Ellen Middleton-A Tale Part 17

SHAKESPEARE.

What course was I to pursue? Should I take the first opportunity that would offer of approaching Henry, and, by charging him solemnly to tell me at once the meaning of his hints and threats, relieve myself from the tormenting uncertainty under which I suffered, and obtain from him some promise which would, comparatively at least, set my mind at ease? These questions I asked myself over and over again during the rest of that day and the succeeding night, till, towards morning, I fell asleep without having come to any decision. Day after day pa.s.sed on, and still no explanation occurred between us. The projected dinner had taken place; Mr.

Middleton and Mr. Lovell had both been captivated and touched by the beauty, simplicity, and sweetness of Alice's face and manner. They seemed instinctively to feel that there was something holy about her,--something that forbade one to doubt or distrust her, had appearances been even twenty times more against her than they were; and both were now still more indignant with Henry for the coldness and indifference with which he seemed to regard her, than they had previously been at his marriage. I admired Alice from the bottom of my soul; she was, to me, the very type of purity,--the ideal of perfection; but I did not seek her much. Obliged to see Henry often at home, I shrank from going to his house; and her life was so full of holy duties; the tone of her mind, the character of her conversation, breathed a spirit of such earnest faith, of such religious peace, that after awhile my troubled spirit chafed in the presence of what formed such a contrast to its own restless waywardness. When bewildered with pa.s.sion--when lost in the mazes of sin and error, we may feel repose for an instant in prostrating ourselves at the foot of the cross; we may wander into a church, and for a moment cool our burning foreheads against the cold marble; but the deep silence of the sanctuary soon grows oppressive.

"There's a tone in its voice which we fain would shun, For it asks what the secret soul has done." *

[* From "The Revellers," by Mrs. Hemans.]

Thus it was with me with respect to Alice; and other causes also contributed to the same effect. Henry was often in Brookstreet, but she seldom came. Either he discouraged a frequent intercourse between us, and threw impediments in its way, which effectually checked it, or else it never occurred to Alice herself to interrupt the uniform course of her daily employments and pursuits, in order to accommodate herself to our totally different mode of life.

We had begun going out a great deal in society, and Mrs.

Middleton proposed to Henry that Alice should do so too, and offered to take her with us wherever we went; but he declined this offer in the most positive manner; and when his sister almost indignantly pressed him to explain his refusal, he said that Alice had peculiar notions on the subject which he did not wish to thwart.

"But we could persuade her out of those notions," persisted Mrs. Middleton; "for surely it is a great pity for you and for herself that she should remain a stranger to your friends and acquaintances, while you a.s.sociate with them as much as before your marriage."

"It may be a pity, Mary," was his impatient answer, "but it is inevitable, and you only torment me by urging me on the subject."

Mrs. Middleton, who was not easily _put down_, after vainly remonstrating with him upon it, entered on the question with Alice one morning that we were calling upon her, and tried to explain to her that for her husband's sake she should endeavour to make friends with his friends, and to go where he went.

Alice looked at her with surprise, and a.s.sured her that she was perfectly ready to make acquaintance with any of Henry's friends, or to comply with any request of his.

"Then, my dear child," replied Mrs. Middleton, "why does your husband object to your going out with us of an evening? You ought not to shut yourself up;--you should endeavour to a.s.similate your tastes to his."

"I do not known what his tastes are," said Alice, "nor where he is while I am at home."

"He is," said Mrs. Middleton, "among his friends and his acquaintance. He is where I want to take you,--where he will see you amused and admired, and love you all the better for it."

"Not for going against his wishes?" said Alice, gently.

"He _must_ have misunderstood you, my dear child."

"No, he has _not_," she answered with firmness; the colour in her cheek was slightly heightened; and after a pause she said earnestly--"I think I understand you now, dear Mrs. Middleton, and I feel your kindness; but do not urge me on this subject: you would give me more pain than pleasure, and do me more harm than good."

She rose suddenly, went to the table, and took from it a bunch of violets, which she gave me. When she sat down again, her face was as calm as usual.

On our way home, Mrs. Middleton seemed absorbed in thought; and her manner to Henry, whom we found waiting for us in Brook-street, was unusually cold.

Whenever we went into society we met him, and he still contrived never to lose sight of me; and by looks, by words quickly uttered, by sudden changes of tone and manner, to convey to me the knowledge of his secret feelings. The tone of those feelings, and his mode of conversation, varied from day to day. Sometimes he was moody and almost savage in his manner, and every word he uttered bordered on a threat. At other times he seemed only anxious to re-establish between us a footing of confidence and intimacy. On one of these occasions, I met him at a ball at Lady Wyndham's, my Dorsets.h.i.+re acquaintance. I had been dancing with him, and afterwards had walked into a room which was cool, compared with those that preceded it. Several people were standing about a round table covered with prints, alb.u.ms, and caricatures. We sat down on a small couch by the window; and after some trifling conversation, in which he incidentally named his wife, I told him that I could not understand his line of conduct with regard to her. "I am not speaking, now, of your feelings or your affections," I added hastily; "although G.o.d knows there would be enough to wonder over on that score; but of your way of going on as a married man.

There may be excuses for what is involuntary in our feelings, but surely none for determined and systematic neglect."

"Neglect," he replied, "is a word easily uttered; but could you as easily prescribe to me a line of conduct to follow?"

"Of that, your conscience, if you have one," I answered impatiently, "ought to inform you."

"Would you wish me," he returned with a sneer, "to feed birds in the square half the day, and nurse sick people during the other half? Shall I learn to make lint and choose baby-clothes?"

"Oh no!" I exclaimed; "I never supposed for a single instant that you could equal Alice, or do, in all your life, the good that she does in one day; but if you showed her confidence and kindness,--if you treated her as she ought to be treated..."

"She would love me,--which she does not now!"

"I am persuaded she does."

"No she does _not_," he answered, with some vehemence. "I do not call that _love_ which never made the voice tremble, or the heart beat. _Is_ that love which never betrays itself by emotion, Ellen? Can _love_ leave the soul calm, and the spirits unruffled?"

"Not yours--not mine, perhaps, Henry; but oh, let us not judge purer and higher natures than ours, by the tests of our own wayward and ill-governed minds. Indeed--indeed, Alice loves you."

"She loves me as she loves her grandmother, her brother Johnny, and half the children and the beggars in the square.

You must excuse me if that is not my notion of _love_. Do not look so indignantly at me, Ellen; I speak bitterly, but it is not against _her_ that I am bitter. I would give all I possess at this moment that I could set her free, and send her out into life once more, unshackled by hateful ties, and at liberty to choose another destiny. But the die is cast; and she and I must drag on existence together through the dreary journey of life."

"But, Henry--dear Henry," I exclaimed, "why will you not try to gain her love? If you do not think she loves you _now_, she might--she would, if you sought it."

"And if she did? If that calm nature was roused into something like feeling; if a spark of pa.s.sion lighted on that frozen surface; if, following my sister's blind advice, I sent out that ignorant child into the world and society, to learn what it is to love and to be loved; to hear that she is beautiful; to be told that her husband ought to live in the light of her eyes; ought to carry her in his heart, and prize each hair of her head as a treasure of countless price. If she was to be told all this, and then at home find his eyes averted, his voice cold, his spirits gone, and the sight of her beauty as much lost upon him as if he had been born blind; could she bear this, Ellen? Do you think she could? Would she not curse the day of her birth, and the day of her marriage? Would she not perhaps enter upon a course which would end in shame and misery; or if her religion kept her from that, would she not return to her poor people, to her flowers and her birds, with a breaking heart and a wounded spirit? You are crying, Ellen?

Do not cry for _her_; she is calm and happy now, and I pray G.o.d she may long remain so; but if you are grieving for me--if you have ever felt the least affection for me, then cry on; for G.o.d only knows how miserable I am!"

My tears were indeed falling fast; and it was with a voice, hardly articulate, that I addressed to Henry the question which for so many days had trembled on my lips, and never jet found utterance.

"Why did you marry her?"

He looked at me steadily for a few moments, and then said,

"Ellen, the day will come when I shall answer that question--and _another_, which you wish to ask--but cannot find words or courage for. There is much that we must say to each other--something, perhaps, that we may do for each other; but then there must be no reserve, no coldness, no false pride, or affected prudery in our intercourse. You must trust me completely, as I will trust you; we have both of us secrets which have weighed upon our souls, and made silence and solitude dreadful to us. Judge then what I have suffered!

Ellen, I will tell you my secret--I know _yours_."

"Hush, hus.h.!.+" I exclaimed wildly, and looked about me with terror, but I saw we were alone; the people who were in the room when we had entered it had all gradually withdrawn, and the sound of music and of voices reached us faintly, where we sat. I covered my face with my hands and murmured, "Speak on."

"Ellen," continued Henry, "Ellen, I have threatened, I have tormented, I have tortured you; but each time I have done so I have writhed myself under the sense of what I was doing; and when you know _all_--when you know under what constraints, with what hopes, with what fears, I have acted--"

He stopped suddenly short; I raised my head abruptly, and in the door-way before us stood Sir Charles Wyndham and Edward Middleton. Never in my life did I act from a more sudden impulse than at that moment. I started forward, and in one minute was at Edward's side. My cheeks were flushed, and my eyes swelled with crying. I pushed by Sir Charles, and seizing on Edward's arm, I whispered to him, "Take me where I can speak to you--don't judge me--don't condemn me."

He did not say a single word, but gave me his arm, and walked with me through all the crowded rooms to the one where Mrs.

Middleton was sitting. He almost thrust me into a chair by her side, and disappeared without one word or look.

After an hour of talking and dancing, both of which it seemed to me that I accomplished by some mechanical power, I prevailed on Mrs. Middleton to go home. While we were looking for our cloaks in the ante-room, Henry joined us again. He was holding mine, when Edward rapidly approached us, and in a quiet but imperious manner took it from him, and put it on me himself; on which Sir Charles Wyndham remarked, "That's right, Mr. Middleton--you should never allow married men to play the gallants with young ladies." I don't know if any of us smiled at that observation. If there was a smile, it must have been a strange one.

As we were driving home, after a few moments of silence, I asked Mrs. Middleton if she had been aware that Edward was arrived in London.

"We expected him in a day or two," she answered; "but I believe he came up to town to-day, only to return into the country to-morrow."

"Has he seen my uncle?" I inquired.

"No," she replied; "he breakfasts with us to-morrow."

There was joy in _that_ as far as it went, though what I was to say to him, and how I was to explain the state of emotion in which he had found me that evening when alone with Henry, was more than I could devise, and, as usual, before the moment arrived, I had come to the conclusion that to say _nothing_ was the safest course to pursue.

When, at eleven o'clock the next day, I came into the breakfast-room, Edward was just arrived. He shook hands with me kindly; but his countenance was still more grave than usual.