter, 
 every word of which you seem to have learned by 
 heart?" 
 
 " Nothing," I replied, " except that Edward 
 is as incomprehensible as he is unsatisfactory." 
 
 He seemed tolerably satisfied with my answer, 
 and, taking away the letter, did not allude again 
 f3 
 
106 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 to the subject, and only sent me by my maid the 
 book which Edward had desired him to transmit 
 to me. It was the " Christian Year," that 
 wonderful, that all but inspired book. I opened 
 it with emotion, and perhaps it might have made 
 a powerful impression upon me, had I not found 
 the passages in it which allude to guilt and to 
 remorse, carefully marked with a pencil, and 
 thus, in a manner, forced on my notice. This 
 seemed to me the sequel of the menacing words 
 so cruelly addressed to me, and the pride of my 
 soul — dare I also say, the native integrity of my 
 character — rose against such a system of secret in- 
 timidation. My heart hardened against the book, 
 and against the giver, and I thrust it impatiently 
 out of my sight. 
 
 Although sick at heart, grieved in spirit, and 
 humbled to the dust at this solution of the mys- 
 tery which had hung over me, yet there was some 
 repose in the degree of security it afforded against 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 107 
 
 any sudden revolution in my destiny. I was 
 somewhat calmer, and sometimes, for a few hours 
 together, I shook off the burden from my soul, 
 and, in outward manner at least, resembled my 
 former self. 
 
108 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 In virgin fearlessness, with step that seemed 
 Caught from the pressure of elastic turf 
 Upon the mountains, gemmed with morning dew, 
 In the prime morn of sweetest scents and airs ; 
 Serious and thoughtful was her mind, and yet, 
 By reconcilement, exquisite and rare 
 The form, port, motions, of this cottage girl 
 "Were such, as might have quickened or inspired 
 A Titian's hand, addressed to picture forth 
 Oread or Dryad, glancing through the shade. 
 What time the hunter's earliest horn is heard 
 Startling the golden hills. 
 
 " Excursion" — Wordsworth. 
 
 On one of those mild days, which occur now and 
 then during the winter, and which bear with them 
 a peculiar charm, Mrs. Middleton and I had 
 strolled out together, after breakfast, into her own 
 flower garden. She was making a winter nosegay 
 of the few hardy flowers that had outlived the 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 109 
 
 frost, and that seemed reviving in the strange 
 softness of this January day. 
 
 " What a morning for a ride ! my own Ellen," 
 said my aunt, as we leant on the stone wall, which 
 felt quite warm with the rays of the wintry sun. 
 " What do you say to ordering the horses, taking 
 a long gallop, and coming home to me with a 
 bloom on your dear cheeks, which look too often 
 like that flower, and too seldom like this one ;*" and 
 she showed me, with a smile, a white camellia, and 
 a China rose, which she had just gathered in the 
 green -house. 
 
 '' I will do as you wish, dear aunt — please 
 myself, and have the merit of obedience into the 
 bargain ; and I shall take these flowers too, to put in 
 my hair this evening. But where shall I ride ?" 
 
 " If you have no choice, my darling, I will give 
 you an errand. You know Bridman Manor?" 
 
 **0 yes; the ruins of the old hall, which my 
 maid used to call the ' ghost-house,** — the old- 
 
no ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 fashioned gardens, with their broken statues and 
 evergreen alleys, that always put me in mind of 
 your favourite lines, by Mary Howitt — 
 
 * 0, those old abbey gardens, with their devices rich ; 
 Their fountains and green solemn walks, and saints in 
 many a niche.' 
 
 I shall like of all things to go there to-day ; but 
 what is your errand ? " 
 
 " Why, I do not know if I ever told you that 
 your uncle had been so kind as to give up to me 
 that pretty cottage of his, that stands on the east 
 side of Bridman-terrace wall, for old Mrs. Tracy, 
 who was my nurse, and afterwards Henry's. You 
 have seen her, have you not, Ellen ? " 
 
 " No," I answered ; " but I have often heard 
 you mention her." 
 
 " She was a person of some importance in our 
 family at one time. You know that my mother 
 died in childbirth, and that Henry's life as an 
 infant was only saved by this woman's unwearied 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. Ill 
 
 devotion. She was passionately attached to 
 Henry, and her singular disposition and turn of 
 mind gave her a hold upon him which he did not 
 entirely shake off even when he was taken from 
 under her care. I believe her temper was violent ; 
 but as a child he never suffered from it, and quite 
 idolised her. She had a great deal of natural 
 cleverness, and her manners and language were 
 always different from those of persons in her rank 
 of life. I shall be curious to hear what you think 
 of her." 
 
 " What made you think of establishing her at 
 Bridman.?" 
 
 " Her son and his wife, who had gone out to 
 India three years ago, and left their children in 
 her care, had both died of a fever at Madras. 
 She felt anxious to remove from the neighbour- 
 hood of London, and to settle in this part of the 
 country. She came to me last summer, and asked 
 my advice on the subject. I felt much interested 
 
112 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 about her, for it was an only son she had lost, 
 and his children are, with the exception of Henry, 
 the only objects of interest she has in the world. 
 Her voice trembled with emotion whenever she 
 mentioned them ; and though she is tolerably well 
 off as to money, I believe, I felt glad to afford 
 her, in her affliction, a quiet and pleasant home. 
 Your uncle agreed to her living in Bridman Cot- 
 tage, and I hear she settled there a short time ago. 
 I should like to send her a kind message, and to 
 hear how she is going on." 
 
 " I shall be dehghted to be your messenger, and 
 will instantly prepare for the ride. As you are 
 going back to the breakfast room, pray tell Henry 
 to be in readiness.'" 
 
 At twelve o'clock the horses came round; we 
 mounted, and set off at a brisk gallop across the 
 Park. As I turned into the lane that led in the 
 direction of Bridman Manor, Henry asked me 
 where I meant to go ? 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 113 
 
 " To pay a visit."" 
 
 « To whom ? " 
 
 " To an acquaintance of yours/' 
 
 " Who can you mean ? " 
 
 " A very old acquaintance of yours." 
 
 " My dear Ellen, y9u are taking quite a wrong 
 road : this lane leads to no house and to no cot- 
 tage that we are acquainted with." 
 
 " I beg your pardon ; it leads to Bridman 
 Manor, and I am going there."" 
 
 " Who do you know there ? " 
 
 " Nobody ; but I am going to make acquaint- 
 ance with your old nurse, Mrs. Tracy." 
 
 He muttered something which sounded to me 
 like an oath, and as I turned and looked at him, 
 I was astonished at the singular expression of his 
 countenance. He smiled, however, and said : 
 
 " You will be making acquaintance in that case 
 with one of the most insupportable women that 
 ever lived. I strongly recommend you to keep 
 
114 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 out of her way. She wears my life out with her 
 querulous temper and tiresome complaints ; and 
 as I do not want to go through a scene with her, 
 you would greatly obb'ge me, Ellen, by giving up 
 this project.'' 
 
 " I am going there with a message from Mrs. 
 Middleton ; but you need not appear. Hide 
 yourself in the manor woods, if you dare not 
 face your nurse, and I will join you there on 
 my way home." 
 
 Henry looked both vexed and provoked, but 
 made no answer. He soon rallied, however, and 
 began again talking and laughing in his usual 
 manner. As we were slowly mounting a hill, his 
 horse suddenly stumbled ; he jumped off, and, 
 calling to me to stop, he examined his foot ; and 
 finding, or pretending to find, a stone in it, he 
 set about vainly endeavouring to knock it out. 
 
 " I cannot go on any further, Ellen : all I 
 shall be able to manage will be to get home 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 115 
 
 without laming this horse ; so pray turn back 
 now ; — you can take this message some other 
 day." 
 
 " Sit down on that bank, ' that mossy bank 
 where the violets grow,' my dear Henry, and 
 muse there in sober sadness, while I face the 
 dragon in her den." And saying these words, 
 I galloped off without further discussion. I had 
 not gone far before he overtook me ; and quoting 
 the words of Andrew Fairservice in " Rob Roy,"" 
 which we had been reading lately, he cried out : 
 
 '' ' Well, a wilful man maun have his way : 
 he who will to Curragh, must to Curragh ! ' " and 
 we proceeded on our road. 
 
 On passing the gates of Bridman Manor, we 
 skirted the edge of the woods till we came to a 
 terrace, where the ground was laid out in quaint 
 patterns; and vases, some broken, some in tolerable 
 preservation, were still ranged with some sort of 
 symmetry. By the side of what had once been a 
 
116 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 fountain sat a group that attracted my attention 
 by the picturesque effect which it afforded. 
 On the back of one of those nondescript semi- 
 human monsters, whose yawning mouths once 
 formed the spouts of the fountain, sat a girl whose 
 features struck me as perfectly faultless, and deli- 
 cate almost beyond what one could have fancied 
 possible in a living creature of real flesh and blood. 
 She resembled the ideal of a sculptor; her little 
 hand was laid on the moss-stained marble, and 
 though not very white, its shape was so perfect 
 that it was pleasant to gaze upon it as it is 
 upon any rare work of art. Near her was 
 a little boy, apparently about three years old, 
 who was standing on tiptoe, and thrusting his 
 curly head into the cavity of the sphinx's mouth ; 
 another boy, who might have been ten or twelve 
 years of age, had cHmbed up to the vaulted top of 
 the fountain, and was looking down from that 
 position at a little trickling thread of water, which 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 117 
 
 Still found its way into the basin below, though 
 its passage was nearly choked by the moss and the 
 creeping plants that intercepted its course. 
 
 As we were passing them the girl looked up, and, 
 suddenly rising, curtseyed ; and, taking hold of the 
 little boy's hand, said, " Mr. Henry." 
 
 Henry stopped his horse, and, bowing to her 
 in a manner that rather surprised me, in a voice 
 that sounded to me unlike his usual one, he asked 
 her if her grandmother was at home. 
 
 " Yes, sir, she is," was her answer. 
 
 He turned to me and said, " That is Alice 
 Tracy, Ellen ; you can make acquaintance with 
 her, while I speak to that boy there, who seems in 
 a fair way to break his neck." 
 
 Dismounting hastily, he threw his horse's reins 
 over one of the spikes of the adjoining railing, and 
 sprung up to the spot where the boy was perched. 
 
 " Is that pretty child your brother ? " I inquired 
 of the beautiful girl who stood before me. 
 
118 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 " He is," she answered ; and lifting up the blush- 
 ing boy, who was hiding himself behind her, she 
 turned his reluctant glowing little face full towards 
 me, in spite of his struggling efforts to thrust it into 
 her lap ; and then bent down to kiss his forehead, 
 saying at the same time, " Naughty Johnny !" 
 
 " Will you come to me, Johnny," was my next 
 attempt at acquaintance. 
 
 " No, I won't," was the answer. 
 
 " What, not to ride this pretty black horse ? " 
 
 " Yes, I will," was as resolutely pronounced ; and 
 soon the little fellow was hoisted up to my knees, 
 and began amusing himself by vigorously puUing 
 at my Selim's black mane. 
 
 " 1 am come with a message to your grand- 
 mother from Mrs. Middleton, she is anxious to 
 know how you like Bridman." 
 
 " I dare say grandmother likes it very much ; 
 and Mrs. Middleton is very kind."" 
 
 " Do you like it ? " 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 119 
 
 " O yes." 
 
 " Better than the last place you lived at ? " 
 
 " That was very nice, but this is better." 
 
 " What do you hke better in it ? '" 
 
 " Many things." 
 
 At this moment I saw the boy who had been 
 speaking with Henry dart off suddenly, and scam- 
 per away in the direction of the village. Henry at 
 the same time joined us. 
 
 " Ah," he exclaimed, '* you have contrived to 
 tame that unmanageable little savage, who always 
 screams when he sets eyes on me. Well, suppose 
 you give him a ride up to the entrance of the 
 village, and then Alice can walk home with us, and 
 introduce you to her grandmother.*" 
 
 Alice made some objections to Johnny's length- 
 ened ride, which he (Johnny) resented by pushing 
 her most stoutly away, when she attempted to 
 remove him from his post ; and victoriously shout- 
 ing over her discomfiture, he shook the bridle with 
 
120 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 exultation, and we proceeded towards the village. 
 As we arrived in sight of Bridman Cottage, the 
 boy who had preceded us came running back to 
 meet us ; and I heard him say in a low voice, as 
 he came up to Henry, " Granny 's in, and I've 
 done your bidding/' 
 
 Henry then advised me to get off my horse ; and 
 lifting down the child first, he helped me to 
 dismount, and we walked to the cottage. It was 
 one of those lovely little homes that we rarely see 
 but in England, and that look (would that they 
 always were !) like the chosen abodes of peace and 
 happiness. The low thatched roof — the bright 
 square-paned little windows — the porch overgrown 
 with clematis, jessamine, and honeysuckle — the 
 garden, where gooseberry bushes and stately hol- 
 lyhocks grow side by side. Of this description 
 was Bridman Cottage, and one of the loveliest that 
 I ever set eyes upon. 
 
 As we entered an elderly female came to the 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 121 
 
 door, and, making me a curtsey, said, in a formal 
 manner, " This is an honour I had not looked to, 
 but I know how to be thankful for it, Miss Middle- 
 ton. Mr. Henry, I hope I see you well ? " 
 
 "As well as usual, thank you (he replied). 
 Miss Middleton has brought you a message from 
 her aunt." 
 
 " Yes," I immediately said ; " Mrs. Middleton 
 is very anxious to know that you find yourself 
 happy and comfortable here, and would have come 
 herself to see you, if she had been able to leave my 
 uncle for so long ; but he has been ill lately, and 
 she scarcely ever goes far from the house." 
 
 " Tell Mrs. Middleton, ma'am, that the house is 
 good ; that the children are well ; and that I am 
 grateful to her." 
 
 There was something chilling in the manner with 
 which this was said, and the glassy eyes and thin 
 lips of Mrs. Tracy were far from prepossessing. 
 
 I made, however, another effort, and said, " If 
 
 VOL. I. G 
 
122 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 you could manage to get as far as Elmsley, my 
 aunt would, I know, be glad to see you." 
 
 " I have nursed her at my bosom, and carried 
 her in my arms, and I do not care less for her now 
 than I did then ; but if it was to save her life, I 
 would not go to Elmsley and see ^" 
 
 " Me there," exclaimed Henry. " I told you, 
 Ellen, that I should have to go through a scene, 
 and now, I suppose, it must come to pass. Go up 
 stairs with Alice while I make my peace ; " and as 
 he spoke, he almost pushed me out of the room, 
 and shut the door. 
 
 Alice followed me, and said, in her gentle voice, 
 as I stood at the bottom of the narrow stairs, some- 
 what puzzled, and at a loss what to do, 
 
 " If you will come to my room, Miss Middleton, 
 I can show you some of the reasons that make me 
 like Bridman so much." 
 
 I gladly assented. She led the way, and opened 
 the door of a small room, in which there was no 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 123 
 
 furniture, but a little bed, with dimity curtains of 
 snowy whiteness, a deal table, and two straw chairs. 
 
 " This is a nice room," she said ; " but come to 
 the window, and you will see one of my reasons." 
 
 She threw up the sash, and pointed with her 
 little hand to the village church, which rose in quiet 
 beauty from among the leafless trees. 
 
 " Is it not pretty ? " she asked, with a smile. 
 
 " Very pretty," I answered ; and as I used her 
 own simple words, I felt that there was that in 
 them, said as she said them, that is often wanting 
 in pages of impassioned eloquence, in volumes of 
 elaborate composition, — reality. She was happy in 
 this place, because of her little room, and because 
 of the view of the village church, which she could 
 see from its window. How pure must be the mind, 
 how calm must be the life, when such a circum- 
 stance can give a colouring to it. 
 
 " Alice, have youno books ? I see none here." 
 
 " I have a few ; do you wish to see them ? " 
 G 2 
 
124 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 " Yes, I do ; I should like to know what books 
 you like." 
 
 " Then I must show you another of my reasons" 
 she said, with one of her sweet calm smiles, and 
 opened the door of another very small room, which 
 had no other entrance than through her own. 
 
 There was a little table in it, and a wooden stool, 
 both were placed near the window ; upon the table 
 lay two books — one was a Bible, the other a large 
 prayer-book, bound in red morocco, and illustrated 
 with prints. A shelf hung in one corner ; " Jeremy 
 Taylor's Holy Living and Dying," the " Pilgrim's 
 Progress," " Bishop Hebers Hymns," and a few 
 more books besides, were ranged upon it. Among 
 them, a small one, which I was well acquainted 
 with, called " Birds and Flowers," attracted my 
 attention. I asked Alice if she had read it through. 
 
 '' Yes, 1 have," she replied " Mr. Henry gave it 
 me a few months ago." 
 
 I involuntarily started, and looked up into her 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 125 
 
 face, as she said this ; but not a shade of embar- 
 rassment was to be seen there. 
 
 She went on to say — " He gave it to me because 
 I was so fond of this poor flower; " and she pointed 
 to a sickly creeping plant, that grew out of a pot, 
 which was placed on the window sill. 
 
 " You would not know it again now," she con- 
 tinued ; " but last summer it was growing against 
 the wall in the little patch of garden we had at 
 Bromley, and a beautiful flower it was." 
 
 " But what had it to do with this book, more 
 than any other flower, Alice ? " 
 
 " It is a little story, but I will tell it you if you 
 wish it. I sprained my ankle last summer, and 
 could not walk for many weeks. Granny or brother 
 Walter used to drive me in my chair to the open 
 window, to breathe the fresh air, and look at the 
 flowers in our little garden. There was nothing 
 else to look at there — nothing but roofs of houses 
 and black chimneys ; but up the wall, and as high 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 as my window, grew this very plant, that looks so 
 dead now, poor thing. Day after day I watched 
 its flowers, though I did not know their names, till 
 I got to see in them things that I thought nobody 
 but me had ever noticed." 
 
 "What things, Alice?" 
 
 "A cross, a crown of thorns, nails, and a hammer." 
 
 "The Passion Flower!" 
 
 " So Mr. Henry told me one day when he found 
 me reading my new kind of book. It was like a 
 book to me, that pretty flower ; it made me think 
 of holy things as much as a sermon ever did." 
 
 " And Henry brought you then this book, 
 because of the poem in it on the Passion Flower ?" 
 
 " He did, and read it to me out loud. It felt 
 strange but pleasant to have one's own thoughts 
 spoken out in such words as those." 
 
 "And you brought away your Passion Flower 
 with you." 
 
 " Yes, but it is dying now ; and this gives me 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 127 
 
 thoughts too, which I wish somebody would write 
 about. I should like to hear them read out." 
 
 I took up her book, and drawing a pencil from 
 my pocket, I rapidly wrote down the following 
 lines : — 
 
 '* wish her not to live again, 
 Thy dying passion flower, 
 For better is the calm of death 
 Than life's uneasy hour. 
 
 Weep not if through her wither' d stem 
 
 Is creeping dull decay ; 
 Weep not, if ere the sun has set, 
 
 Thy nursling dies away. 
 
 The blast was keen, the winter snow 
 
 Was cold upon her breast ; 
 And though the sun is shining now 
 
 Still let thy flower rest. 
 
 Her tale is told ; her slender strength 
 
 Has left her drooping form. 
 She cannot raise her bruised head 
 
 To face another storm. 
 
 Then gently lay her down to die, 
 
 Thy broken passion flower ; 
 And let her close her troubled life 
 
 With one untroubled hour." 
 
 Alice read these lines as I wrote them. When 
 
128 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 I had finished, she shook her head gently, and 
 said, — 
 
 " These are pretty words, and pretty thoughts 
 too ; but not my thoughts." 
 
 " Tell me your own thoughts, Alice ; I would 
 fain hear them." 
 
 " I can't," she said. 
 
 " Try." 
 
 " I think as I see the flowers die so quietly, that 
 they should teach us to die so too. I think, when 
 I see my poor plant give up her sweet life without 
 complaining, that it is because she has done what 
 she ought to do, and left nothing undone which 
 she ought to have done. I planted her in my little 
 garden, and she grew up to my window ; she gave 
 me buds first, and then flowers— bright smiling 
 flowers; and when I was ill she gave me holy, 
 happy thoughts about God and Christ. And 
 therefore I wish to do likewise — to do my duty in 
 that state of life to which it shall please God to 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 129 
 
 call me; and then to die quietly, when it shall 
 please Him, like my passion flower." 
 
 As she was finishing these words, I was startled 
 by the loud and angry tones of Henry and of 
 Mrs. Tracy, who seemed to be disputing violently. 
 They were speaking both at the same time, and 
 his voice was quite hoarse with anger. T over- 
 heard these words : — " I tell you that if you do 
 not command yourself, and behave as I desire you, 
 I will never see you again, or put my foot into 
 your house." 
 
 A tremendous oath followed this threat, and 
 then their voices subsided. I looked at Alice ; 
 she seemed concerned, but not surprised or agitated, 
 at what was going on down stairs, and merely 
 closed the door of her room, which had been left 
 open. At that moment, however, Henry came 
 half-way up the stairs, and calling to me said that 
 it was late, and that we had better be setting out 
 again. I complied, and in coming down into the 
 g3 
 
130 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 room below I was civilly greeted by Mrs. Tracy, 
 who thanked me for my visit, and muttered some- 
 thing about hoping we should soon meet again. 
 Had it not been for Alice, who had interested and 
 charmed me to an extraordinary degree, I should 
 have formed exactly a contrary wish, for I had 
 never more heartily agreed with any opinion than 
 with that which Henry had pronounced about his 
 former nurse; and her civility was to my mind 
 more repulsive still than her ungraciousness. I took 
 leave of her coldly enough, but earnestly pressing 
 Alice's hand as I mounted my horse, I whispered 
 in her ear, " Alice, I like your poem better than 
 mine,'"* and rode off. 
 
 We took a different road from that we had 
 come by, and skirted the edge of a small lake 
 that lies on the eastern side of the Bridman 
 Woods. The day was altered, and dark clouds 
 were beginning to gather over the sky; the 
 wind was whistling among the bare branches, and 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 131 
 
 Henry was unusually silent and pre-occupied. I 
 felt depressed too, and we did not speak for some 
 time. I was revolving in my mind what possible 
 cause there could be for a man of Henry's cha- 
 racter and habits entering into such a violent 
 altercation with a person of Mrs. Tracy's age 
 and inferior rank in life. His temper was gene- 
 rally good, and his manners peculiarly gentleman- 
 like ; his conduct, therefore, (however provoking 
 she might have been,) appeared to me unaccount- 
 able. I could not help wondering also, that he 
 should have associated on evidently intimate terms 
 with that lovely Alice, and yet had never men- 
 tioned her to any of us, even in casual conversation. 
 There had not been a word, however, or a look, of 
 his or of hers, that could, for an instant, have 
 allowed one to suppose that there had been any 
 thing in their intercourse which either could have 
 wished to hide. As to her, I could as soon have 
 suspected of impurity the pearly drops that hung 
 
132 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 lightly on each twig of the hawthorn bushes that 
 we passed, as her young life of one evil action, or 
 her young mind of one evil thought. The deep 
 blue waters of the little lake that lay stretched 
 at our feet, were not more calm and more pure than 
 her eyes ; and in the marble paleness of her fair 
 brow — in the divine purity of her child-like mouth 
 — in the quiet innocence of her whole bearing, 
 there was that which seemed to speak of 
 
 " Maiden meditation, fancy free." 
 We were going at a brisk pace alongside the 
 water, and the rapidity of our motion facihtated 
 silence ; but as we turned away from the lake, and 
 began ascending a steep acclivity, which led to 
 the moors we had yet to cross on our way home, 
 we were forced to slacken our pace, and as we 
 did so, I asked Henry in a half-joking manner, 
 " Have you recovered the passion you were in 
 just now? Your forebodings seem to have been 
 fully reahsed." 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 133 
 
 " Thanks to you," he answered in a short dry- 
 manner. 
 
 " Come, come," I said, " do not visit upon me 
 Mrs. Tracy's disagreeableness. Indeed I think 
 you are not as patient with her as you ought 
 to be, considering she is an old woman, and was 
 your nurse. You were speaking to her with in- 
 conceivable violence." 
 
 " You overheard what I said to her." 
 " Only a few words, and a dreadful oath." 
 " I was not aware that you were listening at 
 the door. Had I imagined that you had stationed 
 yourself there, I should certainly have been more 
 guarded in my expressions." 
 
 1 felt the colour rising into my cheeks, for the 
 tone of his voice had something in it still more 
 insulting than his words; but I answered care- 
 lessly, "It is a pity you did not think it worth 
 while to be gentleman-like, whether you were 
 overheard or not." 
 
134 
 
 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 He coloured in his turn, and bit his lips ; but 
 suddenly changing the subject, he abruptly said, 
 " How do you like Alice ?"" 
 
 " As I like all the beautiful things which God 
 has made, and that man has not spoilt." 
 
 '^She is very pretty; and she has a kind of 
 cleverness too; but there is something tame and 
 insipid about her, notwithstanding. In fact, I do 
 not understand her." 
 
 " How should the serpent understand the dove?" 
 I muttered to myself, and then my heart smote 
 me for my unkind thoughts of Henry. I felt 
 myself guilty of ingratitude, nay more, of hypo- 
 crisy, in thinking evil of one whose society I so 
 much valued, and who certainly devoted himself 
 to me with no common assiduity. I never could 
 exactly explain to myself what my feelings were 
 with regard to him at that time. As I said 
 before, it would have been a severe trial to me 
 had he left Elmsley, even for a short time. 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 135 
 
 Hour after hour I spent in conversation with 
 him, hardly aware of the lapse of time, so great 
 was the fascination that his powerful, original, 
 and, withal, cultivated understanding, exercised 
 over me; and yet, at the same time, an involun- 
 tary feeling of mistrust — an unaccountable shudder 
 of repugnance — now and then shot over me as 
 I listened to the sound of his voice, or as my 
 eyes met his — and yet they were beautiful; his 
 eyes, with their deep-gray colour that looked 
 black by candle-light, and the fringing of their 
 dark lashes. There was something refined in 
 the shape of his small aquiline nose — in the form 
 of his wide but well-formed mouth, both of which, 
 when he was eager, bore an expression which I 
 can only compare to that of a fiery horse when 
 he tosses his mane, and snuffs the air of the 
 plain which he is about to scour. Then why was 
 it, that as I looked on his beauty, day by 
 day, I found pleasure, if not happiness, in his 
 
136 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 devotion to me — why was it, that, now and then, 
 the words fearful, false, and heartless, darted across 
 my mind as I thought of him ? and were instan- 
 taneously followed by a thrill of self-reproach, 
 for I was false to him, not he to me; false in 
 the contrast between my outward bearing and 
 my secret and involuntary impulses. Jt was 1 
 that was heartless, in feeling no real attachment 
 for one whose life evinced an unvarying devoted- 
 ness to me. False ! Heartless ! Was I really so ? 
 Resentment had hardened my heart against Edward 
 Middleton, and every kind feeling I had ever 
 entertained towards him was turned to bitterness. 
 Painful associations, and fearful remembrances, 
 had thrown a dark shade over the pure and holy 
 love of my childhood — the enthusiastic affection 1 
 had felt for my aunt; — and as to Henry Lovell, 
 whose society I eagerly sought, and whose attach- 
 ment I appeared to reciprocate, I was forced at 
 times to confess to myself that there was not a grain 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 137 
 
 of tenderness in the feverish predilection I enter- 
 tained for him. I felt to hate myself for the 
 deadness and coldness of my heart. I despised 
 myself for the inconsistent impulses of my soul. 
 Abased in my own eyes, condemned by my 
 own judgment, I often applied to myself the 
 words of Holy Scripture; and in bitterness of 
 spirit exclaimed — " Unstable as water, I cannot 
 excel. Wasted with misery ; drunk, but not with 
 wine, my heart is smitten and withered like 
 grass. I was exalted into Heaven ; I am brought 
 down to Hell."' These thoughts occupied me 
 during the remainder of our ride. 
 
 When Henry uttered the remark which led to 
 this train of reflections in my mind, we had reached 
 the summit of the hill, and coming upon the 
 wild heath that lay between us and Elmsley, we 
 put our horses into a rapid canter, and arrived 
 before the hall door just as it was getting dusk. 
 
138 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 — ♦ — 
 
 How reverend is the face of this tall pile, 
 
 Whose ancient pillars rear their marble heads 
 
 To bear aloft its arch'd and ponderous roof, 
 
 By its own weight made steadfast and immovable — 
 
 Looking tranquillity. It strikes an awe 
 
 And terror on my aching sight ; the tombs 
 
 And monumental caves of death look cold, 
 
 And shoot a chillness to my trembling heart.'' 
 
 " Mourning Bride" — Congreve. 
 
 During the ensuing three or four months, 
 nothing occurred in the course of our daily life, in 
 any way worth recording. I had spoken to my 
 aunt of Alice Tracy in such a way as strongly to 
 excite her interest and curiosity about her, and 
 from this reason, as well as from the wish to give 
 me pleasure, which was at all times an all-sufficient 
 inducement to her, she wrote to her grandmother 
 to request that if she herself did not feel inclined 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 139 
 
 to come to Elmsley, she would at least allow Alice 
 to come and spend a day with us. 
 
 Mrs. Tracy wrote a brief answer to the purport 
 that Alice was gone away on a visit to some rela- 
 tions of her father, and was therefore out of reach 
 of the honour intended her. 
 
 My uncle received now and then a letter from 
 Edward Middleton, but never communicated its 
 contents beyond the mere facts that he was well, 
 and was staying in this or that town on the 
 Continent. 
 
 Henry still remained at Elmsley ; and nothing 
 was changed in the state of things between us. 
 The only new feature in our domestic affairs, was 
 the growing dislike which my uncle seemed to 
 feel towards him. He had never appeared much 
 to like him, but now he seemed hardly able to 
 endure his protracted residence at Elmsley, and 
 often inquired of my aunt and myself, if Henry 
 did not mean soon to begin the study of the law ; 
 
140 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 which was the profession he was destined to 
 pursue. 
 
 As to Henry himself, he never alluded to it, 
 and seemed to look upon Elmsley as a permanent 
 home. My uncle was too much attached to his 
 wife, and by nature of too kind a disposition, to 
 mark more plainly, than by occasional hints, his 
 displeasure at this line of conduct ; but he could 
 hardly conceal his satisfaction, when, at last, a 
 letter from his father obliged Henry to take the 
 subject into consideration. 
 
 It became arranged that he should leave Elmsley 
 in three weeks; and I was surprised, and even 
 mortified, at observing how little he seemed 
 grieved or annoyed at this rather abrupt separa- 
 tion, and with what indifference of manner he 
 took leave of me on the day of his departure. 
 
 A few days afterwards, there arrived a letter 
 from Mrs. Brandon, a sister of my mother and 
 of Mr. Middleton, containing an urgent request 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 141 
 
 that I might be allowed to spend a few weeks with 
 her in Dorsetshire. 
 
 I had only seen this aunt of mine once or twice 
 during the course of my childhood ; and she had 
 left no other impression on my mind than that 
 she was a short pretty-looking woman, with large 
 dark eyes, and a peculiarly gentle voice. 
 
 I had dreaded so much the void which Henry's 
 absence would have made in my life, that I wel- 
 comed with pleasure the idea of entering upon 
 a new scene. I had also a vague indefinite hope 
 that far from Elmsley — away from the material 
 objects which recalled to me continually my fatal 
 secret — I should, perhaps, shake off, in some 
 degree, the sense of oppression that weighed upon 
 me. I was only seventeen, and prematurely 
 miserable as I was become, still there remained 
 something in me of the spirit of youth, which 
 pants after new scenes, new companions, and new 
 excitements. I therefore expressed a strong wish 
 
142 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 to accept Mrs. Brandon's invitation, and this was, 
 as usual, enough to secure Mrs. Middleton''s 
 acquiescence, and my uncle made no objection to 
 the plan. 
 
 Accordingly, on one of the first days of the 
 month of June, in a small open carriage, accom- 
 panied by a lady who had once been my governess, 
 and who had undertaken to escort me to Brandon 
 Park, I left Elmsley, in tears indeed, for as my 
 aunt pressed me to her bosom, I returned her 
 embrace with an intense emotion, that seemed to 
 resume in itself the history of my past life ; but 
 still with the eager impatience of the bird who 
 wildly takes his flight from the perch to which 
 he is still confined, and hopes, by the keen 
 impetuosity with which he soars, to shake off 
 the dead weight which chains him down to 
 earth. The day was beautiful: white fleecy 
 clouds were flitting rapidly across the sky; 
 and the mild breeze that fanned my cheek was 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 143 
 
 scented with the perfume of the fields of clover, 
 through which our road chiefly lay during the 
 first stage of our journey. The sky, the air, the 
 smells, the sounds, the rapid motion of the car- 
 riage, were all sources of the keenest enjoyment. 
 Fortunately for me, Mrs. Hatton, my traveUing 
 companion, possessed the qualification of finding 
 amusement in herself, and by herself, to an ex- 
 traordinary degree. I have never met with so 
 thoroughly good-humoured a person. She always 
 liked best whatever was proposed to her to do, 
 and never liked at all anything that others were 
 not incHned to. Whatever happened to be 
 ordered for dinner, was invariably the thing she 
 preferred ; but if, by any mischance, it did not 
 appear, and something else appeared in its stead, 
 she as suddenly recollected that she liked the 
 new dish a great deal better than the one that 
 had failed. Even the weather received at her 
 hands very different treatment from that which 
 
144 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 it is accustomed to meet with. A black frost 
 she considered wholesome and bracing ; a cut- 
 ting east wind, she described as a fresh breeze ; 
 snow, rain, and hail, had each particular 
 merits, in her eyes. When the sun shone, it 
 was fortunate ; when it rained, it was a piece 
 of luck, for she had ever so many letters to 
 write ; and there was nothing like a rainy day 
 for getting through business. And if the weather 
 was without any other apology, " Still," as I heard 
 her once say, '' it was better than no weather 
 at all." 
 
 I never heard her admit that anything was a 
 grievance; that anybody was tiresome. Her 
 friends' misfortunes, indeed, she felt heartly 
 sorry for ; but, with respect to them, she 
 found consolation in the fact, that, in propor- 
 tion to their extent, she could bestow a fuller 
 share of sympathy, a more ample measure of 
 kindness than ever, out of the ever- springing 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON, 145 
 
 sources of tenderness, with which her own heart 
 overflowed. 
 
 Poor Mrs. Hatton ! she was the best of women, 
 but not the wisest of governesses. During the 
 years that she superintended my education, she 
 had never been able to disagree with me, as 
 to grammar and arithmetic being dull and per- 
 fectly useless studies ; or help agreeing with 
 me that Sir Walter Scott*s novels improved 
 the mind infinitely more than Goldsmith'*s 
 History of England; and so I read novels to 
 her, and she listened with delighted attention — 
 I wrote poetry, which she read aloud, and 
 declared was the best that had ever been written 
 — I put aside all the books that bored me, 
 all the exercises that puzzled me, and she 
 heartily concurred with me, in pronouncing thera 
 all highly unprofitable and superfluous. 
 
 Dear Mrs. Hatton ! she was not wise ; but such 
 guileless, warm-hearted lack of wisdom as hers, 
 
 VOL- I. H 
 
146 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 often supplied the place of those mental qualifica- 
 tions which are too seldom united to a perfect 
 singleness of heart and simplicity of character. 
 
 She was, indeed, a capital travelling compa- 
 nion ; as we passed the gates of Elrasley I said to 
 her, " Do you know, dear Mrs. Hatton, that I am 
 apt to be very silent in a carriage; shall you 
 mind it ? " 
 
 " It is the very thing I like best, dear, to drive 
 along and look about me, and not have the trouble 
 of talking. The very thing I like best ; there is 
 nothing so tiring as to talk in a carriage." And 
 settling herself in her corner, she gave herself up 
 to looking about her ; and she was right ; for what 
 in the world is so pleasant, as a living German 
 authoress says, as " on a fine summer morning 
 through a lovely country rapidly to fly, like the 
 bird, that wants nothing of the world but its sur- 
 face to skim over. This is the really enjoyable 
 part of travelling. The inn life is wearisome ; the 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 147 
 
 passage through towns is fatiguing. The admi- 
 ration due to the treasures of art, to the wonders 
 of science, is a task from which one would some- 
 times gladly buy oneself off, at the price of a day 
 of wood-cleaving or water-carrying. But to lean 
 back in perfect quiet in a carriage while it rolls 
 lightly and easily along a good road ; to have a 
 variety of pictures pass before one's eyes as in a 
 dream, each remaining long enough to please, none 
 long enough to tire; to allow the thoughts that 
 spring from the magical connexion of ideas to flit 
 across the mind, in unison with the visible objects 
 before us ; to be tied down by no earthly cares — 
 sure to find a meal wherever one stops ; and should 
 one happen not to find a bed, to have nothing 
 worse in store than to sleep a la belle etoile, rocked 
 by the carriage as in a cradle ; ever to hear the 
 rolhng of the wheels, which, like the murmur of a 
 brook, the clapping of a mill, or the splash of oars 
 in the water, forms, by its uniformity, a soothing 
 H 2 
 
148 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 accompaniment to the everlasting fluctuation of 
 thought in the mind. This is a bliss which, like 
 that of love and lovers, genuine travellers alone 
 believe in ; and, except genuine lovers, there is 
 nothing more seldom met with in the world than 
 genuine travellers. For those who travel from 
 curiosity, from ennui, for health, or for fashion, 
 or in order to write books, belong not to 
 them, and know nothing of that intoxicating 
 repose." * 
 
 Such was the enjoyment in which I hoped 
 Mrs. Hatton found ample compensation for my 
 silence. She was no doubt a genuine tra- 
 veller ; for she must have been genuine in every 
 character she assumed ; though I fear that her 
 notion of the happiness of not talking, and of 
 looking about her, would have fallen short of 
 the German countess's ideal of a traveller's 
 bliss. 
 
 * " Aus die Geselshaft," by the Countess Hahn Hahn. 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 149 
 
 After a journey of about eighty miles, at five 
 o'clock in the evening we reached the town of 
 Salisbury, where we were to sleep that night. We 
 ordered dinner at the inn, and I then walked to 
 the cathedral. I had never seen one before ; and 
 when I came in sight of its tower, and then of 
 the whole of its beautiful structure, tears rushed 
 into my eyes, and I stood entranced in contem- 
 plation before it. My hands involuntarily clasped 
 themselves as in prayer, and I longed to fall on my 
 knees and adore there the God who had given to 
 man's heart to desire, to his mind to conceive, and 
 to his hand the power of raising, such shrines for 
 His worship. 
 
 Salisbury Cathedral stands in the middle of a 
 close, where evergreens and shrubs of all kinds 
 rise from the smooth green grass that grows quite 
 up to the foot of its walls. The door was closed ; 
 but while I sent to procure the key from the 
 sexton, I walked slowly round the exterior of the 
 
150 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 cathedral, and paused for some minutes in a spot 
 where, in a recess formed by the angles of the 
 building, I stood with nothing round me but the 
 beautiful gothic walls — nothing above me but the 
 blue sky. It seemed a spot fitted for holy medi- 
 tation, for heavenly aspiration ; it was a spot that 
 might have been selected when the Saviour's 
 visible presence was withdrawn, by that Mary 
 who chose the good part which was never to be 
 taken from her. It might have been the resort of 
 that Hannah who departed not from the Temple 
 but served the Lord with fastings and with 
 prayers day and night. It might have been the 
 chosen retreat of one who, amidst all the blessings 
 of life, day by day made preparation for the hour 
 of death. The vision of such a life, of a course of 
 sacred duties, of holy affections, of usefulness in 
 life, of resignation in death, of humility in time of 
 weal, of peace in time of woe ; such a vision passed 
 before my eyes even then, and my lips murmured : 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON 151 
 
 " Let me die the death of the righteous, and let 
 my latter end be hke his." 
 
 The sexton arrived with the key; and entering 
 by the great portal door, I wandered for nearly an 
 hour through the aisles, and lingered in the choir 
 and in the chapel, though there was scarcely light 
 to do more than just to trace the outlines of the 
 masses of columns which rise in severe simplicity, 
 and arch above one's head at a height which, in 
 the dimness of the twilight, was scarcely discern- 
 ible. After having visited the cloisters, and been 
 so beguiled by their beauty as to forget that dinner 
 was to be on the table at six o'clock, and that it 
 was now verging on the half-hour past, I hurried 
 back to the inn just as the first set of mutton-chops 
 were coming up the stairs, and had just time to 
 close Mrs. Hatton's mouth with a kiss as she was 
 beginning to assure me, in answer to my apologies, 
 that there was nothing in the world she liked so 
 much as waiting for dinner. 
 
152 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 The weather had grown close and warm ; and we 
 were glad, immediately after we had finished eat- 
 ing, to have the table cleared, and to draw our 
 chairs to the open bow-window. It commanded a 
 view all down the street, which at that moment 
 bore the peculiarly dull and dusty appearance 
 which streets in provincial towns are apt to present 
 on a summer's evening. Two or three children 
 were playing at marbles before one door, and 
 screaming at each other in that particular key 
 which games of this description call into exercise. 
 Now and then a small cart drove by, and a few 
 people on foot occasionally walked past the window. 
 The clouds were gathering rapidly over the sky, 
 and the air was becoming every instant more sultry 
 and oppressive. Heavy drops of rain began to 
 fall one by one in large round spots on the dusty 
 pavement. Red and dark-green umbrellas began 
 to be unfolded ; the carts to drive by more briskly ; 
 the marble players to withdraw into the house 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 153 
 
 after sundry vociferations from some neighbouring 
 window; and the whole scene fairly assumed the 
 hopeless character of a rainy summer's evening. 
 Meantime two men had stationed themselves under 
 the projecting roof of our inn at the outset of the 
 shower, and kept up between themselves a con- 
 versation, of which a few words occasionally 
 reached my ears. One of the speakers was a man 
 seemingly of fifty or thereabouts, of a heavy, dull 
 character of countenance; his dress that of a 
 tradesman, not of the better sort. The other was 
 a young man who would have been handsome had 
 it not been for a scowl which disfigured his other- 
 wise well-shaped features. The oldest of the two 
 men said to the other, apparently in answer to 
 some inquiry, " Not till the old un dies, which he 
 will soon." 
 
 " Is he as bad as that comes to ? " returned the 
 other. A cart rumbled by at that moment, and 
 1 heard nothing more, and would have probably 
 h3 
 
154 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 left the window had not the next words that were 
 spoken arrested my attention. 
 
 " So Alice is here?" observed the youngest of 
 the two speakers. 
 
 " And are you still after that ere spec ? " was 
 the answer. 
 
 I immediately identified the Alice they were 
 speaking of with Alice Tracy, and I could not 
 help listening on with the wish to hear something 
 that would corroborate or destroy this idea. 
 
 "She '11 never have you, take my word for it," 
 continued the same man. 
 
 " May be not, while the gemman 's a-courting 
 her ; but he 's after other game, I take it, now." 
 
 " I seed him here, with my own eyes, not four 
 days ago," said the first speaker. — " Old mother 
 Tracy has him in her clutches, I '11 warrant you. 
 She didn't come down with the shiners for 
 nothing." 
 
 " He 's a limb of Satan ; and if he were the 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 155 
 
 devil himself I 'd tear his eyes out first," retorted 
 the younger man with a fearful volley of oaths. 
 
 " And he 'd snap his fingers at you, and give 
 you into a policeman's charge. That 's no go, my 
 hearty *" 
 
 "But if the old un is dying, as you say, and 
 the lass comes in for the cash, he '11 not be such a 
 d— dfool " 
 
 " Ay, ay ; but mother Tracy, with the bit of 
 paper you know of, would prove an awkward 
 customer for that ere chap ! But I '11 tell ye, my 
 lad, — ^you 've but one chance " 
 
 Here the speaker's voice sunk into a whisper, 
 and I did not catch another word. The two men 
 soon took a reconnoitring glance at the weather; 
 and after looking up the street and down the street, 
 and up at the sky, where nothing was visible but 
 a thick mass of gray clouds, they seemed to awake 
 to the thorough hopelessness of the case, and 
 walked off, muttering imprecations on the weather. 
 
156 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 I remained by the window absorbed in thought, 
 till Mrs. Hatton apprised me that tea was come. 
 There was, indeed, matter for thought in the few 
 words these men had uttered; and the thoughts 
 they suggested were perplexing in the extreme. 
 It was of Alice Tracy they had spoken, for I had 
 twice distinctly heard her grandmother's name 
 pronounced. She was in Salisbury at this very 
 moment, it appeared ; these two rough and some- 
 what discreditable men were acquainted with her. 
 A gentleman (to use their own expression) was 
 after her ; but the youngest man of the two had 
 expressed a hope that he was at present devoting 
 himself to some other person. Could this gentle- 
 man be Henry Lovell ? Had he been base, vile 
 enough to attempt the ruin of the lovely girl whose 
 beauty and innocence had seemed to me to belong 
 to a higher sphere than that of this world of ours? 
 Was his devotion to me, what was alluded to in 
 the conversation I had overheard ? Who was the 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 157 
 
 person whose death they seemed to expect? I 
 was lost in a maze of doubts and conjectures ; 
 among which the most distressing was the one 
 that presented to my mind the idea of Alice be- 
 coming a victim to the infamous pursuit of Henry 
 Lovell. But again, what could they mean by his 
 (the gentleman, whoever he was,) being in Mrs. 
 Tracy's clutches? I vainly racked my brain to 
 form some conjecture which would account for the 
 different parts of this short conversation. Poor 
 Mrs. Hatton must have thought me apt to be 
 silent, not only in a carriage, but out of one, too, 
 if she judged by my taciturnity on this occasion. 
 When the waiter came in to fetch the tea-things 
 away, I asked him if he knew of any person living 
 in Salisbury, and bearing the name of Tracy? 
 He did not know of any such, he said, but would 
 inquire if I wished. As he was going out of the 
 room, he turned back, and holding the handle of the 
 door with one hand, and passing the other through 
 
158 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 a bushy head of hair, he added : " I suppose it 's 
 quality you are asking for, ma'am ? " 
 
 " No ; any persons of that name : do you know 
 any?'' 
 
 " There 's an old Miss Tracy, ma'am, lives in 
 the next street here ; she was sister to the grocer 
 that died two years ago." 
 
 " Do you happen to know if she has had any 
 relations staying with her lately ? " 
 
 " I think she has, ma'am ; for she hired a bed, 
 a chair, and a table, some three months ago, of my 
 brother, who lets out furniture ; and she 'd not go 
 to expense for nothing : her late brother's money 
 is safe enough in her keeping." 
 
 As I still looked interested in the subject of 
 Miss Tracy's expenses, the waiter, who was 
 evidently of a communicative turn of mind, closed 
 the door and came back to the table to wipe oif 
 some nearly imperceptible crumbs that were lying 
 on the smooth, bright mahogany. 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 159 
 
 " It was a curious thing enough, ma'am," he 
 resumed; "nobody in the wide world knowing 
 
 that the grocer in street, — Old Tracy, as he 
 
 was called, — had scraped together thirty thousand 
 pounds, and never had been the better for it while 
 he lived." 
 
 " Nor when he died," I thought to myself ; and 
 inquired if the whole of that sum had been left to 
 the lady who certainly would not go to expense 
 for nothing? 
 
 " No, only half, ma*am," was the answer, "fifteen 
 thousand pounds in hard cash her brother left her ; 
 but it is not many folk in Salisbury that have seen 
 the colour of her money. She '11 keep adding on 
 to it as long as she lives." 
 
 " And where did the other fifteen thousand 
 pounds go ? " I asked. 
 
 "They was lodged in some Lunnon banker's 
 hands, ma^am, I fancy. It 's said he left that 
 other half of his money to some relations that 
 lived thereabouts, but I can't tell for sure." 
 
160 ELLEN MIDDLETON 
 
 I longed to ask him, if he knew what kind 
 of people had been staying with Miss Tracy, 
 and to find out, if possible, if it was Alice, and 
 whether she was still in Salisbury ; but I 
 felt ashamed of questioning on, and, during the 
 pause that ensued, ray informant gave one more 
 general polishing to the table, pushed one or two 
 chairs out of their places, poked the fire which did 
 not want poking, and with a side bow left the 
 room. My curiosity was so strongly excited, that 
 I could not refrain from asking Mrs. Hatton if she 
 knew anything of the Mrs. Tracy, who, in old 
 times, had been my aunt's maid, but she had never 
 seen her, and could give me no information on the 
 subject. We were to start the next morning at 
 nine o'clock, and I resolved to make an effort to 
 satisfy myself as to the state of the case by calling 
 at Miss Tracy's door before setting off*. At eight 
 o'clock accordingly, having ascertained from my 
 friend, the waiter, the name of the street and the 
 number of the house, I set out, and as I approached 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 161 
 
 it, my heart beat with a strange mixture of shy- 
 ness, anxiety, and curiosity. I pulled the bell, 
 and was almost tempted to run away when I heard 
 some one walking heavily to the door to open it. 
 It opened however before I had made up my mind 
 to bolt, and I asked the slip-shod, red-faced girl 
 who appeared, whether Miss Tracy lived there? 
 
 " Yes, she does (was the answer). What 's your 
 will, miss?" 
 
 "Is Miss Ahce Tracy staying with her ? " 
 
 " Yes, she is." 
 
 "Is she at home?" 
 
 " No she aint, she 's in church, but her grand- 
 mother 's at home." 
 
 I did not feel courage enough to renew my 
 acquaintance with Mrs. Tracy, whose reception of 
 me at Bridman Cottage I well remembered, and 
 whose forbidding countenance had remained 
 strongly impressed on my recollection. I there- 
 fore drew a bit of paper from my pocket, and 
 
IDZ ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 hastily writing my name upon it, I was just 
 handing it to the girl, when it struck me that it 
 was possible, that, after all, there might be two 
 AHce Tracys in the world, and that I had better 
 not leave my name at a venture. I therefore tore 
 off the bit of writing, and on the remaining slip of 
 paper I drew a passion flower, and requested the 
 girl to give it to Miss Alice Tracy when she came 
 home. 
 
 " But what *s your name, ma'am ? "" she inquired. 
 
 " Never mind it," I replied. " Miss Alice will 
 know it immediately, if she is my Miss Alice, and 
 if she is not, it does not signify," and I walked off, 
 leaving the puzzled portress with her mouth wide 
 open, my sketch in her hand, and her intellect 
 evidently employed in balancing the probabilities 
 as to the sanity of mine. 
 
 The britschka was at the door when I got back 
 to the inn, and Mrs. Hatton with her veil down, and 
 her boa round her neck, was waiting for me in the 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 163 
 
 little sitting room. We hastened into the carriage 
 and rattled off through the streets of Salisbury, 
 and were soon after ascending at a slow pace the 
 hill that lies on the west side of the town. After 
 a few hours of uninteresting driving along the high 
 road, we turned into a lane which brought us at 
 once into a new kind of scenery, quite different 
 from any that I had yet been acquainted with. On 
 either side of us rose, in gentle acclivities, a bound- 
 less extent of down, diversified by large patches 
 of gorse, tall clumps of broom, shining in all the 
 gorgeous beauty of their yellow flowers, and spread- 
 ing beds of fern, that loveliest of leaves, as beau- 
 tiful in its form, and almost as architectural in its 
 natural symmetry, as the more classical acanthus. 
 
 As we advanced into the very heart of the 
 country, the character of the scenery changed, and 
 became of a more woodland description. Hedges 
 on both sides of the road bounded our view, but 
 there was ample compensation for this in these 
 
164 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 delicious hedges themselves, in which hawthorn 
 stood out in sturdy independence from among 
 the intricacies of shrubs and brambles, that 
 imprisoned their stems, while they scattered their 
 snowy blossoms on the shining leaves and green 
 patches of grass beneath them ; in which the frail 
 but daring eglantine twined its weak tendrils 
 round the withered trunk of some hollow, worn- 
 out oak ; in which the wild clematis and the 
 feathery traveller's-joy, as children love to call it, 
 flung their fairy flowers in reckless profusion 
 over the tangled mass from whence they sprung. 
 There was enough in these hedges to make up 
 for the loss of views; but we had views too, 
 when, for a moment, a gate, a stile, a gap in the 
 hedge itself, opened to us glimpses of such woods 
 and dells as we read of in the Midsummer 
 Night's Dream. 
 
 We reached Brandon at four o'clock. It stands in 
 the midst of what was formerly a chase of immense 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 165 
 
 extent, and which now forms a park of extra- 
 ordinary size, and of singular beauty. The hand 
 of man seems to have done but little to improve 
 that beauty: the house stands as if by chance 
 in the midst of a wilderness of downy hills and 
 grassy valleys, of hawthorn groves, and wild 
 commons, of remnants of forests, and miles of 
 underwood. I was so engrossed by the strange 
 character of this, to me, perfectly novel scenery, 
 that I thought little of anything else as we drove 
 up to the house: and when on reaching the 
 entrance door, the servants rushed to let down 
 the step, and seize upon the luggage, I felt taken 
 by surprise ; rousing myself, I took an affectionate 
 leave of Mrs. Hatton, who was proceeding to her 
 
 own home in the town of , about ten miles 
 
 beyond Brandon, and we did not part without 
 my promising her, that, if I could possibly 
 contrive it, I vi^ould visit her there before I left 
 Dorsetshire. 
 
166 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 But ever and anon of griefs subdued, 
 There comes a token like a scorpion's sting, 
 
 Scarce seen, but with fresh bitterness imbued ; 
 And slight withal may be the things which bring 
 Back on the heart the weight which it would fling 
 
 Aside for ever. Lord Byron. 
 
 On inquiry, I found that my aunt was out, and 
 as I was not acquainted with a single person 
 staying in the house, I begged to be shown at 
 once to my room, instead of going into the library, 
 where I was told some of the company were to be 
 found. The housekeeper led the way up stairs, 
 and having established me in a large and very 
 comfortable room, left me to myself. I sat down 
 in an armchair, and except the occupation, if it 
 can be so called, of watching my maid, while she 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 167 
 
 unpacked the different parts of my evening dress, 
 I spent the next hour in complete idleness. 
 
 At the end of that time, the rolling of wheels 
 and the clatter of horses' feet, drew me to the 
 window. I was pleased to have an opportunity 
 of inspecting some part of the society which I 
 was so soon to be introduced to. First, there 
 stopped at the hall door a pony-chaise, from 
 which Mrs. Brandon and another woman got out ; 
 behind them sat an elderly man, tall and dark, 
 not Mr. Brandon, though (as far as I recollected) 
 like him : behind them came galloping up to the 
 steps a riding party, two women and three or 
 four men ; among them, was Henry Lovell, who 
 was certainly about the last person I should have 
 expected to meet. He looked in high spirits, and 
 I heard him calling out to somebody in the house, 
 " Is she come?" and two or three minutes after- 
 wards, Mrs. Brandon and he came into my room 
 together. 
 
168 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 She kissed me most affectionately, and keeping 
 both my hands in hers, and diminishing at the 
 same time her beautiful eyes into the sharpest, 
 but most caressante expression (I know no English 
 word which expresses the look I mean), she 
 fixed them on mine and said, '* I am so much 
 obliged to you, Henry, and to you for coming, 
 dearest Ellen ; but I ought to thank him first, for 
 he taught me to wish to know you, and to love you. 
 It is not a hard lesson," — she added, in the sweetest 
 tone of voice imaginable. I tried to smile and 
 look pleased, but I was out of sorts, though I could 
 hardly tell exactly why. If I had heard at 
 Elmsley, that I was to have met Henry at 
 Brandon, I should have probably been glad, but 
 somehow my short journey had put me into a 
 different state of mind. I had been more free 
 from painful thoughts, immediately connected with 
 myself at least, than at any time for a good while 
 past ; I had felt an unconscious relief in seeing 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 169 
 
 new faces, and hearing new voices; I longed to 
 feel unwatched, unnoticed. Then the conversation 
 I had heard between the two men at Salisbury 
 had left a disagreeable impression upon my mind, 
 although [too vague to influence my judgment. 
 Then again, why, if Mrs. Brandon's wish to see 
 me, and her consequent invitation, were the result 
 of his praises, had he not talked to me of her ? 
 Why had he not said he should meet me at her 
 house ? Obliged, alas ! as I was myself by my 
 miserable fate, to practise constant dissimulation, 
 I still hated it strangely in others, and I felt aware 
 that I answered Mrs. Brandon ungraciously, and 
 greeted Henry coldly. As usual, he was perfectly 
 self-possessed, but soon withdrew, leaving me 
 alone with Mrs. Brandon. 
 
 " Do let us sit down here together, dearest Ellen," 
 said she, drawing me to a couch as she spoke ; 
 " I do so long to be well acquainted with you, 
 and I feel to know so well all about you, we shall 
 
 VOL. I. I 
 
170 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 be great friends soon, I am sure." And she 
 again squeezed my hands, and looked into my 
 eyes with that pretty but over-confidential look 
 in hers. 
 
 We talked about my uncle and aunt, on which 
 she said, " Was not dear Mrs. Middleton a little 
 angry with me for seducing you away from 
 Elmsley ? But I fancy she is in the secret ; is 
 not she ? " 
 
 " She was much pleased at your kindness in 
 wishing to see me," I answered; quite puzzled as 
 to what the secret she alluded to could be. 
 
 "And now, dear Ellen," she continued, "you 
 must treat me quite like a sister, like a friend, 
 not as an old aunt, or I shall be affronted, and 
 very jealous of Mrs. Middleton. You must speak 
 to me quite openly." 
 
 " You are so very kind,*" I said, while all the 
 time I thought, " What on earth are you at ? " 
 The idea of her being jealous of my affection for 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 171 
 
 Mrs. Middleton struck me as perfectly ridicu- 
 lous, and the very fact of being requested to 
 speak openly, effectually inclined me to shut 
 myself up, in an additional amount of reserve. 
 I tried, however, to be amiable and warm ; and 
 after a little more conversation, Mrs. Brandon 
 left me, to go and dress for dinner. 
 
 A few minutes after the bell had rung, I went 
 down to the library, and found nearly everybody 
 assembled. I went through a number of intro- 
 ductions. The women that I made acquaintance 
 with were Lady Wyndham, Mrs. Ernsley, Miss 
 Moore, and two Miss Farnleys. The men were 
 standing together in the middle of the room, but 
 except Mr. Brandon (who immediately came to 
 me and made a number of civil speeches) ; none 
 of them approached us before dinner was announced. 
 Sir Charles Wyndham then took me in. 
 
 Just as we were sitting down, Mrs. Brandon 
 called to Mr. Ernsley, who was preparing to place 
 I 2 
 
172 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 himself in the chair on the other side of me; 
 " Dear Mr. Ernsley, won't you come and sit by 
 me? I do so long to hear what you think of 
 Meldon Hall, which I am told you went to see 
 to-day." And as he obeyed her directions, Henry 
 Lovell slipped into the chair by my side, which 
 accounted to me for the look of intelligence 
 which Mrs. Brandon directed to our part of the 
 table, to which he perhaps responded, but to 
 which I certainly did not. I was not sorry, 
 however, to have an opportunity of speaking to 
 him, as I felt curious to know how he would 
 account for his sudden change of plans, and I 
 wished also to find out if he had been at Salisbury 
 during the last few days. 
 
 He immediately said to me, " Are you surprised 
 at seeing me here ? " 
 
 " As much,**' I rephed, " as to find that it is to 
 you I am indebted for being invited here at all." 
 
 " And if it was so, would it affront you l " 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 173 
 
 " It would not be particularly flattering." 
 
 " You would think it more flattering, would you, 
 that a woman, who has only seen you once, and that 
 seven years ago, should wish to see you again, than 
 that I (and here he spoke in the lowest possible 
 whisper), after such days, such months, as I spent 
 at Elmslev, should have strained every nerve not 
 to lose sight of you." 
 
 " Then this has been a scheme of your forming? 
 I hate scheming." 
 
 " I was in London ; I detested it, and I came 
 here; but I wish to God I had not! (he added, 
 with more of passion than of tenderness in his voice;) 
 for my coming is evidently disagreeable to you, and 
 I cannot brook the coldness of your manner (he 
 continued, in a still increasing tone of agitation). 
 It puts me beside myself, Ellen, and makes a fool 
 of me, which is of all things what I most dislike to 
 be made.'^ 
 
 " What is it you most dislike to be made, 
 
174 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 Mr. LovelU" inquired Sir Charles Wyndham, 
 who had been restless and fidgetty, till he could 
 catch at something in our conversation, which 
 would enable him to join in it. 
 
 " A fool, Sir Charles," answered Henry, with 
 an expression of countenance, which certainly did 
 not bear in it any consciousness of his own folly. 
 
 " The ladies make fools of us all,"" said Sir 
 Charles, with a bow to me. 
 
 " Unless they find us ready made," I heard 
 Henry mutter, while I was obliged to turn round 
 and listen to a string of compliments, and a flow 
 of small talk from my right hand neighbour, which 
 it seemed as if nothing would stop but some 
 lucky accident, some sudden overthrow of the 
 regular course of things, so steady and even was 
 the tenor of its gentle prolixity. He had an eye, 
 the mildness of which was appalling, and a smile 
 of despairing sweetness. As I looked at him, I 
 wished (which had never happened to me to wish 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 175 
 
 before in looking at anybody's face) that he had 
 been very ugly ; no ugly face could have been so 
 hopelessly tiresome. If but for a moment he could 
 have looked cross or ill-natured, it would have 
 been the making of him, or rather of me, for then 
 I should have had courage to cut his discourse 
 short, and turn away ; but as it was, dinner was 
 nearly over before I had another opportunity of 
 speaking to Henry, who at last brought about the 
 event I had pined for, by overturning a pyramid 
 of red and white cherries, whicli went rolling all 
 over the table in different directions, and for 
 a moment engrossed Sir Charles's benevolent 
 exertions. Henry immediately seized on the 
 favourable moment, and resumed our conversation, 
 though in an altered tone. 
 
 " The fact is, dear Ellen, that, on my arrival 
 in London, I found my solicitor out of town, and 
 my father gone on a visit to some friends of his 
 in Hertfordshire. I have a general invitation to 
 
J 76 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 this place; and it struck me (I was wrong perhaps) 
 that it might be, as well as a gratification to myself, 
 a comfort to you, among a set of strangers, to 
 find a friend; and I suppose I may call myself 
 one/' 
 
 He said all this in such a gentle, earnest manner, 
 and in fact the thought had been such a kind one, 
 that I felt quite ashamed of myself; and in the 
 reaction of the moment, I turned to him with some 
 emotion, and said, 
 
 " You are very kind to me, Henry, and it 
 grieves me to think that I must have appeared 
 to you ungracious — ungrateful even." 
 
 " Only a little capricious," he answered ; " and 
 should I prize as much that bright smile of yours, 
 Ellen, if the transient cloud had not made its 
 brightness still dearer ? " 
 
 At this moment Mrs. Brandon gave the signal 
 for withdrawal. Henry whispered to me, as I was 
 looking for my gloves under the table, 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 177 
 
 " Now that I have explained my being here, 
 at the expense of a fearful havoc among Mr. 
 Brandon's cherries, I shall be at leisure, when we 
 come to the drawing-room, to give you my opinion 
 of the society here; pray do not make up your 
 mind about anybody till I come." 
 
 I left the dining-room in better humour than 
 when I went in, and sat down with the two 
 Miss Farnleys, at a round table covered with 
 annuals and albums. We entered into conversa- 
 tion, and got on (as the phrase is) very well. They 
 were both nice-looking girls; the eldest was hand- 
 some. It was not difficult to comply with Henry's 
 request, that I should not make up my mind 
 about any one till he had given me his opinion ; 
 for a whole quarter of an hour had not elapsed 
 before he made his appearance in the drawing- 
 room, and instantly came and sat down on the 
 couch by me. Lady Wyndham at that moment 
 begged the eldest Miss Farnley to come and give 
 i3 
 
178 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 her advice about some pattern or stitch that she 
 was employed upon, and the youngest went to 
 the open window to speak to Mrs. Brandon and 
 to Mrs. Ernsley, who were walking up and down 
 the gravel walk near the house. 
 
 " How do you like your aunt, Ellen ? " 
 
 " Don't call her my aunt ; that is a name sacred 
 to me. I cannot call any one but your sister, my 
 aunt." 
 
 " Well, Mrs. Brandon, then ; how do you like 
 her?" 
 
 ^' I thought I was not to make up my mind 
 about any one without your assistance ? " 
 
 " True, but I did not include her ; she is an 
 old friend of mine, and I might be partial." 
 
 " There would be no harm in Massing me in 
 her favour. I ought to like her, and I 'm afraid 
 I don't." 
 
 <' Don't you ? " said Henry, in a tone of so much 
 annoyance and mortification, that I looked at him 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 179 
 
 with surprise. '* You will like her," he added, 
 " when you know her." 
 
 " But when did you see so much of her ? And 
 if she is such a friend of yours, why did you never 
 talk to me of her?" 
 
 He did not answer immediately, and I went on. 
 
 " But you are very mysterious about all your 
 acquaintances ; for instance, you know how de- 
 lighted I was with Alice Tracy." 
 
 I was obliged to summon up all my courage to 
 pronounce her name ; how often does one feel that 
 there are subjects which become forbidden ones 
 between people with whom in general there 
 exists no reserve, and which, by some strange 
 instinct, one cannot touch upon without emotion, 
 though nothing reasonable can be alleged to account 
 for it. He started, and his countenance instan- 
 taneously clouded over ; but I went on with a 
 kind of cowardly courage. 
 
 " And yet, I dare say, you have seen her, or 
 
180 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 heard something about her since our visit to 
 Bridman Manor, and have never told me/' 
 
 " I have not seen her." 
 
 " Where is she now?" I persisted, feeling that 
 if I let the subject drop, it would require a fresh 
 effort to resume it again. 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 " Is she likely to be staying at Salisbury ? " 
 
 " At Salisbury ? " 
 
 '' Yes, there are some people of that name 
 living there. I called at the house early this 
 morning, and asked for Alice. She was out, but if 
 I knew that she was staying on there, nothing would 
 be easier than to go and pay her a visit one morning 
 from hence, and I should like it of all things." 
 
 " Ellen," said Henry, " you cannot go on 
 seeing Alice, or have anything to do with any 
 of that family. You are quite a child, and child- 
 ishly headstrong I well know, but I really must 
 insist upon this." 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 181 
 
 " I do not exactly see the right that you have 
 to insist upon my doing or my not doing anything ; 
 but, at least, give me some good reason for this 
 dictation." 
 
 " They are people with whom you cannot 
 with propriety associate ; at your age you can be 
 no judge of such things." 
 
 " It was my aunt who sent me to them, in the 
 first instance ; consequently, she can know nothing 
 against Mrs. Tracy ; and, as to Ahce, you cannot 
 mean that she — unless — "" 
 
 I stopped short ; my heart was beating violently. 
 I felt that modesty, propriety, dignity, forbade 
 my hinting at my suspicions ; but they were 
 rushing again on my mind with fresh force ; and 
 as I looked at Henry, I felt that my cheeks were 
 burning, and my eyes flashing. 
 
 " No," he said, as if he had not remarked my 
 agitation, or else that it had calmed his. " No ; 
 Alice's character is perfectly good ; but, in visiting 
 
]82 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 her, you would be liable to fall in with persons 
 whom it would be in every way unpleasant to 
 be thrown amongst." 
 
 I remembered the two men at Salisbury, and 
 felt this might be true; there was something so 
 plain, and indifferent, too, in his manner of doing 
 justice to Alice, that it removed my suspicions; 
 and when he said, 
 
 " Well, now, for heaven's sake, let us leave 
 off talking on a subject on which it seems we are 
 always destined to quarrel." 
 
 I smiled, and made no effort to pursue it 
 farther, but listened to his account of the society 
 at Brandon. 
 
 " Lady Wyndham (he said) is as you can see 
 in looks, the very reverse of her husband — quite 
 guiltless of his insipid comeliness. I have never 
 found out anything beyond that ; for she is as 
 stern and as silent as he is communicative, per- 
 haps on the system of compensation, and from a 
 strict sense of justice to society." 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 183 
 
 " And the Miss Farnleys (I said) we have just 
 made acquaintance; but I am quite disposed to 
 like or dislike them, according to the report you 
 make of them.'* 
 
 " The Miss Farnleys (he repHed) have been 
 brought up almost entirely abroad, and are, per- 
 haps, not spoilt, but certainly fashioned by this 
 circumstance. The oldest is not the least affected 
 in manner, nor indeed in conversation, except that 
 one is willing to attribute to affectation the very 
 silly things which an otherwise intelligent person 
 is in the habit of saying." 
 
 " What kind of things ?" 
 
 " Why, for instance, she will tell you that 
 she cannot exist without flowers, and therefore 
 keeps loads of them in : her room at night, 
 though they give her a raging headache. But 
 don't think her silly (though it is difiicult to 
 help it, I own), for this very girl, when she broke 
 her arm last year, submitted to the most painful 
 
184 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 operation without a groan, in order that her 
 father, who was ill at the time, should not be 
 agitated or alarmed, though, when he left the 
 room, she fainted from the intensity of agony. 
 Do not think her wicked, if she tells you that she 
 pines to be overturned in a carriage, or to be 
 wrecked at sea; if she boasts that she throws 
 out of window the medicines that are prescribed 
 for her, or that she swallows poison, to try how 
 she feels after it ; for she risked her life a few 
 months ago to save a drowning child ; and when 
 the village near their country place was on fire, 
 she went about among the distracted people like 
 an angel of mercy. Do not, therefore, think her 
 silly, wicked, or mad, whatever she may say to 
 you, but only wonder where she learnt that to 
 seem so was a charm." 
 
 " And her sister, that girl with a Grecian pro- 
 file and straight eyebrows ? " 
 
 " That girl, who sometimes is hardly pretty, 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 185 
 
 and at other times perfectly beautiful, is very 
 clever, though she too says silly things now and 
 then, but quite in a different line. She is original 
 and agreeable, though she lisps and drawls, till 
 the spirit within her is roused. She is very 
 provoking if you dislike her; still more so, per- 
 haps, if you Ake her. In short, I hardly know 
 which to recommend you to do; only, I am 
 sure if you do like her, you will like her very 
 much, and will better spare a better woman — 
 Lady Wyndham, for instance." 
 
 "And that little Miss Moore, who is sitting 
 over her book with a look of such intense enjoy- 
 ment in her large eyes, what account do you give 
 of her?" 
 
 " Oh, everybody doats upon the little Irish 
 girl ; nobody can tell exactly why. It is, I sup- 
 pose, because her eyes speak to you whether her 
 tongue does or not. It is because she unites the 
 most contrary extremes, and leaves you to puzzle 
 
186 ELLEN MIDDLBTON. 
 
 over them ; because she sails into the room, with 
 her little stately manner, and salutes you with a 
 formal curtsey ; and then, under all this air of 
 dignity, you discover the very merriest-hearted little 
 romp that ever existed. You must be fond of her. 
 As refined in mind and in manner, as the most 
 fastidious could require, she has, at the same time, 
 the humour, the native fun, of her country — it 
 sparkles in her eyes — it bubbles in her laugh. 
 She is a little patriot too : when Ireland is men- 
 tioned, you will see her cheek flush, and her spirit 
 rise. It is the only strong feeling she seems to 
 have; for, otherwise, like the jolly miller of Dee, 
 she cares for nobody, and if others care for her, 
 she does not appear to thank them for it. 
 I have often heard men say, how in love they 
 would be with Rosa Moore, if it were not for 
 this thankless, hopeless, remorseless indifference. 
 Now, I think this is a mistake; for I beheve 
 her great charm really lies in that very reck- 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 187 
 
 lessness of what others think of her, or feel for 
 her, in the eager, child-like impetuosity with which 
 she seeks amusement, and in the perfect self- 
 possession with which she treats everything and 
 everybody." 
 
 " And Mrs. Ernsley, Henry ; what do you say 
 of her ? " 
 
 " Mrs. Ernsley ? It is much more difficult to 
 say what she is, than what she is not ; so allow 
 me to describe her in negatives. She is not hand- 
 some, for her features are bad, and her complexion 
 is sallow. She is not plain, for she has pretty 
 eyes, pretty hair, a pretty smile, and a pretty 
 figure. She is not natural, for her part in society 
 is pre-arranged and continually studied. She is 
 not affected, for nobody talks to you with more 
 earnestness, or more of natural impulse and spon- 
 taneousness; but still, she is always listening to 
 herself. She is the person who is attracting, who 
 is charming you, natural to a fault, unguarded to 
 
188 
 
 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 excess (she says to herself). Then, she is not a 
 bad sort of woman ; she has a great regard for 
 her husband, and takes great pains with her 
 little girls; but she is always playing with 
 edged tools; she is always lingering on the line 
 of demarcation. She is eternally discussing who are 
 in love with her — though she is such a very good 
 sort of a woman — and who would be in love with 
 her if she was not? Above all, she is by no 
 means partial to other women, whether they have 
 stepped over the line, or kept within it. She 
 will hate you, Ellen, depend upon it, with an 
 innocent kind of hatred : she will do you no harm, 
 for she is kind-hearted in reality ; only it will 
 be nuts to her if anybody says that Miss Mid- 
 dleton is not near so pretty as they had expected ; 
 and she will try to put you down whenever you 
 open your mouth ; but don't be put down, and 
 then you will remain mistress of the field, for she 
 will grow so fidgetty, (not cross, for she is, in fact, 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 189 
 
 good-tempered,) that she will lose her self-possession, 
 and then all will be over with her."" 
 
 " I have not the slightest wish to enter the 
 lists with her. But now, tell me something of 
 the men who are here ? "" 
 
 *'That will be quickly done;— Sir Charles is 
 a fool ; Mr. Ernsley is a prig ; and Mr. Farnley 
 has a broad kind of humour, and a talent for 
 mimicry, but he is coarse and unrefined, which, 
 by the way, is, perhaps, the reason that his 
 daughter thinks it necessary to be so painfully 
 the reverse. Mr. Brandon, your aunt's brother- 
 in-law, is an agreeable man. Mr. Manby is a 
 lout." 
 
 "And Sir Edmund Ardern?" I inquired. 
 
 " Oh, as to Sir Edmund Ardern, I entreat you, 
 on the same principle on which pastry-cooks cram 
 their apprentices during the first few days, to 
 talk to him incessantly. Let him sit by you to- 
 morrow at breakfast, at luncheon, at dinner, walk 
 
190 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 with him, and ride with him ; I shall not come 
 near you, in order that he may have full scope 
 for his fascinating powers ; you shall be fascinated 
 till you cry for mercy/' 
 
 I laughed, but secretly thought that something 
 of the severity of his satire proceeded from the 
 fact, that Sir Edmund was the only handsome 
 and pleasing person in the house, and I did not 
 feel inclined to take entirely for granted, that 
 Henry's judgment of him was correct. 
 
 Our tete-a-tete was soon interrupted by the 
 entrance of Mrs. Ernsley, and the arrival of tea. 
 Mrs. Ernsley threw herself into a large arm-chair, 
 flung her bonnet and shawl on the opposite couch, 
 and then began arranging her hair. 
 
 " You look tired, Mrs. Ernsley," said Henry. 
 
 " To death,'' she answered. "Dear Mrs. Brandon 
 has been wondering whether the stars are inhabited 
 or not. It is not fair to make one stretch out 
 one's mind so far." 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 191 
 
 " What did Sir Edmund pronounce on the 
 subject ?" inquired Henry. 
 
 "That there was much to be said on both sides 
 of the question. I left them at that point." 
 
 " Do you like Sir Edmund .?" 
 
 " I wish you would not ask me.*" 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Because he hates me, and I won't own to a 
 passion malheureuse. He nearly overturned poor 
 Mr. Farnley to-day at dinner, in trying to avoid 
 the chair next me." 
 
 " Oh, no ; it was in trying to get the one next 
 Miss Middleton," observed Rosa Moore, with an 
 innocent expression of countenance. 
 
 Mrs. Ernsley continued without noticing the 
 interruption, otherwise than by a downward 
 movement of the corners of her mouth — " I had 
 a thousand times rather be hated by him, than 
 be liked in the way in which he seems to like 
 any one, qui lui tombe sous la main," ^ 
 
192 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 " No doubt," said Henry ; *' next to being 
 loved there is nothing like being hated." 
 
 " You think so too, then ?" said Mrs. Ernsley. 
 
 " Certainly," he replied. " It gratifies one of 
 the strongest tastes, or rather passions, of one's 
 nature ; that of feeling emotion onesself, and 
 exciting it in others. If I could not see the 
 woman I loved agitated by her love for me, I 
 had rather see her tremble, shudder even at 
 my presence, than look as if Mr. Manby had come 
 into the room." 
 
 " What a detestable lover you would make ! " 
 exclaimed Mrs. Ernsley. " Always, by your own 
 admission, on the verge of hatred." 
 
 He laughed, and said, " It is an old saying, that 
 love and hatred are closely allied." 
 
 " Not more so than hatred and contempt," I 
 said ; " and in incurring the one, one might, 
 perhaps, gain the other." 
 
 Both my companions looked at me with sur- 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 193 
 
 prise, for I had not joined before in their con- 
 versation, and a secret feeling (I was aware of it) 
 had given a shade of bitterness to my manner 
 of saying it. 
 
 Mrs. Ernsley seemed to take the remark as 
 personal to herself; but said good-humouredly, 
 though somewhat sneeringly, " Since Miss Mid- 
 dleton has pronounced so decided an opinion, we 
 had better drop the subject. What is become 
 of Edward Middleton, Mr. Lovell?" 
 
 " He has been abroad for some months," replied 
 Henry ; and Sir Edmund Ardern, who at that 
 moment joined us, said, " The last time I saw 
 him was at Naples last February; we had just 
 made an excursion into the mountains of Calabria 
 together." 
 
 " A very unromantic one, no doubt/' said 
 Mrs. Ernsley, "as everything is in our unroman- 
 tic days. Not a trace of a brigand or of an 
 adventure I suppose.?" 
 
 VOL. I. K 
 
194 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 " None that we were concerned in. But we saw 
 an ex-brigand, and he told us his adventures." 
 
 "Did he really?" exclaimed Miss Farnley; 
 " and was he not adorable ? " 
 
 " Not exactly,'' said Sir Edmund with a smile ; 
 " but some of his accounts were interesting." 
 
 " Was he fierce?" 
 
 " No, not the least. I fancy he had followed 
 that line in his younger days, more because his 
 father and his brother were brigands, than from 
 any inclination of his own. One of the stories he 
 told us struck Middleton and myself in a very 
 different manner." 
 
 " What was it ? " I asked, unable to restrain 
 my anxious curiosity. 
 
 " I am afraid you may think it long,'' said 
 Sir Edmund ; " but if you are to decide the 
 point in question you must have patience to hear 
 the story : — 
 
 " Lorenzo, that was our friend's name, had 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 195 
 
 been engaged in several skirmishes with the Gen- 
 darmerie, that had been sent into the mountains 
 to arrest the gang to which he belonged ; he was 
 known by sight, and had once or twice narrowly 
 escaped being seized. He had a personal enemy 
 among the gendarmes — a man called Giacomo, 
 whose jealousy he had excited some years previ- 
 ously at a country fair. They had quarrelled 
 about a girl whom both were making love to. 
 Lorenzo had struck him, and Giacomo had not 
 returned the blow before they were separated, 
 and his rival safe in the mountains beyond the 
 reach of his vengeance. He brooded over this 
 recollection for several years ; and when he found 
 himself, at last, officially in pursuit of his enemy, 
 he followed him as a hungry beast tracks his prey. 
 One evening, with two or three of his men, he 
 had dodged him for several hours. Lorenzo had 
 made with incredible speed for a spot where, 
 between the fissures of the rock, he knew of a 
 k2 
 
196 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 secret passage by which he could elude the pur- 
 suit, and place himself in safety. He strained 
 every nerve to turn the corner before his pursuers 
 could be upon him, and mark the place where he 
 disappeared. Between him and that corner, there 
 was now nothing left but a slight wooden bridge 
 thrown over a precipice. As he was rushing 
 across it, Giacomo, with the instinctive feeling 
 that his enemy was escaping him, by one tre- 
 mendous leap from the top of the rock which 
 overhung the bridge, reached it at the same 
 moment. The shock broke to pieces the frail 
 support ; the hand-rail alone did not give way, 
 and to this, by their hands alone, the two men 
 clung. They were close to each other — they 
 looked into each other's faces — neither could move. 
 Lorenzo's eyes were glazed with terror ; Giacomo's 
 glared with fury; he was nearest the edge, his 
 men were in sight, and he called to them hoarsely. 
 Lorenzo gave himself up for lost. At that 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 197 
 
 moment, above their heads, on the edge of the 
 rock, something moved — both looked up. A blow, 
 a tremendous blow, fell on Giacomo's head ; his 
 features grew distorted, they quivered in agony — 
 a yell of torture escaped him : another blow, and 
 his brains flew upon the face and hands of his foe. 
 A mist seemed to cover Lorenzo's eyes ; but he felt 
 something stretched out to him — he clung to it 
 instinctively, he scrambled, he darted into the 
 cavern, he fainted, but he was safe." 
 
 " And who had saved him ? " we all exclaimed. 
 " Amina, a girl whom he was courting, 
 and by whom he was beloved. She was 
 carrying home to her father, a large sledge- 
 hammer which he had lent to a neighbour. 
 Passing alone through that wild region, she saw 
 the desperate situation of the two men, recognised 
 her lover struggling with the gendarme, heard 
 the shouts of the latter to his comrades, and rushed 
 to the spot." 
 
198 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 " A brave girl," exclaimed Henry. 
 
 " How did the romance end ? " asked Mrs. 
 Ernsley. 
 
 " Ah ! there 's the point," said Sir Edmund. 
 " I asked Lorenzo if he did not love the girl 
 twice as much since her gallant conduct. ' I was 
 very grateful to her,' he answered, ' but I was no 
 longer in love with her.' I exclaimed in astonish- 
 ment, but he persisted ; it was very odd certainly, 
 she had saved his life, and he would have done 
 anything to serve her ; ' But you know, gentle- 
 men/ he added, 'one cannot help being in love, 
 or not being in love; and when I looked at 
 Amina's black eyes, I could not help shuddering, 
 for I remembered the look they had, when she 
 gave Giacomo that last blow, and it was not 
 pleasant, and in short I could not be in love with 
 her, and there was an end of it."' 
 
 "And is it possible," exclaimed Mrs. Ernsley, 
 " that he was so ungrateful as to forsake her ?" 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 199 
 
 " No ; he told me he would have married 
 her, if she had wished it, but she did not ; 
 ' Perhaps,' he said, ' she saw I was no longer 
 in love with her ; but she did not seem to care 
 much, and there was an end of it/ as he said 
 before. Now I own I cannot understand the 
 fellow's feeling ; if anybody had saved my life, 
 as Amina saved his, I really believe I should 
 have fallen in love with her, had she been old 
 and ugly: but a handsome girl, whom he was 
 in love with before, that she should lose his 
 heart, in consequence of the very act for which 
 he should have adored her, passes, I confess, 
 my comprehension. But Edward Middleton disa- 
 greed with me; he thought it perfectly natural. 
 ' It was hard upon her,' he said, ' and could not 
 be defended on the ground of reason ; but there 
 were instincts, impulses, more powerful than 
 reason itself; and unjust and cruel as it might 
 seem, he could not wonder at the change in 
 Lorenzo's feelings.' " 
 
200 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 "How Strange!" said Henry Lovell; "how 
 like Edwardj too; though not quite so moral 
 and just, as he generally piques himself upon 
 being." 
 
 "Ay," said Sir Edmund, "I must do him 
 the justice to say, that he added, ' Had I been 
 Lorenzo, I should have felt myself bound to 
 devote my life to Amina, to have made her happy 
 at the expense of my own happiness; but there 
 is, to me, something so dreadful in life destroyed, 
 in death dealt by the hand of a woman, under any 
 circumstances whatever " 
 
 As Sir Edmund was saying these last words, 
 I felt the sick faint sensation that had been 
 coming over me during the last few minutes, 
 suddenly increase, and he was interrupted by 
 Mrs. Ernsley exclaiming, *' Good heavens, Miss 
 Middleton, how pale you look ! are you ill ? " 
 
 Mrs. Brandon, who heard her, rushed to me ; 
 by a strong effort, I recovered myself, swallowed 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 201 
 
 the glass of water she brought, and walked to the 
 piano-forte, where Rosa Moore was singing. 
 
 I laid my head on the corner of the instrument, 
 and as my tears fell fast, I breathed more freely. 
 When, later. Sir Edmund apologised to me for 
 having made me ill with his horrid story, and 
 Henry whispered to me, " Mrs. Ernsley has just 
 announced that you are of the same species as 
 Miss Farnley, who cannot hear of death, or of 
 wounds, without swooning, but that you are only a 
 somewhat better actress," I was able to smile, 
 and speak gaily. Soon after, I went to bed ; as I 
 undressed, I thought of these lines of Scott : 
 
 " Full many a shaft at random sent, 
 Takes aim the archer never meant ; 
 And many a word at random spoken, 
 Can wound or heal a heart nigh broken." 
 
 That night I had little sleep, and when I woke in 
 the morning, my pillow was still wet with tears. 
 
 k3 
 
202 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Yes, deep within and deeper yet 
 The rankling shaft of conscience hide ; 
 Quick let the melting eye forget 
 The tears that in the heart abide. 
 
 ***** 
 ***** 
 
 Thus oft the mourner's wayward heart 
 Tempts him to hide his grief and die ; 
 Too feeble for confession's smart- 
 Too proud to bear a pitying eye. 
 
 Christian Year. 
 
 The following day was Sunday, and some of us 
 drove, some of us walked, to the village church. 
 It was about two miles distant from the house by 
 the carriage road, but the path that Jed thither 
 by a short cut across the park, through a small 
 wood, down a steep hill, and up another still 
 steeper, and then by a gentle descent into the 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 203 
 
 village, was not much more than a mile in length. 
 It was a beautiful walk, and the view from the top 
 of that last hill was enough to repay the fatigue 
 of scrambling up that winding path, exposed to 
 the burning heat of the sun, and that is not saying 
 a little. As the last bell had not begun to ring, 
 we sat down on the stile on the brow of the hill, 
 to wait for it, and in the mean time I looked with 
 delight on the picture before my eyes. The little 
 footpath wound down through the daisy-enamelled 
 grass to the edge of a pond of clear water, that 
 lay between the field and the road, and was shaded 
 by half a dozen magnificent oaks, elms, and 
 horse-chesnuts, beyond the little village, which 
 did not seem to contain more than seven or eight 
 cottages, each half-buried in trees, or overgrown 
 with creepers, except one red brick house, that 
 flared in all the pride of newness, and of the 
 gaudy flowers in its spruce little garden. In the 
 middle of the irregular square, or rather of the 
 
204 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 wide part of the village road, for it could not be 
 called a street, stood a tall May-pole, still adorned 
 with two or three faded remnants of the streamers 
 which had decorated it a month before. On an 
 eminence beyond the village stood the church ; 
 one of those small old beautiful parish churches, 
 with one square gray tower, and two wide porches ; 
 around it grew yews and thorn trees, of various 
 shapes and sizes, intermingling their white flowers 
 and dark foliage in graceful contrast. 
 
 After a few moments' rest we walked on to the 
 churchyard, and sat down upon a tomb-stone close 
 to the principal porch. All the people of the 
 village were assembled, sitting, or standing in 
 groups, waiting for the clergyman's arrival. Mr. 
 Brandon was just telling me, in answer to my 
 expressions of admiration for a picturesque, ivy- 
 grown old wall and house, which formed one of 
 the boundaries of the churchyard, that they were 
 part of the ruins of an ancient palace of King 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 205 
 
 John's, when the carriage arrived, and we all went 
 into church. It looked smaller still within than 
 without, but its rude architecture had something 
 rehgious as well as rustic about it, and the simple 
 singing of the morning hymn by the school children 
 seemed in accordance with it. As usual my mind 
 wandered during the whole of the service, and 
 though I knelt when others knelt, and stood when 
 they stood, and though my lips mechanically re- 
 peated the responses, I never prayed except when 
 occasionally some words in the Liturgy or in the 
 Bible struck upon the secret feeling of my heart, 
 and drew from it a mental ejaculation, a passionate 
 appeal to Heaven, which was rather the cry of a 
 wounded spirit than a direct address to the God 
 between whom and my soul I felt as if the link of 
 communion was broken. That day, however, 
 little as I regularly attended to the service, it had 
 a soothing effect upon me. There was an old 
 monument exactly opposite our seat, to which my 
 
206 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 eyes were continually reverting. It was that of a 
 knight crusader and of his wife ; their statues were 
 lying side by side, in that rigid repose which 
 unites the appearance of sleep and of death. There 
 was peace in each line of those sculptured figures — 
 an intensity of repose, the more striking from its 
 association with some of the emblems of war. As 
 I looked upon them I longed to be resting too. 
 
 The clergyman was reading the morning lesson 
 at that moment, and these words attracted my 
 attention, " And they all fell seven together, and 
 were put to death in the days of harvest; in the 
 first days in the beginning of barley harvest ; and 
 Rizpah, the daughter of Aiah, took sackcloth, and 
 spread it for her upon the rock, from the begin- 
 ning of harvest, until water dropped upon them 
 out of Heaven, and suffered neither the birds of 
 the air to rest on them by day, nor the beasts of 
 the field by night." 
 
 These words seemed to answer my thoughts; 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 207 
 
 why I cannot tell, perhaps no one but myself could 
 understand what that connection was, and yet it 
 struck me so powerfully that I felt as if a chink 
 had suddenly opened, and given me a glimpse into 
 another world. There was quietness and confi- 
 dence and strength, in the midst of torture, agony, 
 and despair. The mother, who had lost all her 
 sons, and that by an ignominious death, sat upon 
 the rock days and nights, and she spread sack- 
 cloth upon it, and she slept not by night, and she 
 rested not by day, but drove away the birds of the 
 air and the beasts of the field, and verily she had 
 her reward; their bones were gathered together 
 by the king's command, and they buried them 
 there. She had her meed, I might have mine at 
 last; I could weep and pray, fast by day and 
 watch by night, give up the joys of life, the hopes 
 of youth ; cease to banish the remembrance of the 
 past, but in quiet penitence, in humbled contem- 
 plation, bear it ever in mind, and carry about with 
 
208 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 me, through a long life perhaps, the dagger in the 
 wound, till at last the day might come when my 
 own heart would absolve me, and Edward Mid- 
 dleton would pity me. 
 
 After the service the clergyman announced his 
 intention of administering the holy sacrament on 
 the following Sunday, to all such as should be 
 religiously and devoutly disposed. For the last 
 year I had always listened to this address either 
 with a feeling of dogged indifference, or, if my 
 heart was less hardened than usual, with a pang 
 of shame and grief ; but always with a determina- 
 tion to remain banished from the altar, excom- 
 municated by my own conscience. Now, for the 
 first time, I listened with a somewhat different 
 feeling ; I longed to kneel there, and as I looked 
 at the clergyman while he preached, and marked 
 his white hair, his venerable countenance, and the 
 benevolence of his manner, a sudden resolution 
 occurred to me ; I would open my heart to him ; 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 209 
 
 I would tell him all ; I would, for once, pour out 
 the secret anguish of my soul to one who neither 
 loved nor hated me ; to one who would tell me 
 what my guilt had been, — who would promise me 
 its pardon, and point out the path of duty to my 
 blinded slight. I felt feverishly impatient to ac- 
 compHsh this determination ; and when we came 
 out of church, and Mr. Brandon asked me if 
 I would walk or drive home, I said I would drive, 
 so as to make the walkers set out without me ; and 
 then I drew Mrs. Brandon aside, and told her, that 
 as I had heard that the afternoon service was at 
 half-past two o'clock, 1 should wait for it, and in 
 the mean time walk about the churchyard and the 
 village. She made some objections to my remain- 
 ing alone, which was inevitable if I stayed, as all 
 the men had walked on, and the women would 
 none of them be inclined to miss their luncheon ; 
 but at last yielding to my earnest wish, she said 
 she would herself come to afternoon church, in 
 order to fetch me back. 
 
210 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 I saw them all drive off, and the village people 
 slowly leave the churchyard in different directions, 
 and sat myself down on the same tombstone as in 
 the morning to watch for Mr. Leslie. It was some 
 time before he came out of church, and when he 
 did he remained for several minutes in conversation 
 with the clerk at the door of the porch. At last 
 he dismissed him, and walked my way ; he seemed 
 doubtful whether he should stop or not, as he 
 passed me, but I got up, and this decided him. 
 He smiled, and asked me if I had been forgotten 
 and left behind ? 
 
 " No," I said, '' I am only waiting here, as there 
 is hardly time to go to the house and come back 
 before afternoon church ; and this is a pleasant 
 place to spend an hour in." 
 
 " I am glad you like our old churchyard," said 
 Mr. Leslie; and then he began talking of the 
 views, of the neighbouring scenery, of the ruined 
 palace now transformed into a farm, of all the 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 211 
 
 subjects he thought would interest me, little think- 
 ing that at that moment the secret of a life of 
 anguish, the confession of an over-burthen ed con- 
 science, was trembling on my lips. The more he 
 talked, too (although there was nothing unsuitable 
 to his sacred office in anything he said), the more I 
 felt to lose sight of the priest of God — of the 
 messenger of Heaven, in the amiable, conversible, 
 gentlemanlike man before me ; however, when he 
 pulled out his watch, and apologised for leaving 
 me, pleading a promise he had made to visit a sick 
 parishioner, I made a desperate effort, and said : 
 " May I ask you, Mr, Leslie, to allow me a few 
 moments of conversation with you before the hour 
 of afternoon service, if you can spare time ? " 
 
 He looked surprised, but bowed assent, and said 
 he would return in half an hour. During that 
 half hour I sat with my face buried in my hands, 
 feeling as if able to count every pulsation of my 
 heart. The excitement under which I had acted 
 
212 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 was past ; I trembled at the idea of what my lips 
 were going to utter ; I felt as if I had escaped a 
 great danger ; I was astonished at myself for ever 
 having formed such a resolution ; and when Mr. 
 Leslie stood before me again, and asked me, with a 
 smile, what my business with him was, I could as 
 soon have destroyed myself in his presence, as have 
 pronounced the words of self-accusation, which had 
 appeared to me so natural and so easy when he was 
 in the pulpit and I on my knees in church. But 
 he was there, and he was waiting for my answer, 
 and my cheeks were flushing, and I knew that the 
 next moment I should burst into tears. With a 
 desperate confusion I drew my purse, which con- 
 tained several sovereigns, from my pocket, and 
 asked him to distribute it among the poor of the 
 village. He seemed puzzled, but thanked me, and 
 said, he should be happy to be the dispenser of 
 such a liberal donation : and I darted away from 
 him, unable to bear the shame and the misery I 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 213 
 
 was enduring ; for now it seemed to me that I had 
 added hypocrisy to my guilt ; that I had hardened 
 my heart against the best impulse I had yet ex- 
 perienced, and that I had deceived the minister of 
 God, whose praises sounded like curses in my 
 ears. 
 
 I attended the afternoon service in a more 
 reckless mood than ever; and that day at dinner, 
 and during all the evening, was more feverishly 
 gay, more wildly excited than usual ; and Henry 
 Lovell, who seemed struck with the strangeness 
 of my manner, for the first time, made love to me 
 without reserve. The language of passion was 
 new to my ears ; his words made my heart throb 
 and my cheeks burn ; but even while he spoke, and 
 while under the influence of a bewildering excite- 
 ment, which made me feel, for the time, as if I 
 shared his sentiments, I once thought of the crusader. 
 I saw a pale, calm face, with its well known fea- 
 tures, under the warrior's helmet : and I felt that 
 
214 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 to lie down and die by his side would be hap- 
 piness compared to such a life as mine. 
 
 A few days after this, we were all sitting in the 
 drawing-room at about twelve o'clock ; the day 
 was not tempting, and instead of going out, we had 
 settled to work, while Sir Edmund and Henry 
 alternately read out loud to us, but Rosa Moore 
 when she heard the plan proposed, screwed up her 
 lips into a decided expression of disapprobation, 
 and slipt out of the room with the look of a child 
 who has escaped its lesson. Two hours after she 
 came in again and sat down quietly in a chair 
 opposite me ; she looked red and out of breath, 
 but a look of intense amusement was dancing in 
 her eyes. She listened patiently to the conclusion 
 of the tragedy, which Sir Edmund was reading 
 well, though rather too theatrically for the occasion ; 
 and when the different remarks upon it had sub- 
 sided, she turned to Henry, and with perfect 
 gravity, but a most mischievous look in her eyes, 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 215 
 
 said to him " Mr. Lovell, I am sorry to have to 
 break it to you, but upon pain of death, we must 
 marry immediately." 
 
 " I never dreamt of such an honour," said Henry, 
 laughing, " but if there is no other alternative, I 
 can resign myself ; but who lays down this law ? " 
 
 " A gentleman who shortened my walk this 
 morning, for I had no intention of coming home 
 before the end of the tragedy." 
 
 " Who can you mean ? " 
 
 " Somebody who must be either your best friend 
 or your worst enemy, by the interest he seems to 
 take in you." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " said Mrs. Brandon. 
 
 " Only that as I was exploring the thicket near 
 East Common, 1 heard a rustling in the hedge, 
 and suddenly stood face to face with an individual 
 of not very prepossessing appearance." 
 
 '^ What kind of man, my love ? you frighten me 
 to death." 
 
 " Why he was not like a gentleman, nor yet like 
 
216 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 a countryman ; not like anything good in its way. 
 He opened our interview by laying hold of my 
 arm." 
 
 "How dreadful!" "What did he say?" ''What 
 did you do ? " " How shocking." " How did you 
 get away? " "I should have died on the spot;"" 
 was echoed with different sorts of emphasis round 
 the table. 
 
 " Why, I told him I had five shillings and six- 
 pence in my purse, in case it was agreeable to him 
 to take them." 
 
 "Did he?" 
 
 " No, here they are quite safe ; he did not want 
 to take my money, but to give me advice, he said," 
 and Rosa burst into one of her merriest peals of 
 laughter. 
 
 " What did he say to you exactly ? Now pray 
 be serious, Rosa," cried Mrs. Brandon, im- 
 patiently. 
 
 " This is what he said, ^Hark'ee my duck, do you 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 217 
 
 marry that ere chap, that Mr. Lovell what's a 
 courting you, and the sooner the better, for if you 
 don't it will be the worse for you, and for him, and 
 for some one as shall be nameless. It will be the 
 saving of his life, if you mind me my pretty gal. 
 He added this, as I wrenched my arm away, and 
 was taking to my legs."' 
 
 '^ And he let you go ? " 
 
 " No, he caught hold of me again, and begged 
 for an answer. I am afraid I should have promised 
 to marry Mr. Lovell, or to kill him, or anything 
 else that was expected of me, in order to get away, 
 when another man joined us, and muttered, ' Fool, 
 you are dropping the Brentford ticket at Hammer- 
 smith gate.' Upon which my friend screwed up 
 his mouth into a particular shape, gave a kind of 
 whistle, and both darted away among the bushes ; 
 and here I am." 
 
 I looked round to see how Henry took this 
 account, but he was gone. Mrs. Brandon noticed 
 
 VOL. I. L 
 
218 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 also his disappearance, and left the room. Mrs. 
 Ernsley, Sir Edmund, and the eldest Miss Farnley 
 drew round Rosa, to hear her recount again her 
 adventure, and the youngest Miss Farnley whis- 
 pered to me : " Mr. Lovell must be in love with 
 Miss Moore, for I never saw a man more strangely 
 agitated; but it is an odd story; what do you 
 think it can mean ?" 
 
 " Perhaps it is a hoax,'' I said ; for I had a vague 
 wish that the whole thing might be hushed up. 
 I felt frightened — I thought it evident that Rosa 
 had been taken for me, and I could not help 
 thinking that the two men she had fallen in with, 
 were those 1 had seen at Salisbury. Henry's 
 agitation and his sudden disappearance confirmed 
 my suspicions, and I felt the more tormented 
 from having no one near me, to whom I could 
 impart them. When we went into the dining- 
 room for luncheon, Mrs. Brandon looked flushed 
 and worried ; she told Rosa that Henry had gone 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 219 
 
 towards the East common, to see if the men who 
 had frightened her, and used his name for that 
 purpose, were lurking in that direction ; that Mr. 
 Brandon had sent the gamekeeper and some of 
 his men to make inquiries in the neighbourhood 
 about these fellows, and directed that they 
 should be brought up for examination before 
 him as a magistrate, if they could be found. Rosa 
 proposed to me to ride with her and all the men 
 of the party, that afternoon, and scour the park, 
 the neighbouring woods and downs in search of 
 the men. Curiosity, and an intense desire to 
 ascertain if I was right in my suppositions, made 
 me agree to this plan. We were soon off, and 
 galloping across the park. Rosa was in tearing 
 spirits; she had been somewhat alarmed in the 
 morning, but the idea of a quiproquOy the amuse- 
 ment of a practical riddle, the fun of pursuing 
 her assailant, (whose offence had not been of a 
 nature which would make its results to him so 
 l2 
 
220 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 serious as to check any levity on the subject) tickled 
 her fancy exceedingly, and she kept her com- 
 panions in a continual roar of laughter. We 
 rode about in different directions for nearly two 
 hours, but, except a few labourers, we met no 
 one. As we were walking our horses through a 
 dell, that divided the upper part of East common 
 from a wood of beautiful oaks, that stretched for 
 miles beyond it, Mr. Manby suddenly exclaimed, 
 " There are two men scrambling over a hedge in 
 the direction of Ash Grove. Now, Miss Moore, 
 for a desperate effort." We all looked in the 
 direction where he pointed with his whip, and all 
 set off at once at full speed. There was a small 
 ditch between the field we were in, and the one 
 we were making for ; all the horses took it at a 
 flying leap, except mine, who positively refused 
 to budge. In vain I struck him and urged him 
 on ; he began rearing violently, but would neither 
 jump nor walk over it; the groom begged me to 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 221 
 
 get off, while he dragged it across ; I did so, and 
 walked on a little to try and find a place where 
 I could step over the ditch myself. I stopped a 
 minute to look at a clump of ash trees, surround- 
 ing a little ruined hut, which 1 thought would 
 make a lovely sketch. At that moment the door 
 of the hut opened ; a man came out and looked 
 cautiously about him — It was Henry — two others 
 followed him ; the very men I had seen at 
 Salisbury; these last turned into a lane which 
 I knew led into the high-road to Blandford, and 
 were out of sight in a moment. Henry stood 
 still for an instant, and then walked off towards 
 the house. I was not surprised, but my heart 
 sickened within me. I felt a vague pity for 
 Henry, a nervous terror for myself; it never 
 occurred to me to point out the two men, or 
 draw attention to the spot where I had seen them 
 disappear. 
 
 In the meantime the groom had brought a 
 
222 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 plank, by means of which I crossed the ditch ; 
 I got on my horse again, and rode slowly on to 
 meet the rest of the party, who w^ere galloping 
 back in great amusement, at having mistaken 
 Mr. Leslie and his clerk, who had been quietly 
 clambering over a stile, on their way to the cottage 
 of a sick old woman, for the dangerous characters 
 they were in search of. We came up with Henry 
 a few yards from the house. He looked ill and 
 tired ; Mr. Brandon hallooed to him, to know if 
 he had seen or heard anything of the vagabonds. 
 
 " Have you?" was his answer. 
 
 "No," cried Mr. Brandon. 
 
 *' Well then. Miss Moore," (said Henry, with 
 a forced laugh,) " we must e'en wed to-morrow, 
 or remain single at our peril," and he walked off, 
 humming the tune of " Gai^ gai, mariez-vous." 
 
 The subject of Rosa's adventure was now and 
 then resumed, and became a sort of standing 
 joke against Henry ; evidently a disagreable one 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 223 
 
 to him, though he put a good face on the 
 matter. 
 
 One day he asked Rosa, if she had not been 
 laughing at us all, and whether the whole thing- 
 was not a practical joke. He took to twitting her 
 about her visions, and proposed to write a ballad 
 on " the two invisible men of Brandon Woods,'' on 
 which I said, " And I will write a sequel, which 
 shall be called ' The ruined Hut of Ash Grove.'" 
 
 Mrs. Ernsley looked at Sir Edmund, as much 
 as to say, "What a silly attempt at a repartie ;" 
 and said in a hesitating manner, " I do not quite 
 see what would be the point of that." 
 
 Henry looked as if the ground had suddenly 
 opened, and shut again before his eyes. 
 
224 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 Turn to the watery world ; but who to thee 
 (A wonder yet un vie wed) shall paint the sea ! 
 Various and vast, sublime in all its forms, 
 When lulled by zephyrs, or when roused by storms, 
 Its colours changing, when from clouds and sun, 
 Shades after shades, upon the surface run. 
 
 Crabbb, 
 
 And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover 
 To entertain these fair well-spoken days, 
 I am determined to prove a villain. 
 
 Shaksprare. 
 
 Two or three weeks now elapsed, without the 
 occurrence of anything worth relating ; but in which 
 I was much struck with two entirely new features 
 in Henry's character, which were gloom and 
 irritability. At times he was still as agreeable as 
 ever, but the least coldness on my part, or the 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 225 
 
 commonest kind of attention paid me by others, 
 seemed to exasperate him beyond any attempt 
 at self-government. He was once on the verge 
 of insulting Sir Edmund Ardern, because I had 
 talked to him for an hour together ; and there 
 was nothing touching in the fierce jealousy which 
 he showed on these occasions. When under its 
 influence, he seemed absolutely to hate me, and 
 sometimes he quite frightened me by his violence. 
 However, when that had been the case, he would 
 suddenly recollect himself, and then, by his ardent 
 expressions of passionate affection ; by the grief, 
 the misery, he pleaded in justification of his 
 violence ; by the words of eloquent appeal, of 
 tender entreaty, which seemed to spring from the 
 very depths of his heart ; he moved, he agitated, 
 he persuaded me ; and, half in weakness, half in 
 self-deception, partly from the fear of losing the 
 excitement of being adored by one who fascinated 
 my mind, though he did not touch my heart, I 
 l3 
 
226 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 tacitly encouraged him in the beUef that I returned 
 his affection. 
 
 On the 7th of July, after I had been about a 
 month at Brandon, I received a letter from 
 Mrs. Middleton, the purport of which was, that 
 my uncle desired me to return immediately to 
 Elmsley ; that she was sorry that he was so 
 positive about it, as she saw by my letters that 
 I was amused there; that she would have been 
 more able to withstand him on the subject, and 
 to obtain for me a prolongation of my visit, had 
 it not been that the very circumstance which had 
 occasioned his decision, was one which, from 
 motives which I could well understand, she could 
 not discuss with him, and in which she could take 
 no part; "and that, my love (she added) is my 
 brother's unexpected visit to Brandon. I have 
 seldom seen your uncle so much irritated as when 
 he heard of his going there; and it was with 
 difficulty that he refrained from writing by return 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 227 
 
 of post to desire you instantly to come home. 
 This would, however, have caused a sort of sensa- 
 tion, which, he felt himself, was undesirable; but 
 now, he will hear of no delay, and my maid will 
 arrive at Brandon the day after you receive this 
 letter, and you will set off with her on the follow- 
 ing morning. I think it right to tell you, dearest 
 child, that Mr. Middleton, in speaking to me of 
 Henry the other day, expressed his determination 
 never again to allow him to make up to you, or 
 you to encourage in him the least hope of a 
 marriage, which he is perfectly resolved never to 
 give his consent to. He has desired me to tell 
 you so, and to write to Henry to the same effect. 
 You know (as we have often said to each other,) 
 your uncle dislikes Henry, and that makes him, 
 no doubt, more positive still on the subject than he 
 might otherwise be; but I must admit myself, 
 that my brother having no fortune whatever, and 
 not having ever set about in earnest following up 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 any profession, a marriage with him would be not 
 only undesirable for you, but, in fact, impossible. 
 
 " You may be surprised, my own dearest child, 
 at my speaking to you in this way of an affair 
 which, perhaps, you yourself have not taken into 
 consideration. I earnestly wish that Henry may 
 not have made such an impression upon you, as 
 to make this warning necessary ; but, after what 
 I saw here— though perhaps too late — and what 
 I have heard goes on at Brandon, I scarcely ven- 
 ture to hope so. 
 
 " I will not talk to you, my own Ellen, of the 
 happiness which your return will give me : you 
 are the joy of my life ; the star in my dark night : 
 my best beloved^, my precious child. If your tears 
 should flow, if your young heart should ache, 
 come to me, dearest, and lay your head on my 
 bosom, and find in my love, which shall know no 
 change, ' a shelter from the storm, a refuge from 
 the tempest.' " 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 229 
 
 I pressed to my lips Mrs. Middleton's letter, but 
 remained agitated by a number of conflicting feel- 
 ings. She seemed unhappy, and I could not help 
 thinking, that besides the anxiety she expressed 
 about the state of my feelings, she was also grieved 
 at my uncle''s harsh decision against her brother. 
 I was vexed too at being ordered back to Elmsley. 
 I had been spoiled by unlimited indulgence, and 
 unvarying tenderness, and though bitter sorrow 
 had come upon me, and 1 had gone through severe 
 suffering, it had not come in the form of discipline, 
 or been turned to its salutary use. I dreaded the 
 monotony, the associations of Elmsley, from which 
 I saw, by this letter, that Henry was henceforward 
 to be banished ; and, altogether, when I walked 
 into Mrs. Brandon's room, and announced to her 
 my approaching departure, tears of vexation stood 
 in my eyes. 
 
 She said a great deal of her own regret, and 
 proposed writing immediately to Mr. Middleton 
 
230 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 to entreat him to let me stay on longer, and urged 
 me to wait for his answer, but this I could not 
 venture to do. My uncle was a man who seldom 
 gave an order, but when he did, I knew it was not 
 to be trifled with. 
 
 I did not state to Mrs. Brandon the real reason 
 of my recall ; but she gave me to understand that 
 she knew it, and I did not repulse as much as 
 usual, her implied sympathy. 
 
 We went down into the drawing-room together ; 
 and when Henry appeared, I watched his counte- 
 nance to try and gather from it, if he too had 
 received the letter which his sister had been desired 
 to write to him ; but he puzzled me completely. 
 He was absent and pre-occupied, but did not seem 
 the least depressed ; on the contrary, there was a 
 kind of excitement about him, that gave him the 
 appearance of being in high spirits. When Mrs. 
 Brandon spoke of my summons to Elmsle}', and 
 the rest of the company were, in their different 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON 231 
 
 ways, making civil speeches to me, he said nothing, 
 but in his turn watched me narrowly. 
 
 He did not sit next to me at dinner, which I 
 thought, with a little contrivance, he might have 
 done; nor did he come near me during the 
 first part of the evening, but seemed entirely 
 engrossed by a long eager whispering conversation 
 which he kept up with Mrs. Brandon. 
 
 At tea-time, she came up to Lady Wyndham 
 and Mrs. Ernsley, and asked if it would suit them 
 to make a party the next day to the sea-side. 
 There was a beautiful little bay about twenty miles 
 off, which would make an excellent object for an 
 expedition, and which she would like to shew me, 
 before I left Dorsetshire. It so happened that I 
 had never in my life seen the sea, except from 
 a distance, and this made the idea of this excur- 
 sion particularly agreeable to me. Everybody 
 approved of it ; for once everybody was like 
 Mrs. Hatton, and liked nothing so much as an 
 
232 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 expedition, and more especially one to the sea-side, 
 so it was settled that we were to be off at eight 
 the following morning. Except in general con- 
 versation, Henry did not speak to me that evening, 
 till, as he was lighting a candle for me, near the 
 refreshment table, he said in a low voice, " Have 
 you ever been so interested in a book that you have 
 been obliged to shut it up, and to pause before you 
 opened it again ? " 
 
 " No,"" (I answered,) ^' I always look at the last 
 page." 
 
 " I dare not look at my last page," he said, and 
 his voice trembled. At that moment I thought I 
 liked him. 
 
 At six o'clock the next morning, in my dressing- 
 gown and shawl, I was at the window of my bed- 
 room, anxiously examining the state of the weather, 
 and trying to stretch my head beyond the corner 
 of the house, in order to find out whether there 
 might not be a very little bit of blue sky visible, 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 233 
 
 behind an ominous mass of gray clouds ; but either 
 my head would not go far enough, or else there 
 was no blue sky to be seen, and each survey only 
 tending to discourage me more thoroughly, I laid 
 down again, and tried to go to sleep. At seven 
 my maid came in, and informed me that it was a 
 dull morning, but the carriages were to come round 
 all the same, and the ladies were getting up. We 
 met in the breakfast-room, with the weary, cross, 
 sick-looking faces, which early rising, especially 
 on a gloomy day, is apt to produce. In the first 
 carriage went Lady Wyndham, Mrs. Brandon, 
 Mr. Ernsley, and Mr. Moore. In the second, 
 Mrs. Ernsley, the two Miss Farnley's, and Sir 
 Edmund Ardern ; Rosa Moore and myself had a 
 pony chaise to ourselves, and the rest of the men 
 rode. By the time we had reached the gates of the 
 park, the clouds began to break, and to sail across 
 the sky, in white fleecy shapes. Soon the sun 
 himself appeared after a desperate struggle with 
 
234 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 the clouds that hung about him. Then the birds 
 began to sing in the hedges, and every leaf to 
 glitter in the sunshine, while Rosa, who had been 
 yawning most unmercifully, and, in the intervals, 
 holding her pocket-handkerchief fast upon her 
 mouth to keep the fog out of it, brightened up, and 
 began talking and laughing, as if she had not been 
 forced out of her bed at an unusual hour. We 
 drove through lanes, such lanes as Miss Mitford 
 loves and describes; through villages, each of which 
 might have been her village^ in which the cottages 
 had gardens full of cabbages and sunflowers, and 
 the grass plats had geese and pigs and rosy 
 children ; through which little girls were walking 
 to school in their straw bonnets and blue checked 
 aprons, and stopped to stare and to curtsey to the 
 grand people that were driving by ; in which boys 
 were swinging on gates, and urchins were dabbling 
 in ponds in company with ducks that seemed 
 hardly more amphibious than themselves, and then 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON, 235 
 
 we drove by parks and lawns, — parks sloping, 
 wooded, wild ; lawns studded with beds of flowers, 
 the red geranium or the glowing carnation, forming 
 rich masses of dazzling brilliancy on the smooth 
 surface of the soft green grass. How beautiful 
 they were on that day, that July day, " the an- 
 cestral homes of England," as Mrs. Hemans calls 
 them ; streams of sunshine gilding their tall elms, 
 their spreading oaks and stately beeches. How 
 that bright sunshine danced among their leaves, 
 and upon the grass amidst their roots, and how the 
 berries of the mountain ash glowed in its light, — 
 the mountain ash, that child of the north, which 
 with its sturdy shape, its coral fruit, and the gray 
 rock from which it springs, looks almost like a 
 stranger in the midst of the more luxuriant foliage 
 of the south. But scarcely two hours had elapsed, 
 when we turned a corner in the road, and for the 
 first time the sea lay stretched before my eyes. It 
 was rough ; the waves were crested with foam ; and 
 
236 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 already I heard them break with that sullen roar, 
 with that voice of the ocean, in which, as in the 
 thunder of heaven, we instinctively recognise the 
 voice of God. We drove up to the little inn 
 where the horses were to be put up; I could 
 hardly wait for the step of the carriage to be let 
 down, and hastened alone to the beach ; the sea 
 was not, as I have seen it since, blue and calm, 
 glittering with a thousand sparks of light ; not like 
 some quiet lake which ripples on the shore, and 
 murmurs gently, as it bathes the shining pebbles 
 in its limpid wave ; no, it was as I would have 
 chosen to see it for the first time, stormy, wild, 
 restless, colourless from the everlasting fluctuation 
 of colour, brown, purple, white, yellow, green in 
 turns ; billows over billows chased each other to 
 the shore, each wave gathering itself in silence, 
 swelling, heaving, and then bursting with that roar 
 of triumph, with that torrent of foam, that cloud 
 of spray, that mixture of fury and of joy, which 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 237 
 
 nothing in nature, but chafed waters combine.* 
 
 God, I have suffered much; terror, remorse, 
 agony, have wrung my heart, have shattered my 
 nerves ; I have been guilty ; I have been wretched ; 
 
 1 dare not thank thee for the tumultuous joys of 
 passion, for the feverish cup of pleasure, hastily 
 snatched, and as suddenly dashed to earth ; but I 
 will thank thee, for the swelling of the heart, for 
 the lifting up of the soul, for the tears I have shed, 
 for the ecstasy I have known on the sea-shore, in 
 the forest, on the mountain. The heart knoweth 
 its own bitterness ; but there is also a joy with which 
 the stranger intermeddles not. 
 
 We wandered for some time on the beach, and 
 then began scrambling among the cliffs, and 
 clambering up to the various rocky points from 
 whence the little bay and its wooded coast were 
 seen to most advantage. In doing so, we 
 gradually separated into different parties, and 
 
 * See Coleridge's beautiful lines on the Avalanches. 
 
238 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 Mrs. Brandon, Rosa, Henry, and myself, went 
 to explore a small cavern, where there were some 
 curious sands of various colours, which Mr. 
 Brandon had described to us the day before. 
 
 Rosa was on her knees upon the ground, 
 collecting specimens of each ; I was looking at 
 the sea through a natural window in the rock ; 
 when Mrs. Brandon asked her if she had got all 
 she wanted, and begged her, if she had, to walk 
 back with her to the inn, as she wished to order 
 luncheon, and speak to Mr. Brandon about the 
 arrangements for our return. 
 
 I was preparing to follow them, when Henry 
 laid his hand on my arm, and said in so serious 
 a voice that it quite startled me, " For my sister's 
 sake, Ellen, stay with me here a few moments ; we 
 will walk back by the downs ; I have much to say 
 to you, and this is my last opportunity." 
 
 I stopped immediately, and leant against the 
 entrance of the cavern. 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 239 
 
 Henry was as pale as death, his lip was 
 quivering, and his hand shook violently as he 
 took hold of mine. 
 
 '^ Ellen," he said, abruptly, " do you know that 
 I love you, as much as a man can love,- — more than 
 words can express ? Do you know, do you feel it, 
 Ellen ?"^ And he wrung my hand with nervous 
 violence. 
 
 "Has your sister written to you?" I asked, 
 with a trembling voice. 
 
 " She has. What will you do ? " 
 
 '' What can 1 do?" 
 
 "Do you care for me ? " 
 
 " I am sorry to part with you." 
 
 As I said these words, I hid my face in my hands, 
 and from nervous agitation, burst into tears. 
 
 " Then we shall never part !" he exclaimed. 
 " Then to-morrow, at this hour, you shall be mine 
 — mine for ever, beyond all human power to part 
 us ! mine, to worship, to adore, to live for, to die 
 
240 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 for ! Ellen, do you hear me ? Speak to me ! 
 Answer me! Shall this be? Shall it be? Why 
 do you look so pale and so cold ? " 
 
 " You are raving, Henry, you are raving ; you 
 frighten me, you hurt me ; let me go." 
 
 I rushed out of the cavern, and sitting down on 
 a stone by the sea-side, cried bitterly. 
 
 When I looked up, Henry was standing before 
 me, waiting for my next words with forced calm- 
 ness ; but as I remained silent, he made a strong 
 effort over himself, and said quietly, " I will 
 explain to you what I mean ; I am not going to 
 make love to you now ; I have not time to tell you 
 what I feel, and what you know as well as I 
 do ; but thus much I must tell you, my sister is 
 right when she says that your uncle will never 
 consent to our marriage : he never will, Ellen ; 
 and if we part now, we part for ever ; and God 
 only knows the misery which hangs over both 
 our heads if we do." 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 241 
 
 I raised my head at these words, and looked at 
 him with surprise ; he had no right to assume 
 that such a separation would make me miserable ; 
 my pride was wounded, and spoke in my eyes : 
 he read their language, and went on : — 
 
 " This is no time for girlish resentment ; forgive 
 me, Ellen ; I make you angry, but when the 
 fate of a whole life, and more than one life, 
 hangs on the decision of an hour, it is no time for 
 weighing words; and mine must be few. Mrs. 
 Brandon knows that I love you, and how I love 
 you ! she thinks too that you love me. She is 
 well acquainted with her brother's inflexible pre- 
 judices, with his stubborn character; she received 
 from your dying mother a charge to shield and 
 protect you ; should he ever turn against you, 
 and make you unhappy by the sternness of his 
 conscientious but iron nature, she will obey that 
 charge ; she will go with you to-morrow to the 
 church at Henley, and stand by us while we " 
 
 VOL. I, M 
 
242 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 " Stop, Henry, stop, I cannot, will not, listen to 
 such words as these. You ask me to marry ; 
 to seal my fate, against my uncle's will, without 
 my aunt's consent ; you ask me to add another 
 drop of sorrow to the cup already too bitter and 
 too full. That / should do this ! Oh, my God, 
 he asks me to do this, and I sit by and listen ; 
 Henry, 1 almost hate you for the thought." 
 
 " Can you believe,"" he rejoined, " that she 
 would not bless you for the act ? Can you think 
 that when she hears that the child of her adoption, 
 the child of her love, has saved from anguish, 
 from despair, from guilt, the brother whom she 
 nursed in his cradle, whose mother she was, as 
 she has been yours, — can you think that she will 
 not pronounce a secret but fervent blessing on 
 your head ? She obeys her husband's stern 
 commands, Ellen, but her heart aches for us. Oh ! 
 for her sake, in the name of your dying mother, 
 whose letter Mrs. Brandon will show you ; for my 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 243 
 
 sake, for your own ; I implore you not to drive me 
 to despair ! for again I repeat it, unutterable 
 misery, which you do not, which you cannot, now 
 understand or foresee, awaits you, if you should 
 refuse to yield to my entreaties." 
 
 " Henry, you speak a strange language, and 
 I must know the truth. I am tired of doubts ; 
 I am tired of fears ; I am weary of my life ; and I 
 must speak. What unknown misery do you 
 threaten me with ? What are your secrets ? 
 Ay, I must know them ! " And in my turn, I 
 seized his arm, and pushing away the hair from 
 my forehead, I looked him full in the face. 
 " Why am I to avoid the Tracy s ? Why do 
 vulgar ruffians use your name to terrify me into a 
 marriage with you ? Why am I now to be forced 
 into a secret marriage, and at a day's notice ? and 
 if your ungovernable passions are not instantly 
 gratified, why are you to plunge into guilt and 
 into despair ? " 
 
 m2 
 
244 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 Frightened at my own violence, I sat down 
 breathless and trembling. He on the contrary 
 had grown calm, and there was almost a sneer on 
 his lips as he answered, " Those vulgar ruffians 
 are relatives of the Tracys, and, for their sakes, 
 I wished to spare them an exposure which would 
 have been of no use to any one. I believe that they 
 meant no more than a foolish practical joke, of 
 which the account was highly coloured by 
 Rosa Moore ; but you can easily understand that 
 such people would not be desirable acquaintances 
 to make, and I, therefore, recommended you to keep 
 away from a house where you might meet them. 
 As to the misery that you may bring upon your- 
 self, Ellen, if you return to Elmsley, I may not, 
 perhaps, fully make you feel it ; but when I 
 tell you that your uncle, determined as he is 
 to prevent your marrying me, is as much deter- 
 mined to make you marry Edward Middleton, 
 you may, perhaps, form some idea of it."" 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 245 
 
 " Marry Edward," (I muttered to myself,) and 
 then shuddering at the recollection of the words 
 he was reported to have said — I cried, !' No, no ; 
 that can never be." 
 
 " No, never,'' said Henry in a solemn voice. 
 " There is a gulf between you which can never 
 be filled up." 
 
 " What, what ?" I cried with a sensation of 
 terror. 
 
 " Did you not say j ust now yourself, Ellen, that 
 such a marriage never could be ? But you know 
 not what persecution would be employed in order 
 to bring it about. Poor Julia's death was, in 
 a worldly sense, a great advantage to you. It 
 made you at once a rich heiress."" (I could not 
 stifle a groan of anguish, but Henry went on as 
 if he had not heard it). " I happen to know 
 that your uncle has settled the whole of his 
 property upon you in the event of your marrying 
 Edward ; but I also know that he will disinherit 
 
246 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 either of you who should refuse to comply with 
 that condition." 
 
 " I never will consent to it. Let him have my 
 uncle's fortune ; let me be banished from Elmsley ; 
 but nothing shall ever make me agree to what 
 would degrade him and myself." 
 
 " Then, Ellen," eagerly exclaimed Henry ; 
 " then, Ellen ; if such is your resolution, do not 
 hesitate an instant more. Once married to me, 
 you are safe in my arms from dangers which you do 
 not dream of, which I dare not point out to you. 
 Ellen, I tremble for myself and for you if you 
 should refuse me. Together, we may have trials 
 to meet ; but parted, they will be fearful. We must 
 meet them together. Our fates are linked in a 
 strange mysterious manner. There is a similarity 
 in our destinies, and if you leave me now " 
 
 He paused, his voice was choked with the vio- 
 lence of his emotion; the reckless, the daring 
 Henry Lovell was weeping like a child. Oh, then 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 247 
 
 again I thought I liked him, for 1 knelt down 
 by his side, I took his hand in mine, I bathed 
 it with my tears, and I whispered to him that 
 I would promise anything, that I would plight 
 my faith to him, do anything but consent to the 
 secret marriage he proposed. 
 
 Again and again, he urged it with increasing 
 vehemence, with ardent supplications. Once he 
 said, " Ellen, you are destroying my happiness 
 and your own ; but not ours alone ; you know not 
 what you do. The fate of a pure and innocent 
 existence is at this moment in your hands; do 
 not doom it to secret anguish, to hopeless sorrow. 
 Have mercy on yourself, on me, on her ! " 
 
 In vain I pressed him to explain himself; he 
 only protested, over and over again, with still 
 greater agitation, and even swore that we must be 
 married now or never ; that it was useless to speak 
 of the future. He spurned every alternative, and 
 every promise I offered to make; till, at last, 
 
248 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 indignant and irritated, I exclaimed, as I got up 
 and turned towards the town, '' Well, then, let 
 it be so; let us part for ever; everything is 
 at an end between us." 
 
 He rushed before me, stopped me, held both 
 my hands in his iron grasp, and with a coun- 
 tenance that one could hardly have recognised as 
 his own, so dreadful was its expression of rage, 
 he said, "No; all is not at an end between us. 
 We do not part for ever. Now, even at this mo- 
 ment, I could bring you on your knees at my 
 feet; I could force you to implore my pity, my 
 forbearance, ill-fated, unhappy girl, whom I love 
 with that fierce love, which idolises one hour and 
 hates the next. No, we do not part for ever; 
 through life I shall be at your side, either to 
 worship and adore you, to be all in all to you, 
 in spite of man and laws, and duties and ties ; 
 or else to haunt your path, to spoil your joys, to 
 wring your soul. Ellen, I must be the blessing or 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 249 
 
 the curse of your life. Never shall I be indifferent 
 to you. You have refused, in ignorance in 
 madness you have refused, to be my wife. You 
 shall be my victim ! Either you shall love me 
 as wildly, as passionately as I love you, and weep 
 with tears of blood that you spumed me to-day; 
 or if ever you love another, I will stand between 
 him and you, and with each throb of love 
 for him, there will be in your heart a pang 
 of fear, a shudder of terror, a thought of me. 
 This is our parting — you would have it so — 
 farewell ! " 
 
 He rushed back to the sea-shore; 1 walked 
 on unable to collect my thoughts. When I arrived 
 at the inn, I found everybody at luncheon. There 
 was a great deal of conversation going on, and 
 discussions as to the time and manner of our 
 return; I felt bewildered, and scarcely under- 
 stood the meaning of what was said. 
 
 Mrs. Brandon, in pity for nie, I suppose, took 
 M 3 
 
250 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 Rosa's place in the pony chaise ; she did not say 
 much to me, but had the kindness to allow me 
 to lean back, and cry in quiet. She evidently 
 thought that never had there been a girl so in 
 love, or so broken-hearted before. She was very 
 good-natured, but there was a shade of pique 
 in her manner, which probably arose from my 
 refusal to avail myself of her help for the secret 
 marriage which had been proposed. 
 
 We arrived late at Brandon. I was obliged 
 to go to bed with a raging head-ache — found that 
 Mrs. Swift, my aunt's maid, had arrived — took 
 leave of Mrs. Brandon, and of the other women 
 in the house, in my room that night — did not 
 see Henry again — and, at seven o'clock the fol- 
 lowing morning, was already at some distance 
 from Brandon, on my way to Elmsley. 
 
25i 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Why did he marry Fulvia and not love her?" 
 
 Shakspeare. 
 
 My journey back to Elmsley was in every way 
 a very different one from that which I had made 
 from it a month before. The weather was cold 
 and windy, and the absence of sunshine made every 
 object we passed appear less attractive than the 
 impression which my memory had retained. 
 
 Sir Walter Scott remarks, in one of his novels, 
 that good humour gives to a plain face the same 
 charm as sunshine lends to an ugly country. I 
 agreed entirely with him, as I looked first on 
 Salisbury Plain, without one gleam to diversify its 
 
252 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 gloomy extent, and then on Mrs. Swift's un- 
 meaning face, the stern rigidity of which never 
 relaxed into a smile, and contrasted it with the 
 cheerful light of dear Mrs. Hatton's radiant 
 and beaming, though certainly not beautiful, 
 features. 
 
 I had much to think about, but I found it 
 difficult to define and collect my ideas. Henry 
 and I had parted in anger, and it was almost with 
 a curse on his lips that he had taken leave of me. 
 He, too, knew my secret ; he, too, used that know- 
 ledge to threaten and terrify me. Had Edward 
 betrayed it to him, since he left England ? or was 
 it he who had denounced me to Edward. Alas ! 
 it mattered little which it was. I was stunned, 
 I felt as if one by one all those whom I cared for 
 would upbraid and forsake me. A dreadful 
 recollection remained on my mind of something 
 which Henry had said in that last conversation, of 
 Julia's death having been a great worldly advan- 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 253 
 
 tage to me, and of my uncle having settled his 
 fortune upon me. My blood ran cold at the 
 thought — a marriage with Edward was the con- 
 dition annexed. The Exile's dream of the home to 
 which he can never return, the Desert Traveller's 
 vision of water which he can never approach, are 
 to them what to me were those words, — a marriage 
 with Edward. Something which in the shadowy 
 dreams of girlhood had hovered in my fancy ; 
 something which the terrors and the trials of the 
 last year had crushed and subdued ; something 
 which in the feverish excitement of the last months 
 had been dimmed but not destroyed ; something 
 which survived hope, and rose again in the silence 
 of the soul when the restless stimulus of outward 
 excitements failed. But it could never be ! How 
 could I ever stand in the place of that wretched 
 child whose image would rise between me and the 
 altar if ever I ventured to approach it, as my 
 uncle's heiress, as Edward's bride ? His Bride ! 
 
254 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 The very sight of me had rendered Elmsley 
 insupportable to him ; the knowledge of my guilt 
 (for guilty I was, though guiltless of the dreadful 
 consequences of my ungovernable impetuosity) had 
 driven him from England. Was he not Julia's 
 cousin ? Was not Julia's death the work of my 
 hand ? And had not Henry said that her death had 
 been an advantage to me ? He had ; and then he 
 spoke of bringing me down upon my knees before 
 him to implore his pity; he poisoned his weapon, 
 and then dealt the blow. His pity ! Oh, as I 
 thought of that, I longed to see him but for one 
 moment again, if only to tell him that I spurned 
 his pity, despised his forbearance, and that, taught 
 by himself, I had learned one lesson at least, which 
 I should never forget, and that was to be revenged ! 
 And in the struggle he had begun, I felt myself the 
 strongest, for I did not love him ; in that last scene 
 the truth had been revealed to myself as 
 well as to him. The slight links which bound 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 255 
 
 me to him, had in a moment snapt ; but he loved 
 me, with a fierce and selfish love indeed, but still 
 he loved me ; and if there is torment in unrequited 
 love ; if there is agony in reading the cold language 
 of indifference in the eyes on which you gaze 
 away the happiness of your life, that torment, 
 that agony, should be his. These thoughts were 
 dreadful ; I shudder as I write them ; but my 
 feelings were excited, and my pride galled nearly 
 to madness. I remember that I clenched with 
 such violence a smelling-bottle, that it broke to 
 pieces in my hand, and the current of my thoughts 
 was suddenly turned to Mrs. Swift's exclama- 
 tion of " La, Miss ! you 've broken your bottle, 
 and spilt the Eau de Cologne ! What could you 
 have been thinking of ? " 
 
 What had 1 been thinking of? Oh that world 
 of thought within us! That turmoil of restless 
 activity which boils beneath the calm surface of 
 our every day's life! We sit and we talk; we walk 
 
256 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 and we drive ; we lie down to sleep, and we rise 
 up again the next day ; as if life offered nothing 
 to rouse the inmost passions of the soul ; as if 
 hopes tremblingly cherished were not often dashed 
 to the earth ; as if fears we scarcely dare to define 
 were not hovering near our hearts, and resolutions 
 were not formed in silence and abandoned in de- 
 spair ; as if the spirit of darkness was not prompting 
 the soul to deeds of evil, and the hand of God was 
 not stretched out between us and the yearning 
 gulf of destruction ! And others look on ; and, 
 like Mrs. Swift, wonder what we can be thinking 
 of. God help them ! or rather may He help us, 
 for we need it most. 
 
 At the end of the second day we reached the 
 well-known gates of Elmsley, and in a few mo- 
 ments more I was locked in my aunt's embrace. 
 I wept bitterly as I kissed her, and she seemed to 
 consider my tears as perfectly natural ; her whole 
 manner was soothing and sympathising. My 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 257 
 
 uncle received me kindly enough, though rather 
 coldly even for him. I longed to explain to Mrs. 
 Middleton that I did not care for Henry, and that 
 my uncle's decision against him was not the cause 
 of the deep depression which I could neither strug- 
 gle with nor conceal; but how could I disclaim 
 that cause and allege no other ? Also the intimate 
 intercourse which had been formerly habitual be- 
 tween her and myself had been broken up, so 
 that my heart had become as a sealed book to her, 
 and I dared not open it again ; its one dark 
 page formed an invincible barrier to that com- 
 munion of thoughts which had been ours in by- 
 gone days. 
 
 And so days and weeks went by ; I heard 
 nothing of Henry nor of Edward, though both 
 were almost constantly before my mind's eye ; in 
 this perpetual wear and tear of feeling my health 
 began to give way, and I grew every day paler 
 and thinner. 
 
 About three months after my return to Elmsley, 
 
258 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 I was sitting one afternoon at that library window 
 where I mentioned once before having often 
 watched the sunset with Edward. The autumnal 
 tints were gilding the trees in the park with their 
 glowing hues, and the air had that wintry mildness 
 which is soothing though melancholy. The window 
 was open ; and, wrapped up in a thick shawl, I was 
 inhaling the damp moist air, and listening to the 
 rustle of the dried leaves which were being swept 
 from the gravel walk below; the low twitter of 
 some robin-redbreasts was in unison with the 
 scene, and affected me in an unaccountable manner. 
 My tears fell fast on the book in my hand. This 
 book was the " Christian Year'' ; that gift of 
 Edward, which I had thrust away in a fit of 
 irritation about a year ago. 1 had opened it again 
 that morning; and, partly as a kind of expia- 
 tion, partly with a vague hope of awakening in 
 myself a new tone of feeling — something to put in 
 the place of that incessant review of the past, 
 around which my thoughts were ever revolving, — 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 259 
 
 I forced myself to read a few of the passages 
 marked with a pencil. I had been interrupted 
 while so doing, but had carried away the book 
 with me, and now again applied myself to the 
 same task. I read stanza after stanza which spoke 
 of guilt, of suffering, and of remorse ; but 1 did 
 not close the book in anger as before. It was true 
 that they were carefully chosen, pointedly marked ; 
 but what of that? Was I not guilty? Was I 
 not wretched ? Did I not deserve worse at his 
 hands? Nay more; had I deserved the forbear- 
 ance, the mercy, he had shewn me ? Ought I not 
 to bless him for them ? It was such thoughts as 
 these that made my tears flow, but that at the same 
 time soothed the bitterness of my feelings. 
 
 I put down my book ; and, while gazing on the 
 darkening clumps of trees before me, I watched 
 the approach of the boy who was riding through 
 the avenue to the house, with the letter-bag strapped 
 before him. I heard the step of the servant who 
 
260 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 was crossing the hall on his way to my uncle's 
 study. In a few moments I heard Mrs. Middle- 
 ton's voice on the stairs ; and, about an hour after 
 that, when it was getting quite dark, and I was 
 leaving the library, I met Mrs. Swift, who told 
 me that my aunt wished to speak to me in her 
 dressing-room. 
 
 There is something very apt to make one feel 
 nervous in the fact of being sent for ; and if it 
 happens to be immediately after the arrival of the 
 post, all the more so. I walked up-stairs in conse- 
 quence with a kind of feeling that something had 
 happened or was going to happen ; so that when I 
 opened the door, and saw at one glance that my 
 aunt was much agitated and in tears, I felt 
 frightened. 
 
 " What has happened ?*" I exclaimed. " What 
 is it? Who is ill?" 
 
 " Nobody— nothing of that kind," she replied, 
 " but it is painful (she paused, struggled with 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 herself, and went on) — " it is painful, and you 
 must prepare yourself, my dear child, to hear 
 something that will shock and grieve you. Henry*" 
 (she looked into my face with intense anxiety) — 
 " Henry has made us all very unhappy, but you^ my 
 child, you'' (she seized both my hands and put 
 them upon her eyes, as if to give herself courage 
 to speak) " it will make you miserable. What 
 shall I say to you, my own love? He is utterly 
 unworthy of you ; he has forgotten you, Ellen — 
 given up all thoughts of you ; he is " 
 
 " Is he going to be married?" I eagerly ex- 
 claimed ; " speak, dearest aunt, speak — is it so V 
 
 " He is married" (she replied, in a tone of deep 
 dejection), " disgracefully married !" 
 
 She looked up in my face, and seemed quite 
 bewildered at the expression of my countenance. 
 I was expecting her next words with breathless 
 anxiety, and could only repeat, " To whom, to 
 whom ?" 
 
262 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 " You could not have imagined it," she an- 
 swered — " you could not have believed it possible ; 
 he has married that girl whom you saw at Bridman 
 —Alice Tracy." 
 
 Married to Alice Tracy ! Was it possible ? 
 What a crowd of conjectures, recollections, suppo- 
 sitions, and fears, rushed upon me at that moment ! 
 
 " What does he say about it ? What does he 
 write? When did it happen? May I see his 
 letter ? " were the questions which I addressed 
 with breathless rapidity to Mrs. Middleton, who 
 seemed entirely taken aback by the manner in 
 which I received this startling intelligence. 
 
 " Here is a strange letter," she said, " from 
 Henry himself; another from my father, who, as 
 you may imagine, is indignant ; and one from 
 Mrs. Tracy, which is at once impertinent and 
 hypocritical. I hardly know whether I am acting 
 rightly in showing you Henry's. It is so extra- 
 ordinar)'^; but you must explain to me several 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 263 
 
 things which I have never hitherto questioned you 
 about ; and, perhaps together, we may find out 
 the secret of this wretched marriage. I have not 
 ventured to show this strange letter to your uncle ; 
 he thinks that it is only from my father that I 
 have heard of Henry's marriage ; and I am afraid 
 I am doing wrong in letting you see it ; but I 
 
 am so bewildered '"* 
 
 I interrupted her by drawing the letters almost 
 forcibly out of her hand. She suffered me to do 
 so, and watched me while I read them. I was 
 conscious of this at first ; but the interest was so 
 absorbing, that I soon forgot her presence, and 
 everything, but the letters themselves. I read 
 Henry's first : it was as follows: — 
 
 '' My dear Sister, 
 " You have known me long enough not to be 
 surprised at any extravagance that I may be guilty 
 of. You know also that I am somewhat of a 
 
264 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 fatalist, and that I maintain that our destiny in 
 life is marked out for us in a manner which we 
 can neither withstand nor counteract. I have 
 just done what is commonly called a foolish thing — 
 very likely it is foolish ; all I can say is, that I 
 could not help doing it. It is done, and therefore 
 the fewer remonstrances or lamentations that are 
 made on the subject the better. I am married. 
 
 Last Thursday I married, at Church, Mrs. 
 
 Tracy's grand-daughter. Her name is Alice ; 
 she is very pretty, and has been well brought up. 
 She has five thousand pounds of her own, left 
 her by an uncle, who died some time ago. I have, 
 as you know, about as much. My father, of 
 course, refuses to see her; and, I conclude, Mr. 
 Middleton will do the same. Do you remember, 
 Mary, the time when, sitting by my bedside, you 
 would kiss my forehead, and tell me how you 
 would love my wife? We used to talk of her, 
 and describe her. She was to be tall ; her eyes 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 265 
 
 were to be dark, and their long fringing lashes 
 were to sweep her cheek ; her throat was to be 
 white and graceful as a swan's ; genius was to give 
 light to her eyes, and eloquence to her words ; 
 and you, sister, you^ on my marriage-day, were 
 to have placed the blossoms of orange flower in 
 the dark hair of my bride. You remember it, 
 don't you ? Well, my bride is fair, very fair ; 
 but not like the bride we had imaoined — or rather 
 that we had foreseen ; for, sister, we have seen 
 her, have we not — walking in beauty by our 
 sides ? Have we not gazed upon her till we have 
 fancied her a thing too bright, too lovely, for the 
 earth she treads upon ? My bride was not kissed 
 by you; she stood by my side, and you were not 
 there to say, ' God bless her I ' She put her cold 
 hand into mine, and looked steadily into my face ; 
 there was no colour in her cheek ; no emotion in 
 her voice. It was all as calm as the life that 
 lies before me. Mary, you had better write and 
 
 VOL. I. N 
 
266 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 wish me joy ; and tell Ellen to wish me joy too ; 
 but do not show my letter to your husband ; it 
 is not calm enough for his inspection. 
 
 " Yours, dear Mary, ever yours, 
 
 " Henry Lovell." 
 
 There was something inexpressibly painful to 
 me in the tone of this letter ; it seemed the sequel 
 of one part of my last conversation with Henry ; a 
 pure and innocent existence, he had said, must be 
 sacrificed, and doomed to hopeless disappointment, 
 if I persisted in my refusal. I had persisted, and 
 Alice was sacrificed, though to what I knew not ; 
 but to some mysterious necessity — to some secret 
 obligation. A loveless marriage — a lonely passage 
 through life — and God only knew what secret 
 trials — what withering of the heart — what solitude 
 of the soul — what measure of that hope deferred, 
 which makes the heart sick — of that craving void 
 which nothing fills, were to be hers, who had 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 267 
 
 grown up and blossomed like the rose in the 
 wilderness, and who had been, like her own poor 
 flower, too rudely transplanted, doomed perhaps 
 like it, to wither and to die. It was strange, that, 
 never having seen Alice but once, I should have 
 felt such a deep and complete conviction of 
 her goodness and purity, of the angelic nature of 
 the spirit which was shrouded in that fair form, 
 that as the idea of guilt in her intercourse with 
 Henry, so now, that of worldliness, of ambition, or 
 of indelicacy, in having made this secret marriage, 
 never presented itself to my mind. Perhaps it 
 might yet turn out well ; he might grow to love 
 and to prize her, and she would stand between him 
 and me like an angel of peace. He could not but 
 admire the faultless beauty of her face ; the native 
 poetry of her mind; the calm simplicity of her 
 character. I said this to myself; but while I said 
 it, my heart whispered a denial. I knew Henry 
 too well. I had seen too clearly what he admired 
 n2 
 
268 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 in me — what subdued him in some measure to my 
 influence, even in his fiercest moments of irritation. 
 It was the very points in my mind and character 
 which were most different from hers. The very 
 defects in myself, that made me look upon her, as 
 a lost and ruined sinner might gaze on a picture 
 of the blessed Virgin, these very defects were what 
 rivetted and enthralled him. His last words rang 
 in my ears as I looked on his blotted and hasty 
 signature, and my heart sunk within me as I felt 
 " that all was not over between us." 
 
 The next letter I read was from Mr. Lovell ; it 
 was thus worded : — 
 
 " My dear Mary, 
 " Your affection for your brother has always 
 been so great, that I dread the effect which my 
 present communication will have upon you. It 
 will take you by surprise, as it has done me. That 
 Henry should give us subjects of regret and annoy- 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 269 
 
 ance would be no strange occurrence ; but that he 
 (the goodness of whose understanding, at least, has 
 never been called in question) — that he should 
 have acted in so deplorably foolish a manner, is 
 more than one would be prepared for ; the natural 
 refinement of his character alone might have pre- 
 served him from a connexion which is really dis- 
 graceful. It is better to tell you the fact at once, 
 for you certainly could never have imagined or 
 foreseen such an event. Your brother, without 
 having made the slightest communication to me, or 
 to any one else, as far as I can find out, married, 
 last Thursday, at Bromley Church, the grand- 
 daughter of the woman who was your nurse, and 
 afterwards his. He looks wretchedly ill and un- 
 happy, and gives no explanation of his conduct, 
 further than by repeating, that as he was certain 
 that I would not give my consent to his marriage 
 (and he is right there), he thought it best to put 
 the matter at once beyond discussion. In some 
 
270 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 ways, bad as it is, it might have been worse. I 
 find that the girl is only seventeen— very handsome 
 — has been well brought up for a person in her 
 rank of life, and has a fortune of 5000/. I have 
 refused to see her, as I am determined to mark my 
 indignation to Henry in the strongest manner ; and 
 I never, under any circumstances, will consent to 
 see her relations, who have behaved, in my opinion, 
 as ill as possible in hurrying on this marriage. 
 
 '* Some time hence, it may be advisable to notice 
 his wife; and, for his sake, to try as much as pos- 
 sible to withdraw her from the society and the 
 influence of her relations ; but this will be a sub- 
 ject for after-consideration. 
 
 " And now, my dear Mary, God bless you. 
 I feel for you, as I know you will for me, 
 in this unpleasant affair. I hope your beautiful 
 Ellen will not take to heart this abominable mar- 
 riage. Mr. Middleton was perfectly right in pre- 
 venting her from throwing herself away on that 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 271 
 
 worthless brother of yours ; but I wish with all my 
 heart they had eloped together. 
 
 " Your affectionate Father, 
 
 " William Lovell." 
 
 Mrs. Tracy's letter was as follows : — 
 " Madam, 
 
 " The announcement of Mr. LovelPs marriage 
 with my granddaughter, Alice, will probably have 
 surprised you disagreeably. As he has, I find, 
 written by this day's post to communicate it to 
 you, I take the liberty of addressing to you a few 
 lines on the subject. I grieve that myself or any 
 one belonging to me should be the means of 
 causing you grief or annoyance. But, madam, 
 remember who it was that said, ' Judge not, and 
 you shall not be judged ; condemn not, and you 
 shall not be condemned." Obey that injunction 
 now, and visit not the sins of others on an angel 
 of goodness and purity, — the dust of whose feet. 
 
272 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 some whom you cherish in your bosom are not 
 worthy to wipe off. I Jove you, Mrs. Middleton, 
 and would not willingly give you pain ; but do 
 not try me too severely by ill-usage of that child, 
 whom my dying son bequeathed to me, and who is 
 now your brother's wife. As God will judge one 
 day betwixt you and me, be kind to her; her 
 presence and her prayers may sanctify your home, 
 and bring down a blessing on your head. If you 
 are tempted to say in your heart, ' Why did this 
 angel of goodness and purity consent to a secret 
 marriage ? — why did this saint, whose prayers are to 
 bring down a blessing on our home, enter our 
 family without our sanction ? ' — if you are tempted 
 to say this, Mrs. Middleton — yet say it not. Alice 
 has lived alone with her flowers, and with her 
 Bible. She has never opened a novel; she has 
 never conversed with any one but me, and with 
 him who is now her husband, and that but little. 
 She knows nothing of the world and its customs. 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 273 
 
 She was asked as Rebecca was asked — ' Wilt 
 thou go with this man ? ' and she said * I will go.' 
 I told her it was her duty to marry Mr. Lovell, 
 and she married him ; and if you should say, Mrs. 
 Middleton, that it was not her duty to marry him, 
 and that I deceived her as well as you, — again I 
 say, * Judge not, condemn not ;' and thus you 
 may escape a fearful judgement — an awful con- 
 demnation." 
 
 " Is not that letter the very height of cant and 
 impertinence?" said my aunt, as I laid it down on 
 the table. 
 
 " It is a strange letter," I answered ; " but what 
 she says of Alice I am certain must be true. It 
 tallies exactly with the impression she made upon 
 me, and with what I should have supposed her part 
 to have been in the whole affair." 
 
 " But how can her grandmother justify her own 
 conduct to herself, if it is so ? '' 
 
274 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 " God only knows," I answered ; " but if you 
 love me, my dearest aunt, — if you wish me to be 
 happy, — if my supplications have any weight with 
 you " 
 
 " If they have, Ellen ?" 
 
 " No, no !" I exclaimed, — "not if— I will not 
 say if they have, for I know they have. I know 
 you love me, and I know that you will do all you 
 can to make Henry happy with Alice. 1 shall not 
 have a moment's peace if they are not happy.*" 
 
 " Angel !" said my aunt, as she pressed her 
 lips to my cheek. I drew back with a thrill of 
 horror. 
 
 " Never call me an angel, — never say that again : 
 I cannot bear it. I am not disclaiming, — I am 
 not humble, — I am only cowardly. I cannot ex- 
 plain to you everything ; indeed, I hardly know if 
 I understand myself, or Henry, or anything ; but 
 thus much I do know, that if Alice Tracy has 
 gained his regard — wildly as he talks in that 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 275 
 
 Strange letter — if she has a hold on his affections, 
 I shall bless her every day of my life, — she will 
 have saved me from inexpressible misery. Oh, 
 my dearest dear aunt, — write to Henry, write to 
 Alice to-day, — immediately: do not wait for my 
 uncle's permission — write at once.'" 
 
 I seized on the inkstand, and putting paper and 
 pen before her, I stood by in anxious expectation. 
 She sighed heavily, and then said to me : — 
 
 " Ellen, will you never again speak openly to 
 me? If you did not care about Henry, what has 
 made you so wretched lately? Why are your 
 spirits broken ? — why is your cheek pale and your 
 step heavy ? You deceive yourself, my child ; you 
 love Henry, and it is only excitement that at this 
 moment gives you false strength.'" 
 
 " Whether I ever have loved Henry," I repUed, 
 "is a mystery to myself. I think not ;— indeed I 
 believe I can truly say that I never loved him; 
 though at one moment I fancied that 1 did : and 
 
276 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 if, yesterday, you had come to me and told me 
 that my uncle had consented to my marrying him, 
 — nay, that he wished me to do so; — had you 
 yourself asked me to marry your brother, I should 
 have refused — yesterday, to-day, always." 
 
 " Then you have quarrelled with him," quickly 
 rejoined Mrs. Middleton ; " and this marriage 
 of his is the result of wounded feeling, — per- 
 haps of a misunderstanding between you. Poor 
 Henry!" 
 
 There was a little irritation in my aunf s manner 
 of saying these last words ; and I was on the point 
 of telling her what Henry had proposed and urged 
 upon me in our last interview, and of thus justify- 
 ing myself from any imputation of having behaved 
 ill to him ; but I instantly felt that this would be 
 unfair and ungenerous, especially at this moment. 
 Besides, was I not in his power, and could I 
 venture to accuse him who held in his hands the 
 secret of my fate ? So again I shut up my heart, 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 277 
 
 and closed my lips to her who loved me with 
 a love which would have made the discovery of 
 that fatal secret almost amount to a death-blow. 
 
 She seemed now to understand better my anxiety 
 for the happiness of her brother and of his young 
 wife. She seemed to think that I was conscious of 
 having, in some manner or other, behaved ill to 
 Henry, and driven him to this marriage, and that 
 I was anxious to make all the amends in my 
 power. But when she had drawn the paper before 
 her, and was beginning to write, she put down her 
 pen, and exclaimed : " But if he does not love her, 
 what induced him to choose her ? To make us all 
 wretched ! — to inflict upon himself such a con- 
 nexion ! I cannot understand it ! " 
 
 Again and again she cross-questioned me about 
 Alice, about that one memorable visit of mine to 
 Bridman manor, about Henry's manner to her, 
 and hers to him. I answered in the way best cal- 
 culated to remove her prejudices, to allay her 
 anxieties, to encourage her hopes of eventual happi- 
 
278 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 ness for Henry. My angry feelings with regard 
 to him had for the time quite subsided; I pitied 
 him from the bottom of my heart, and remembered 
 what he had said of a similarity in our destinies. 
 It seemed to me, that he too was bound by some 
 stern necessity, by some secret influence, to work 
 mischief to himself and to others ; and it was with 
 intense eagerness that after Mrs. Middleton had 
 written a kind and soothing letter to him (in which 
 she expressed the hope that when in London, where 
 we were going in three months' time, she should 
 see Alice, whom she was prepared to receive and 
 to love as a sister) I sealed it, and gave it to the 
 servant who was just setting off for the post town. 
 She wrote a few lines also to Mrs. Tracy, in which 
 she expressed, in severe terms, her sense of the 
 impropriety, if not of the guilt of her conduct with 
 respect to her own grandchild, as well as with 
 regard to a family, whose indignation she could 
 not but feel that she had justly incurred. Her 
 letter to her father she did not communicate to me. 
 
ELLEN MIDDLETON. 279 
 
 Mr. Middleton took little notice of the whole 
 affair. One day that his wife was beginning to 
 discuss the subject before him, he said, " My dear 
 Mary, there are persons and things about which 
 the less is said the better, and your brother and his 
 marriage are of that number." Another time, when 
 she remarked to him that I was looking much 
 better, he observed, "1 am glad that she has come 
 to her senses." Now and then there came letters 
 from Henry to Mrs. Middleton, but she never 
 showed them to me. When I made any inquiries 
 about them, she told me such facts as that he had 
 
 taken a small house in street ; that he had 
 
 been with his father once or twice, but that he still 
 refused to see Alice. When I asked if Henry 
 seemed happy, or at least contented, she answered 
 that it had always been difficult to make out his 
 state of mind from what he wrote, and now more 
 so than ever ; and then she would abruptly change 
 the subject. My intense curiosity, my still more 
 intense anxiety to hear about them, seemed to give 
 
280 ELLEN MIDDLETON. 
 
 her the idea, that, though my pride had been 
 wounded, I still cared for him. Indeed so much 
 of my future peace of mind turned upon the direc- 
 tion which his feelings would take, that my man 
 ner was probably well calculated to give this im- 
 pression. In despair of overcoming it, unable to 
 speak out, too proud to repeat what I saw she did 
 not believe, 1 shut myself up in that resolute 
 silence, in that systematic reserve, which had now 
 become habitual to me ; but I looked forward to 
 our journey to London with nervous anxiety, and 
 saw the time for its approach with a mixture of 
 hope and fear. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
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