SUBSTANCE AND SHADOW;
OR, THE
FISHERMAN’S DAUGHTERS OF
A Patchwork Story.
IN FOUR VOLUMES.
BY THE AUTHOR OF LIGHT AND SHADE; EVERSFIELD ABBEY;
BANKS OF THE WYE; AUNT AND NIECE, &c. &c.
Artless and unadorn’d she pleas’d the more;
The other dame seem’d e’en of fairer hue,
Fat bold her mien, unguarded mov’d her eye.
VOL. I.
MINERVA PRESS,
FOR A. K. NEWMAN AND CO.
LEADENHALL-STREET.
1812.
SUBSTANCE AND SHADOW.
——————————The sea,
Various and vast, sublime in all its forms,
When lull’d by zephyrs, or when rous’d by storms.
.
. . . . . . . . . . .
I see them not! the storm alone I hear!
CRABBE’S
BOROUGH.
IT was in the autumn of 17—, the day had been
very hot and sultry, and the sun had set amongst heavy and portentous clouds,
thunder muttered at a distance, and the melancholy notes of the sea-birds, as
they wheeled in hasty circuits round the rocks, indicated the near approach of
a storm; the gay throng who had so lately crowded on the Steine at Brighton,
now hastened to their temporary homes, or to their evening parties, all but a
few stragglers, who were still on the beach, and who seemed to watch the storm,
some with abstracted, some with anxious eyes. Two females were accidentally
standing near each other, and steadily contemplating the scene; the wind was
rapidly rising, and howled responsively to the turbulent billows; though the
sun had set, there was light sufficient to distinguish objects accurately, and
the whole expanse of water became at intervals brilliantly illuminated by the
vivid lightning which played on its surface. One of the ladies appeared about
twenty-six years of age, her features were interesting, and her countenance had
a mingled expression of softness, sensibility, and discernment, which
instantaneously impressed the beholder with an idea of feeling and good sense;
she was habited in a genteel but plain style; and intently watching the
approach of the storm, she scarcely perceived that she had a companion, though
they were gradually getting nearer to each other, and almost to the water’s
edge. The other lady was scarcely twenty; her form was strikingly elegant, and
it was fully displayed by her dress, which was fanciful; with one arm she held
the corner of a long azure scarf, which flitted in the wind; her dark hair
streamed about her shoulders in unstudied negligence; she had no covering on
her head; and, as if in fearful contemplation of the elements, she would
frequently clasp her hands together, or waive them in the air, as with an
emotion, which, however, appeared the natural movement of her mind, she cried
—“Grand! awfully sublime! oh, what sight was ever equal to this! this is
tremendously magnificent! don’t you think so?” and she clasped the hand of her
next neighbour with vehement earnestness, as the liquid lightning which
illuminated the scene was momentarily succeeded by a loud peal of thunder.
The countenance of the speaker, as
she made the interrogatory, seemed to have caught some of the etherial
brightness of the passing lightning; all enthusiastic admiration, she still
held the arm of the person whom she had addressed—“It is indeed a fearful
storm,” said she, “and I am standing here with no little anxiety, for the fate
of a poor couple, who went out in a boat this afternoon; the man is a fisher,
who maintains himself by means of his little boat, and I have frequently
witnessed the patient docility with which his wife has followed him in this
arduous and dangerous employ. I happened to observe them as they embarked; they
have been gone a much longer time than is their custom, and I have heard the
fishermen on the beach expressing their apprehensions; it is impossible to put
off a boat to their assistance, and—”
At this moment the voice of the
speaker was entirely lost in a heavy and tremendous peal of thunder; it was
instantaneously succeeded by rain, which fell in sheets. Hastily loosing her
arm from the grasp of the stranger, Mrs. Elwyn, (for so we shall call her)
moved towards the town, saying—“We can do no good by staying here; I think we
had better seek our respective habitations.”
“There is something which suits the
frame of my mind in this scene,” replied the lady, her dark hair streaming in
the torrent which poured on her defenceless head; “I never witnessed such an
imposing spectacle before—adieu!” and spreading her right hand on her breast,
as if to retain her scarf, with the other she supported herself against the
wall, which was washed by the sea, and looked like the genius of the ocean,
risen from her watery bed, and invocating the storm. Surprise at the
extraordinary manner and strange appearance of this unknown, was quelled in the
benevolent bosom of Mrs. Elwyn, by her solicitude for the fate of the poor
fishers; and as she sat in her room, still seeing the vivid lightning, still
hearing the lengthened peals of thunder, the raging billows, and the roaring
wind, she put up a fervent petition for the safety of the honest pair, who,
though far removed from her sphere of life, and of whose names she was in
ignorance, she yet considered as her fellow-creatures, and equally the care of
an almighty and an all-wise Being!
CHAP. II.
Happy he sail’d, and great the care she took,
That he should softly sleep, and smartly look;
White was his better linen, and his check
Was made more trim than any on the deck.
CRABBE’S BOROUGH.
THE storm of the
night was succeeded by a calm morning; the sun smiled, as if in mockery of the
devastation of the tempest; houses were nearly unroofed—boats were drifted from
their moorings—vessels were loosened from their anchors, their rigging and
sails shattered and dismantled—the bathing-machines had felt the fury of the
contending elements, and were moved from their stations; and though the spirit
of the tempest was quelled, yet old ocean was not so soon appeased, but heaved
and foamed, as if with labouring sobs it would have told the dismal history of
the storm.
The Steine exhibited a busy and
bustling scene; fishermen were hasting to see that their nets and tackling were
safe—sailors were busy in righting their ships—the bathing-women were preparing
their machines. Mrs. Elwyn was the first female of genteel appearance who
ventured forth; she hurried to the beach; alas! the fate of the poor objects of
her solicitous commiseration was decided; their boat had been drifted to the
shore, without oars, shattered, and a wreck, and with every returning wave the
bodies of its owners were fearfully expected.
A deep sigh issued from Mrs. Elwyn’s
bosom, as she turned from the beach; she had no spirits to lengthen her walk,
but with dull and languid step she returned to her lodgings.—“How buoyant with
hope, how vigorous in health, how elastic in spirits, did those poor creatures
embark on the treacherous ocean but yesterday!” sighed she; “ignorant, frail,
and short-sighted beings that we are! how soon are hope, health, and spirits
immersed for ever in a cold and watery grave! no, not for ever!” and her step
became firmer; “hope and immortal health for ever bloom
in paradise. Oh, God of mercy and of love! into thy haven of eternal rest
receive these ship-wrecked mariners.”
Anxious to know something further
relative to this unfortunate couple, Mrs. Elwyn soon obtained a direction to
their late residence; it was a neat but humble cabin, near the seaside, about a
mile from the town. A woman, between fifty and sixty years of age, was sitting
by a fire, and rocking a cradle, which contained two sleeping infants. Mrs.
Elwyn spoke to the woman in a voice of eager inquiry—“Whose are these
children?”
“Oh, madam! what, you have not heard
then that these two dear babies have lost both father and mother since
yesternoon; poor babies, worse luck for ‘em!”
Mrs. Elwyn’s eyes filled with
tears—“Poor infants!” cried she, as she hung over them.
“Aye, poor things,” returned the old
woman; “I little thought when Kitty Ellis sent for me yesterday, to take care
of ‘em, that I should never she more; and here I tossed up a bit of supper for
James and she, and I put it all in order, and I waited, and waited, and between
every clap of thunder I listened for James’s whistle, for he was a main man for
singing and whistling on shore; but law bless us all, I could hear nothing for
the roaring of the waves. ‘twas past twelve o’clock before I lighted the
candle; I saw a winding-sheet in it within two minutes, and that I know’d to be
a baddish sort of a sign; I could have lain a good wager that I should never
see ‘em more, after my eyes lighted on that ugly sight—oh, ‘twas a sure token!”
“Are you a relation of these poor
babes?” asked Mrs. Elwyn, still looking with compassion into the cradle.
“Oh dear, no, madam,” said the old
woman, “in all the varsal world,
these babies have now no kin or kindred but God. The parish must see to ‘em
now, and I be only waiting for one of the overseers to come along, to know what
‘tis best to do; for ‘tisn’t to be supposed, or expected, as I can leave my own
business to attend to they for nothing, you know, madam, though I love ‘em ever
so.”
“Was the poor fisherman born
in this place?”
“Law, to be sure, madam, he was, in
this very house too, for aught I know to the contrary; his father followed the
same calling as this James; he came from Worthing, I have heard tell, and so he
married, and got this boy; and when father and mother died, why James he must
be marrying too belike, and so he took up with Kitty; Kitty was a love-child,
as was laid at somebody’s door here in Brighton. Folks did
say that the saddle was put on the right horse’s back; howsomdever this child
was sent to the parish—the great lord or squire, or what he was, set off; and
Kitty was a decent sort of girl enough, considering her breeding up, with
nobody to care for her, or after her, as it were; and so the long and the short
of the matter was, that she was glad enough to marry with James Ellis. Poor
girl, she had not been put to bed of these two babies more than six weeks, and
such a young thing ‘twas, and looking so delicate, for she was but about of
seventeen years old; and I said to her yesterday—‘Kitty,’ says I, ‘’tis early
times, child, for you to venture into the water and the wet.’ ‘Molly,’ says
she, ‘James has been all alone with nobody but his own self a longful time, and
I am very hearty now,’ says she; ‘you mind the dear babies, and I’ll take care
of myself;’ and then she suckled ‘em, she did, and she kissed ‘em both three times—yes, I have minded since as ‘twas three times; and she flinged a net over her shoulder, and a
basket upon her arm, and away she went.”
Many were the conflicting emotions
which disturbed the peaceful breast of Mrs. Elwyn, as she listened to this
recital; she wished to do something for the benefit of these poor orphans; but
she was accustomed to reflect before she made a decision; and careful of not
betraying her secret wishes to the old woman, she remained in silent
meditation, when the door of the cottage was opened, and the stranger, whom she
had seen on the beach the preceding evening, dressed in the same fanciful
manner, with the addition of a long white veil, which, covering her head,
descended in floating drapery almost to the ground, entered the house, and
throwing herself on her knees at the side of the cradle, bent over it, and, as
if careless of being observed, gave way to the most tumultuous emotions and
affecting exclamations; she called them “poor forlorn innocents! helpless
interesting orphans! tenders blossoms of misfortune! early victims of sorrow!”
and that her feelings were in unison with her expressions was obvious, as the
large tears fell in torrents from her lovely eyes.
“Do you know this lady?” whispered
Mrs. Elwyn to the old woman, and retiring to the further end of the cottage.
“No, I never seed
she in my whole life before,” answered the dame; and then pointing, with a look
of significancy, to her forehead, she said—“but law, any body can see with half
an eye what ‘tis as is the matter with she.”
Mrs. Elwyn did not think exactly
with her informant; she allowed that there was something surprisingly eccentric
about the stranger, but she knew that romance and enthusiasm were the leading features of the day, and that
those feelings were nurtured and indulged, at the hazard of running counter to
all the forms and usages of society, and the good old way
in which she had been taught to walk.
One of the babes awakening from its
slumber, and unconsciously stretching out its feeble arms, the lady started up,
and catching it to her bosom, cried—“And shall you implore in vain? no, helpless being, here shall you have your
shelter ever!”
“Law, madam, do not please to take
up the child; may be as she’ll hurt your fine clothes,” said the old woman.
The lady looked with silent contempt
at the cautioner, and turning towards Mrs. Elwyn, she said—“Should I not be
worse than a barbarian not to claim her as my own? you who
first called forth my feelings for the
fate of the poor lost ones, tell me?”
“This is a case of pitiable
distress, and no common interest,” answered Mrs. Elwyn, “and I think some means
may be adopted to preserve these infants from a parish workhouse.”
The stranger almost shrieked at the
name of workhouse, and held the child yet closer to her bosom.
Several persons, attracted by
compassion or curiosity, on hearing the event of the preceding night, now
gathered round the cottage, to make inquiries, and to look at the twin-sisters.
The lady still held the babe, unmindful of the observations of the surrounding
spectators, and by turns apostrophized, caressed, and bathed it with her tears.
A subscription was readily made to
secure the attendance of the old woman, and to prevent the infants from being
taken immediately to the poor-house; but the stranger started up, and putting
five guineas into the hand of the old woman, she said—“I do not yield my treasure; she clings to me for protection, and she
shall have it!” and hastily quitting the house with the infant in her arms,
with sylph-like swiftness she moved along the shore.
“Who is she?” was the general
inquiry; no one could answer it.
“She seems to have a particular interest in that child,”
said a sagacious virgin of fifty; “else why not have taken both?”
“They are equal objects of pity,
certainly,” said Mrs. Elwyn, her kind heart yearning towards the remaining
babe.
“She must be followed,”
said a gentleman, who was in the habit of acting as a country justice; “for she
must give proper security to the parish for the maintenance of the child.”
“No, no, it wouldn’t do for her to
become troublesome to the parish hereafter,”
said a man who kept a lodging-house on the Steine, and who did not like the
idea of an increase in the poor-rates. “The chances are ten to one against its living, if ‘twas sent to the workhouse now.
No, no, the parish must have security;” and off he strided after the lovely
enthusiast.
“And now then we shall know who she
is,” said a maiden gentlewoman, lineally descended from mother Eve.
“She has been here a week; she
discharged the servants who came with her, and has hired others, it seems; but
she always walks about alone, and at all times, and at all seasons; and then
she dresses so queerly; oh, there is certainly something vastly odd about her!”
As if by general consent, the
company now moved off, except Mrs. Elwyn, who still cast a lingering look
towards the sleeping infant; the unfeeling speech of the lodging-house man had
pierced her heart, and as she quitted the cottage, she said—“Do not suffer that
child to go to the workhouse till you hear again from me; in the mean time, try
to get a wet-nurse for it, and for your care and attention I will reward you.
Here is my address,” putting a card into the hand of the old woman, who,
curtseying to the ground, was almost overwhelmed by the strange occurrences of
the morning, and began to think it was a lucky chance for the twins that their
parents had met with a watery grave.
CHAP. III.
——She, frail offspring of an April morn,
Poor helpless passenger from love to scorn.
MISS AIKIN.
LEFT an orphan at an
early age, the care of Clara Elwyn had devolved to a paternal uncle; his wife
was a worthy woman, who zealously fulfilled the part of a mother and an
instructress; and the ductile mind of her niece was early imbued with the
principles of religion and virtue; her uncle was equally careful of her
pecuniary interests; and at the age of twenty-one she became the nominal mistress
of two thousands per annum; we say nominal
mistress, because it had long been designed for her cousin, Henry Elwyn, by her
prudent uncle. Miss Elwyn had nothing to
object to this arrangement; she had from infancy associated with Henry Elwyn;
it was highly natural for her uncle to covet such an alliance for his only son,
and to retain so large a fortune in the family.
The Elwyn estates were entailed, and
in case she had died before she came of age, or in the event of her forming
another connexion, and dying without children, her cousin Henry would have
inherited them; and under these considerations, she almost felt it an act of
justice to fulfil her uncle’s wishes. There was not an individual in the world
whom she preferred to Harry Elwyn, and he had always treated her with
affectionate regard.
Clara had lived in retirement with
her uncle and aunt, and had seen little of mankind; her uncle had been averse
to her entering into the gay world (as it is called); and cheerful and
contented in disposition, fond of intellectual pursuits, and feminine
avocations, she was well contented to remain with them. Yet she had a heart
eminently formed to partake in all the delights of relative intercourse and
domestic happiness; and she frequently wished, as the period approached when
she had engaged to give her hand to Elwyn, that he were more stationary under
his father’s roof, but for the last twelve months his absences had been very
frequent, and much protracted. Clara allowed it was natural for a young man, in
the zenith of life, and blessed with every thing which could make that life
appear enchanting, to be fond of mixed circles, of excursions to the
metropolis, and of (what are termed) the pleasures of society; but if his heart were in the country, would he not feel a tasteless
apathy in the pursuit, and hasten with more avidity, and double animation, to
his affianced bride? This was not the case, and those conversations which
immediately preceded their marriage, and which might have been supposed to have
contained much confidential communication, much cheerful anticipation, and many
schemes of youthful ardour, were constrained and confused on the part of Elwyn,
and ill calculated to diffuse serenity and confidence on the part of his
cousin; yet she blamed herself for remarking his behaviour; she fancied that
she had suffered her imagination to take the lead, and that she was too
romantic and too fastidious in expecting such unlimited and such unrestrained
attention. The happiness of her uncle and of her aunt depended on her union
with their son; her uncle had never had more than a younger brother’s fortune,
and his generous disposition had prevented him from providing for his son
according to his wishes; it became then her duty to give
her hand to her cousin, and she hoped that this union would secure their mutual
happiness.
The cousins were united, and the
strictest propriety and civility marked the conduct of Mr. Elwyn towards his
lady.
During the first eighteen months
subsequent to their marriage, the time of the youthful bride was almost
exclusively devoted to the parents of her husband; at the end of that period
they had both paid the debt of nature; and though the melancholy scenes she had
witnessed had tinged the countenance of Mrs. Elwyn with a pensive expression,
yet the consciousness of having performed her duty afforded her much comfort;
her cares and her attentions would from henceforth entirely devolve on her
husband; and she looked with a sanguine eye through a long perspective of
domestic happiness, which, through the favour of Heaven, she hoped to enjoy.
Alas! she was doomed, like millions who had gone before her, to experience the
vanity of human wishes! and yet to common observers, what was there wanting to
felicity?
The house to which, on the demise of
Elwyn’s parents, he removed with his wife, was built on her paternal estate,
and situated in one of the pleasantest, the richest, and the most populous
parts of Gloucestershire. The mansion was spacious, commodious, and elegant;
the Elwyn family had for centuries been held in general respect; hence the
neighbourhood united in shewing attention and civility to our young couple, who
moved in that rank of life, which, while it lifted them above the vulgar herd,
enabled them to keep in the happy sphere of social enjoyment, and did not set
them apart from their fellow men, in the solitary gloom of superior eminence.
It was the very sphere where Mrs. Elwyn was peculiarly calculated to shine; and
as the unassuming equal, and the kind and unostentatious benefactress, she was
soon estimated according to her worth.
The discernment and anxious scrutiny
of Clara too soon enabled her to perceive, that where she would have sought the
fond confiding friend, she found the cold and heartless husband. Nothing could
be more obliging or more attentive than the manner and behaviour of Elwyn, yet
nothing could be farther removed from that connubial tenderness, which is
better felt than described. In any plan of benefiting the tenantry or the poor,
which the active mind of Clara suggested, his instant concurrence was obtained;
but it seemed as if he took no share in it, as if his heart entered into no
scheme of hers; and frequently was her generous, her disinterested spirit,
mortified by the seeming implication which his manner conveyed, that it was her fortune, and she had a right to dispose of it without
his voice.
“Ah,” thought Clara, “why not ours? Oh Elwyn, Elwyn, you know not how the very existence
of Clara was blended with that of thine, when she became a wife! I can have no divided interest!”
Mrs. Elwyn had a great mind, and
though endued with much sensibility, yet that softer feeling of her nature had
been corrected and restrained by a proper sense of religion. The most
undeviating, the most uncomplaining sweetness, marked her whole deportment
towards her husband; his smile of formal complaisance was always answered by
one of affection from her, his courteous speech returned warm from the heart;
if he seemed melancholy, she tried every art to enliven him, without appearing to
have noticed it; if she failed, and he retired (which was not unusual) to the
solitude of his library, she forbore to intrude upon his privacy; but by
immediate and active employment, tried to dissipate her own unpleasant
retrospections and anticipations. When Elwyn received letters, she never seemed
anxious to gain a knowledge of their contents; if he pleaded business and
quitted home, she never asked the nature of it, but anxiously awaited his
return, and received him with smiles, which often shone through tears, bright
as the crystal showers of April.
If we should say that Mrs. Elwyn had
no painful curiosity on the subject of Elwyn’s strange and mysterious reserves,
we should be accused (and with great justice too) of drawing an Utopian
character; that she had was
certain; but gloomy suspicion never gained an interest in her pure and liberal
mind. She remembered Harry Elwyn when a boy, gay, ingenuous, and open; she saw
and lamented the change, and willing to divine the cause, and after the
minutest scrutiny, unable to lay any fault to her own charge, in her conduct
and deportment towards a husband whom she loved (in the midst of all his
reserves, of all his concealments), with warm affection, she at length resolved
it into his anxiety for a family, and in consequence her own wishes of becoming
a parent were doubly sanguine.
Poor Clara forgot (or tried to forget) that the gloomy reserve of Elwyn had taken
place prior to his marriage, and that when he led her to the hymeneal altar a
blooming blushing bride, his countenance had exhibited more of the character of
a devoted victim than of a triumphant bridegroom; but the bloom of Clara’s
cheek was faded, the roundness of her form was wasted, she had no prospect of
presenting her husband with an instant cement of affection, and her health
evidently declined.
In compliance with the advice of her
physician, she had for several successive summers journeyed to the sea; Mr.
Elwyn had been eager for the adoption of this plan, had been strenuous in
persuading her to go, but he had invariably pleaded business; and after
escorting her, with great attention and care, to some watering-place, and seen
her settled in lodgings, he had quitted her.
Mrs. Elwyn’s letters to her husband
during these (on her part) forced separations, had been written in a style of
confidential freedom; she had no reserves with him, and she communicated all
she saw, and all she thought; and having a lively imagination, and being gifted
with a facility of expression, her letters were calculated to give pleasure and
satisfaction even to an indifferent reader; by Mr. Elwyn they were regularly answered.
In his manner of addressing his
wife, there appeared a
mixture of respectful politeness and gallantry; in answer to her
communications, he always told her of the journeys he had been taking; but of
the people whom he had seen, and of the incidents which had taken place, he was
wholly silent.
The knowledge of acting in
conformity with principle, duty, and religion, will support the mind when every earthly hope fails; but human nature
will ebb, and recoil back on itself, in sustaining such a conflict as that
which had so long torn the mind of Mrs. Elwyn.
She now almost despaired of ever
possessing her husband’s confidence, or of experiencing that connubial
happiness on which her early visions fondly floated; and she now turned towards
the idea of a child, whose infantile caresses might fill the void in her heart,
and brighten her future days with the pure enjoyment of maternal tenderness; but this wish had been denied to
her; and in worse health than she had ever known, she had sought Brighthelmstone for the fourth
summer, when we introduced her to our readers, standing on the beach, and so
anxiously feeling for two fellow-beings whom she knew to be in danger.
CHAP. IV.
Careless and cold, he views the beauteous mind,
For virtue, bliss, eternity
design’d.
MISS AIKIN.
RETURNING from the
cottage so recently inhabited by the poor fisherman to her own lodgings, Mrs.
Elwyn revolved over the idea of taking the remaining orphan under her
protection. Surely it would be an act of benevolence, and pleasing to the Most
High; at the same time that it would afford the supremest gratification to her own heart; her
fortune was amply sufficient to enable her to follow the dictates of her
generosity; but she did not consider it as her own; she had never considered or
used it as such, since she had become a wife; and she sat down to ask her
husband’s sanction and concurrence, ere she ventured a step further in the
business.
“Alas!” sighed the tearful Clara,
“the worst of it is, this will be a mere form; I shall receive from Elwyn a
tame concurrence; he will sanction every wish, he will conform to every
proposition that I shall make; I never yet could be assured that I got the
assent of his judgment, or the concurrence of his heart.”
After simply, but affectingly
detailing the direful tempest of the preceding night, and naturally blending
with it a description of her own feelings, at learning the untimely and
disastrous fate of the young couple, for whom she had been so painfully interested, she recounted her visit to the cabin which
contained the hapless little orphans, together with the immediate adoption of
one of them by the strange lady. She thus continued—“My dear Elwyn will have guessed my wishes by the length of this detail,
yet while I fearlessly avow them, I await his decision. I confess it would be
to me a most grateful office to become the protectress of this poor babe, and,
in some sort, to be to her a parent. Yet, mistake me not; I do not mean to
adopt her into your family, or foolishly to squander your fortune; if I take
her under my care, I will do my duty by her, and forget
not what I owe to myself. If Providence blesses my
endeavours, and she turns out a tractable and well-disposed child, I may have
the satisfaction of introducing a useful member to society. Pray tell me, my
dear husband, what you think of my plan; for be assured, that my enthusiasm in
the cause of this desolate babe would all be quelled, were you to start the
shadow of an objection, while it would glow with double fervour if it met with
your approval.”
Such was part of the letter, which
was thus answered by Mr. Elwyn:—
Elwyn Hall, August 10.
“MY DEAR MADAM,
“I
am hurt that you should think it necessary to apply for my assent, in following
the pure dictates of your benevolent heart. Never have I yet opposed your
wishes, and in this case, surely I must
be the most unfeeling of men to start an objection. You have an ample fortune,
and in permitting me to share it with you, I hope you will never find that I
wish to lay any embargo on your liberal spirit. On the present occasion, we
seem to be actuated by similar feelings; for, strange as it may appear, just at
the moment when I had the favour of your letter, I was meditating an address to
you on the subject of a little stranger, whom I am about to ask your permission
to introduce to Elwyn Hall. Many persons in my situation would hesitate to ask such a boon, but I have too long
experienced the disinterestedness of my dear friend, to hesitate on the present
occasion. My friend Belford is dead, and a boy of about six years of age pleads
for my protection. I cannot resist the appeal, and our mutual feelings must be our mutual excuse, for the introduction of our
respective protegées. Our circle will be enlarged
by their appearance amongst us, and our enjoyments will be enlarged also. Whether we call them
children of our adoption, or by whatever name they may be distinguished, yet if
they grow round our hearts, and become part of our very selves, who shall
condemn us, or term it squandering a fortune to let them share it with us? Be
assured, my dearest madam, that I shall receive great satisfaction in seeing
you return to the Hall, accompanied by your little foundling; and, feeling
assured of your permission for so doing, I shall appear to greet your arrival
with Harry Belford in my hand.
“With most cordial wishes for the entire
re-establishment of your valuable health, believe me to remain, with unfeigned
regard,
“Your much obliged friend,
“HENRY
ELWYN.”
Several combining emotions were felt by Mrs. Elwyn as she perused this
letter; the usual constrained style of her husband was evident, till he came to
the part of it which concerned the two children; here the warmth of his natural
disposition had forcibly intruded itself, and she could not help fancying that
she perceived, in the ardour of his expressions, the mortification which he
still felt at not having a son of his own; and to his disappointment in this
respect, she in part attributed his eager adoption of the child of his friend.
“Thus are even our trials and bitter
disappointments productive of good,” thought Mrs. Elwyn; “had Mr. Elwyn had a
son of his own, he might have steeled his heart to the claims of friendship; in
receiving the innocent endearments of my own offspring, I might have been
impervious to the call of humanity.”
Belford was a name that Mrs. Elwyn
had never remembered to have heard, as that of a friend of her husband’s, or of the Elwyn family;
but with regard to his own friendships, Elwyn had been uniformly reserved
towards her; and it would almost have been a subject of surprise had she known
the name of Belford, as she was a stranger to that of all his distant acquaintances.
Mrs. Elwyn answered her husband’s
letter, in that prompt and ready manner which instantaneously proved to him
that Master Belford would from henceforth have two friends at the Hall; and
having procured a wet-nurse for
her little protegée, Mrs. Elwyn employed herself,
during the remaining period of her stay at Brighton, in providing clothes of
more decent appearance than those she had hitherto worn, for the babe, previous
to her introduction to Mr. Elwyn.
In the mean time, she had learnt
that the strange lady, on being followed to her lodgings by the parish
officers, with an inquiry concerning what she meant to do with the infant which
she had taken away, had declared her intention of providing and educating it
wholly at her own expence; and being asked to give her address, and a reference, in order to certify to the parish that the child would not become
chargeable thereafter, she had ordered them to call again in the morning,
promising at that time to give them every necessary information; but when the
morning came, and the overseers attended according to the lady’s appointment,
they were informed, that together with the infant and a female servant, whom she had hired to attend it, she had left Brighton the preceding
evening in a chaise and four.
The certain expence of following her, and the possibility of a vain pursuit, when opposed
to the uncertainty of the child’s being returned on the parish, as such pains
had been taken to carry her off, appeased the minds of the parish officers; but
not so the busy tongue of curiosity and scandal; various were the surmises and
the conjectures in circulation with regard to the fair unknown, whose
extravagant appearance, extraordinary behaviour, and mysterious departure, were
not in the course of daily events; in general it was supposed, that her
inheritance of a large fortune depended upon her having a child within a
limited period; and that having no prospect of producing one herself, she had
determined on obtaining one by surreptitious means, and to introduce it into
the world as her own.
There seemed in this case a shadow
of reason in her conduct; but Mrs. Elwyn, who had seen her eccentric appearance
and extravagant demeanour, previous to the fate of the poor fishers, believed
that she had some motive for concealing her name and family; and that an
inquiry into these had hurried her from Brighton; while in protecting the
child, she had merely followed an impulse of feeling; and as in the latter case
she had herself been actuated by a similar motive, she was very much inclined
to extenuate the conduct of the young lady, and to hope that she was
unfortunate, rather than culpable.
That she had money at command was
evident; during the few days she had remained at Brighton, her liberality was
the constant theme; and her total ignorance, or disregard of the value of
money, proved that she had been born in a very exalted sphere of life, or that
she had been educated without the remotest reference to that knowledge of
prudence and calculation, which is so necessary in the common occurrences of
life. Elegant accomplishments and high-flown sentiments may be resorted to like
court dresses,
and worn on gala days; but in the wardrobe of education there
should be lain in a large stock of those plain suits of homebred knowledge, which will be wanted for every-day use, and almost constant
wear.
CHAP. V.
Of chill adversity. KIRKE
WHITE.
AT the appointed time
Mrs. Elwyn returned to the Hall, accompanied by her little eléve.
Mr. Elwyn appeared at the door, leading a beautiful boy of six years of age.
Mrs. Elwyn’s warm reception of his little favourite seemed to have paved the
way for her husband’s cordial notice of hers; indeed, there seemed more freedom
and heart in his reception of herself, than
she had been accustomed to meet with for many a day; and indulging in the most
pleasurable emotions, the yet sanguine Clara hailed the present moment as the
harbinger of many happy years.
Mary Ellis was consigned to the care
of a cottager’s wife, in the village of Norton, about half a mile from Elwyn
Hall; Mrs. Elwyn contented herself with paying her a daily visit, careful of
not suffering Mr. Elwyn to suspect her of an eccentric and romantic fondness
for the little orphan.
Harry Belford was the inmate of the
Hall, and the constant companion of herself, or of Mr. Elwyn; that gentleman’s
fondness for him appeared to increase every day; and in his long walks, which
he had been heretofore accustomed to take alone, Harry ran at his side; and
even in his hours of periodical retirement, the pleading voice of Harry Belford
was not unnoticed at the library door. Of a quick capacity, and lively manners,
the boy could not fail of gaining general favour.
Mrs. Elwyn delighted in instructing
him, and in marking the opening faculties of his mind; and while she
contemplated his dark and expressive eyes, and marked the roseate colour as it
mantled on his cheeks, she frequently fancied (and at these moments she seemed
to love the boy more fondly) that she could trace a likeness of her Elwyn, as
he was in the halcyon days of infancy.
The name of Belford, as the father
of Harry, had never been mentioned by Mr. Elwyn since his lady had returned to
the Hall; Mrs. Elwyn had kept an invariable silence on the subject; she never
sought to gratify an insignificant curiosity, at the hazard of tormenting her
husband with questions which he might not approve; if he thought it necessary
to be more communicative, she judged that he would have been so; and if his reserve
was occasioned by his doubts of her being worthy of his confidence, it would
rather strengthen them, and lessen his opinion of her, were she to betray an
eager desire to be admitted into it.
As an exemplary wife, we could
almost venture to pronounce that Mrs. Elwyn had not an equal; but such a
character as we have pourtrayed would not be imitated by the ladies of the
present era; they would all unite in calling her a tame, a meek fool; and each
of them would be tempted separately to declare—“that the behaviour of such a
brute as Elwyn was absolutely not to be borne!” In such a case, they would have
recourse to numberless modern methods
of shewing their spirit; they would relate the tale of injury to female
friendly confidants; they would have let their male
acquaintance peruse it in the soft liquid of
their melting eyes; and if they ventured
to advise retaliation and revenge—[But see further of this in the every-day
anecdotes of modern married pairs.]
We will return to Mrs. Elwyn, who,
trying to palliate what she would have wished to change in her husband, and dwelling on a great deal that she still
saw to admire, diverted her mind, by the conscientious discharge of her new
duties, (duties which she had voluntarily taken upon herself), and who felt a living principle within, as the original impulse, and the
unerring guide of all her actions.
Gossips there are, and gossips there
have been, in all ages of the world, and in all parts of the habitable globe,
but the gossip of a country village has been proverbial time out of mind; and
the whole village of Norton did not contain one female who
was dumb!
The goodness, the meek carriage, and
the humility of Mrs. Elwyn, had gained her the universal suffrage; but where we
cannot find any thing to condemn, it may be sometimes pleasant to pity; for human nature is human nature, and if there be no
perfect happiness, or perfect goodness, how should there be perfect charity?
The sagacious spinsters nodded their heads to the garrulous old wives, as they
canvassed over the affairs of the neighbourhood.
“Poor Mrs. Elwyn, ‘tis a great
pity!”
“Yes, she is a very good woman, very
good indeed, very good to the poor. She is really laying up her treasure in heaven!”
“Ah, poor soul! she has lain it out
to little purpose here, take my word for it;
she is quite broken-hearted, sinking with trouble, though she never complains;
and yet, before I would have let my husband
bring home his base-born brats under my own nose, and he too that I gave up
such a handsome fortune to—oh ladies, ‘tis shameful, shameful work! ‘tis not
forbearance, ‘tis not, indeed; I cannot call it forbearance—it shows no spirit,
no conduct—it scarcely shows any affection for the husband; for jealousy, say
what you will, must exist where there is any love.”
“And the boy, you tell me, is the
image of Mr. Elwyn?”
“Oh law, yes! the very counterpart
of the father, the same sly look with his eyes, as I remember well, when he
came down a child to visit his uncle here at the Hall. These family matches are
sad things; they never do turn out well, that’s very certain.”
“But the girl who is nursing at
Sarah Cooke’s, whose is that?”
“Oh, that is Mrs.
Elwyn’s pet, it seems.”
“Heaven only knows, ma’am; there are
two stories about that too; it will all come out in
time, I dare say; but they tell me Mrs. Elwyn is very fond of it.”
“Ma’am, I assure you she dotes upon it. Mrs. Elwyn went much earlier to Brighton this
year than she did the last.”
“Did she, ma’am? I was not at Norton
last summer.”
“Oh dear, yes! she did not go till
August then—now she went in
June.”
Unsuspicious and unassuming, Mrs.
Elwyn pursued the “even tenor of her way.”
Master Belford was at the proper
time placed by his guardian at an eligible school near the metropolis; Mr.
Elwyn always attended him there, and went himself to fetch him at the vacations, at each return to the Hall. The young gentleman seemed to rise in
estimation and in consequence; the servants observing the increasing fondness
of their master, and the sweet compliance of their mistress, treated him with
most respectful deference and attention. A poney was kept for his exclusive
use, a servant was given up to attend him during each vacation, and every thing
was prepared for him, which could minister to his pleasures or his gratification.
He was a fine youth, and high in health and spirits; and under the protection of such indulgent friends, it would have been surprising if he had not appeared in an attractive
light. His improvements kept pace with the ardent wishes of his benefactor; and
while he made great progress in his scholastic education, the accomplishments
of the gentleman
were not overlooked.
Mrs. Elwyn saw the increasing
fondness of her husband for Harry Belford with no jealous eye; she loved the
youth with much sincerity; and if she was doomed
never to be the object of Elwyn’s warmest affection, she did not grudge it to
this child of his adoption. Her cares, in the mean time, had never relaxed
towards her own favourite; for if she felt a partiality for one of the
children, it was surely towards the little girl, whom she had probably saved
from a life of painful servitude, if not of infamy.
When she was taken from the nurse, Mrs. Elwyn had
brought her to the Hall, and had scrupulously endeavoured to instruct her in
her duty, as an accountable and an immortal being, and to infuse such knowledge
into her youthful mind as would be useful to her in her journey through life,
and be calculated to smooth her passage to the tomb.
The little orphan was of a most tender and
affectionate disposition, passionately attached to her “mama Elwyn” (as that
lady suffered herself to be called), and scrupulously observant of all her
advice and her instructions.
Mrs. Elwyn looked upon the fortune which she inherited
as only lent to her for a season, for the trial of her own faith, and for the
use of her fellow-beings; and she was careful of unnecessarily wasting it,
because she knew that had she died unmarried or childless, it must have
devolved to her husband and to his heirs; she considered it as his now; and though she knew that he would, in his
accustomed easy manner, acquiesce to any proposition she should make, with
regard to a provision for Mary Ellis, yet it was not her wish to leave her more
than a moderate provision.
“If I would make her a reasonable and a rational
being,” thought she, “rational and reasonable ideas must be implanted in her
mind. Happiness is not the certain accompaniment of riches;” here a
half-checked sigh proved that she felt what she uttered; “a decent competence,
a useful stock of knowledge, a cultivated understanding, without fastidious
refinement of taste, and a grateful, a thankful heart, lifting itself towards
heaven—these are the blessings I
shall covet for my little Mary.”
CHAP. VI.
————————In admonition warm,
Oft did he caution the too thoughtless tribes
Against each sin that easily besets
The heart; and oft, more anxious than their guardians,
Taught the surrounding innocents, who lov’d
His friendly smile, the lesson to be good.
POLWHELE.
MARY Ellis had attained
the age of eight years, when she accompanied her protectress to Clifton; Mrs.
Elwyn now left home on a yearly excursion, from custom rather than from an idea
of experiencing any benefit.
The sea air had been pronounced too
keen for her the preceding summer, and in compliance with medical advice,
enforced by the persuasions of her husband, she now visited Clifton; her frame
was fragile, and her health delicate, yet she had no alarming symptoms; in
fact, mental anxiety and disappointment had long been struggling with a
naturally good constitution, and as yet they had not wholly undermined it.
Fond of having her little child
about her person, in an hundred ways she contrived to make her feel herself
useful, and to imagine herself of consequence in the tiny offices of gratitude
which she could perform; thus a stimulus was given to her exertions, and a
motive to her endeavours. Mary Ellis had been told that her parents were dead,
but of her infantile history she knew no more, except that on her “dear mama Elwyn”
the care of her had fallen. Mrs. Elwyn had a great aversion to all appearance
of mystery or concealment, and probably this aversion had daily been gaining
ground, from observing the cheerless and, as it were, studious reserve, which
Elwyn had ever practised towards her, and which had clouded all her days. She had long determined to make Mary Ellis fully acquainted with her birth and situation, not to give her a more enlarged idea of her obligations to herself, but to dilate her mind with gratitude to the Supreme Being, and to teach her that He who could thus raise up a protector to the fatherless would never forsake those who trusted in him.
From the most trivial incidents lasting impressions are frequently made; Mrs. Elwyn was urged to the communication of Mary’s little story, by the circumstance which we are going to relate.
It was a fine Sunday evening in summer, and having
accompanied her protectress to the church at Clifton twice in the course of the
day, Mary was rather surprised to hear the carriage ordered for an airing, as
Sunday was usually kept in the old fashioned
manner by Mrs. Elwyn; and while she devoted herself to the duties of religion,
her domestics had rest, and her cattle also.
The evening was delightfully pleasant, the breeze, as they were driven
across the down, was cool and refreshing, after the intense heat of the day;
they turned out into a public road to which Mary was a stranger, and presently
were attracted by the sound of a bell, from a plain edifice which stood in a
rural lane, at a short distance from the road; thither they bent their course.
There was something peculiarly impressive in the scene; the sun was fast
diverging towards the western hills, but its saffron glow threw an illumination
on this house of prayer; the simplicity of the building, its neat and
unobtrusive spire, the silver-toned bell, the retiredness of the situation,
which seemed particularly calculated to inspire pure and holy thoughts to the
mind, and to impress on the soul a true relish for devotion; the neat but
ancient style of architecture of the dwelling-house, which was attached to the
chapel; the picturesque scenery of the adjoining country, a gurgling rivulet,
which gently, pensively, meandered through meadows, which were clothed in
summer’s loveliest green, and which, newly mown, sent their refreshing
fragrance on the evening breeze, all conspired to impress the imagination and
the fancy with the most tranquil and the most soothing feelings; and with
placid serenity in her countenance, Mrs. Elwyn alighted from her chariot, and
entered the chapel, leading her beloved child. The eyes of that quickly
apprehensive child were wandering from side to side as they passed through the
body of the chapel, and were conducted by a respectable-looking matron to a pew
near the pulpit, which was set apart for the accommodation of the ladies. The
clergyman got into the desk, the chapel was filled, the solemn but soft-toned
organ was struck, and looking towards the gallery, Mary saw on each side of the
instrument fifteen girls stand up, and neatly clothed in gowns of green, with
modest round-eared caps, lift up with one accord their youthful voices in the
evening hymn of praise. Mary felt her heart glow with delight as she listened
to this infantile and harmonious choir; she looked with inquiring eyes towards
her protectress, who directed her by an answering look to the duties of the
place, for now the public service was begun.
The clergyman who preached had
chosen a most appropriate text—“Suffer little children to come unto me, and
forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of heaven.” He made an affecting
but judicious appeal to his hearers for the female orphans whose cause he
pleaded; he pointed out the dangers to which children, and particularly female
children, were exposed, when bereft of their parents; he showed them the
incalculable advantages of early religious instruction, and he reminded them
that the Saviour of the World did not think it beneath his glory to descend
from the highest heavens, and attend to the lisping petitions of babes and
sucklings; he spoke with fervor and with energy, for he felt the cause which he
had taken in hand; he knew the depravity and the frailty of human nature, and
the dangers to which the best instructed
are exposed in their journey through the world; and in affording an asylum for
infant females, a nursery of virtue and piety, he judged that there could not
be a species of charity more beneficial to the world, or more pleasing to the
Almighty. Towards the conclusion of the discourse, he turned towards the female
orphans, ere he began to address them; (as if by intuition) they all rose from
their seats, and fixing their modest eyes in attentive respect upon the
preacher, his address was most wisely adapted to their comprehension. He
pointed out to them the particular mercies of heaven, which they had
experienced in having friends raised up to them, when they were deprived of
their natural ones; he explained to them the nature of their obligations to the
patrons of that beneficent institution, who had not only shielded their persons
from want, extended to them food and raiment, and a dwelling-place, but who had
cared for their souls, who had given them the means of becoming the children of
God, and inheritors of the kingdom of heaven; he besought them never to forfeit
their right or title to that high distinction, but to join with him in praying
for their temporal benefactors, and in beseeching their Heavenly One still to
supply them with the means of grace, and with the hope of glory;” and then, in
a short but solemn prayer, he ended.
Again the organ sounded, again the
children lifted up their voices in praise, and Mary’s eyes were suffused in
tears, as Mrs. Elwyn turned towards her. It was with proud satisfaction that
she watched her trembling fingers, as hastily they emptied her little morocco
purse of its contents, when the plate came near her, while the crimsoning hue
which overspread her countenance announced the unusual perturbation of her
bosom. Mrs. Elwyn had, however, anticipated this in part, and on the preceding
day had filled her purse.
When they were reseated in the
carriage, Mary Ellis would have sunk on her knees at the feet of Mrs. Elwyn,
but was raised to her bosom, and tenderly folded to it.
“I am an orphan
too!” cried Mary; “oh why, why must I not kneel and thank you? oh, dear, dear
mama Elwyn, only think what that gentleman told those little girls! I might have been brought up wicked—I might have sworn—I might have stolen—I might have never known my duty to God
Almighty, if you had not taught me! oh, why
may I not kneel and thank you?”
“Only kneel to that God who moved my
heart in your favour, my best Mary,” said Mrs. Elwyn, deeply affected at
witnessing the virtuous emotions of her child.
“But how came you to take me, to take Mary Ellis? there were plenty, plenty of other little orphan girls, you know; and then you could not tell that I
should love you the best of all.”
“Compose yourself, my good girl, and
I will tell you all about it. Accident introduced me to your acquaintance, so
it would be called by those who are not accustomed to look for the presiding
influence of God in all sublunary things.”
“I am quite composed and good now,”
said Mary; “but you must let me hold your hand all the time you are telling
it.”
Mrs. Elwyn kissed the pudsey hand
which pressed hers, and faithfully recounted to Mary the fatal catastrophe
which had attended her parents, and the history of her visit to their cottage.
Tears rolled over the roseate cheeks
of the artless child, as she listened to the dreadful fate of her parents, but
her eyes brightened through them, when she heard she had a sister; and while
almost devouring Mrs. Elwyn’s hands with kisses, she forgot not to bless the
other good lady for taking her sister, and naturally asked her name, and where
she lived. Here Mrs. Elwyn was at a loss; she had frequently made inquiries
concerning the strange lady, but hitherto without success; and she tried to
quiet the mind of Mary, by telling her that her sister had got a friend as well
as herself, and that the same God cared for them both; but this assurance did
not entirely set the heart of Mary at ease, (not though it came from her
benefactress); for the first time, a feeling of relative affection had been
raised in her breast, and she ever after retained an anxious interest for the
fate of her sister; breaking from a reverie of a few moments, Mary said—“There
are male as well as female orphans, an’t there, Mrs. Elwyn?”
“Certainly, my love.”
“Poor Harry Belford, he is an orphan
too; he has no father, no mother—has he, ma’am?”
The question was an awkward one;
Mrs. Elwyn felt the colour revisit her pallid cheeks; her lip quivered; at
length she answered—“To Mr. Elwyn’s goodness Harry Belford is indebted—he has
supplied to him the place of his natural—of his parents.”
“And I think,” cried Mary, “I shall
love Harry Belford a great, great deal more
than I ever did, now I know he is an orphan like myself; and Mr. Elwyn too, how
good it was of him! But were Harry’s father and mother drowned too, ma’am?”
Mrs. Elwyn was again confused; she
answered she did not know; and then, as if recalling her words, she said—“No.”
“No, no,” said Mary, shaking her
head, “it was only poor Mary’s father and mother that were drowned. Oh, I shall
never see the sea again without thinking of my poor parents; and my dear good mama Elwyn, if you had not
taken their child, she might have
been drowned too, you know, before this time; for who would have looked after
her, to see that she did not come to any harm?”
CHAP. VII.
Forward and frolic glee was there,
The will to do, the soul to dare,
The sparkling glance, soon blown to live,
Of hasty love, or head forgive.
SCOTT’S LADY OF THE LAKE.
WE will pass over the
infantile years of Mary Ellis, and our readers shall behold her a fine girl of
sixteen, firmly fixed in the affections of her patroness, by her good conduct,
grateful disposition, and pleasing demeanour; she was not eminently beautiful,
but her countenance was very expressive; and her dimpling mouth and glistening
eyes displayed the alternate emotions of a bosom which was a stranger to
disguise; her understanding was good, and her discrimination superior to her
years; she had great quickness and delicacy of feeling, and an innate sense of
feminine propriety; she was respectful and obliging in her behaviour towards
Mr. Elwyn, and scrupulously attentive to him, because she knew it was her duty,
and because she saw it was pleasing to Mrs. Elwyn; but for her loved, her
honoured benefactress, her affection could scarcely be restrained within the
bounds of moderation; she believed her the most perfect of human beings; and
while she beheld her as a model, she was almost in danger of worshipping her as
an idol, so strong a hold had the grateful sense of obligation obtained on her
youthful heart.
Harry Belford had just attained the
age of twenty-one, and returned to the Hall from Oxford, where his arrival was
distinguished by as much hilarity as if he had been the lineal heir of the
house of Elwyn; indeed, he had been long looked upon as the future possessor of
its honours by every body; and though Mr. Elwyn had never expressed himself
directly in this respect, yet by acquiescing in the general notice and
deference which was paid to him, he seemed covertly to have acknowledged it.
Harry Belford had been told that he
was the son of Mr. Elwyn’s dearest friend; he felt that Mr. Elwyn had been the best of friends to him, and his conduct displayed towards
him the respect and affection of a son; his must have been a hard heart if it
had not softened towards Mrs. Elwyn; but Harry’s was not
a hard heart; and whilst he loved Mrs. Elwyn for her goodness to himself, he
reverenced those superior virtues, and that exemplary and undeviating
rectitude, which seemed to have lifted her above her sex, and even above that
secret sorrow, which had attacked, without conquering, her elevated mind.
As a playful child, and an
interesting and innocent girl, he had always been on the most friendly and
familiar terms with Mary Ellis.
At his last return from College, she
had been absent with Mrs. Elwyn, on one of that lady’s yearly excursions, and
hence his surprise at seeing her shot up into the interesting and lovely young
woman, from the lively laughing girl, was forcibly impressed on his features;
while Mary observed, with satisfaction, that his manners and appearance had
received their last polish, and that he was quite the well-bred gentleman,
without having lost the natural ingenuousness which marked his boyish days.
Every character has some leading traits, and those which were discoverable in Belford’s, to
the penetrating eye of Mrs. Elwyn, were impetuosity of temper, and no little
idea of self-consequence; he felt that he would never be guilty of a base or
unworthy action, and this feeling raised him in his own estimation, and taught
him to expect and to covet the world’s applause; while the indulgence with
which he had been reared, and the respect and deference with which he had been
invariably treated, were not calculated to lessen it; and the ardent and
impetuous emotions of his mind, though at present they only added energy to his
opinions, and gave to his expressions a tincture of enthusiasm, not
disagreeable in so young a man, were likely to break out with resistless
violence, if he should experience any mortifications, or have to struggle with
any disappointments. To the overweening indulgence of Mr. Elwyn, his lady attributed these
failings as in part originating.
Belford had been told that his birth
was respectable; no humble notions
had been infused into his mind, from the consciousness of inferior origin.
With the knowledge of her early
misfortunes, on the contrary, humility had been happily blended in the
character of Mary Ellis; and while Harry Belford received all the good things
of this life, with gratitude
indeed, but with a
gratified self-complacency, as if he had them of right,
Mary Ellis felt them all as unlooked-for unmerited gifts,
which were not hers to claim, but
which, while they were thankfully received, were fresh calls upon her meekness
and her humility.
It was naturally supposed by the
neighbourhood that a family compact would again be formed, and that the fortune
of the Elwyn family would be centered in the two favourites. The idea had
struck Mrs. Elwyn, and more particularly since the last return of Belford, when
she had remarked the evident pleasure with which he viewed her Mary, and the
pains he took, by his easy and confidential freedom, to rid her conversation of
that respectful timidity by which it was marked in her behaviour towards him.
Mrs. Elwyn had also seen the surprise and satisfaction which seemed to
overspread the countenance of Belford, at perceiving Mary’s quick apprehension
of subjects on which he conversed, and that intellectual knowledge which, while
it had been stored in her mind, had been prevented from making any display, by
the just principles which had been implanted with it, and the modesty of her
disposition, and which now unfolded itself very charily, and was drawn from its confinement, rather than protruded into
notice.
The prospect of such a connexion
would not
have been displeasing to Mrs. Elwyn; all cares, all fears for her child would
be at an end, in insuring her the protection of a man of honour, and the heir
of Mr. Elwyn; but could she ensure his affection? was she not herself a living,
a melancholy witness of the instability of human happiness—of the fallibility of all human schemes for its accomplishment? In the
youth of Harry Elwyn, she had appeared to be as much the object of his preference as Mary Ellis now seemed that of Harry
Belford’s; the one had abated—had vanished without a cause, a reason, a conjecture—it had been transient, dazzling as the watery sunbeam of a winter’s day—the other might only be the offspring of early intimacy, operating on an
ardent temper, and a mind which opened itself to the influence of every
pleasurable emotion, and tried to communicate some portion of its own happiness
to all who came within its sphere.
In the present state of Belford’s
feelings, Mrs. Elwyn had no doubt of his eagerly entering into an engagement
with her protegée, were it to be suggested to him
in the slightest manner by his benefactor; but she had known too much of the
mutability of the youthful heart to wish to put his constancy to the trial.
With regard to Mary Ellis she was
perfectly easy; her sense of her inferior origin, and her humble idea of her
own deserts, prevented her from indulging any aspiring thoughts, (for such she
would have esteemed them, had she suffered them to be lifted towards Mr.
Belford), by permitting her to behave towards Harry as she had ever done,
without checking her simple and candid manners, by conjectures or cautions,
which were not likely to be of any beneficial result.
Mrs. Elwyn judged that she was
pursuing a right line of conduct, yet she could not avoid feeling a secret and
warm satisfaction, when any instance of Belford’s partiality and regard for
Mary met her observation; but she saw that these were wholly disregarded by her
husband, who was ardently and exclusively attached to Belford, while the
engaging manners and modest gentleness of Mary Ellis appeared to be entirely
unobserved; and while he treated her with civility, it was of so indifferent a
kind, that Mary herself could not fail to remark it, and her lovely cheek was
often suffused with crimson, at receiving some fresh instance of his
inattention to, or entire forgetfulness of herself.
How few females of the present era
could bear the idea of being overlooked! this was calculated to stimulate Mary
Ellis, by additional attention and exertions, to deserve more notice in future;
but this constant exercise of her humility and display of her amiable
disposition, endeared her yet more to Mrs. Elwyn, who, though she had long
ceased to feel her
husband’s indifference towards herself as acutely as she once did, yet could
not help attributing to him great blindness, if not insensibility, in not
opening his heart to the engaging qualities and pleading claims of her Mary.
Mr. Elwyn was of late become inert
and inactive; the pleasures of the table seemed to be obtaining a dangerous
hold on his senses; he got very corpulent, took little exercise, and seldom
appeared to be roused from a state of lethargic indolence, except by the
appearance of Henry Belford at the Hall, after some occasional absence.
Sacredly concealing in the depths of
her own heart her painful observation of the faults and weaknesses of her
husband, Mrs. Elwyn invariably attributed to disorder and to indisposition
every renewed instance of his indifference; but the “silent sorrow” thus hidden from the world preyed on her vitals; and
once again, in compliance with the advice of her physician, and the
affectionate pleadings of Mary Ellis, she consented to leave home, and to visit Cheltenham, to try the efficacy of the waters at that place, for
the complaint which her medical adviser had pronounced to be “an affection of
the liver;” had he named it “an affection of the heart,”
his judgment would have been unquestionable.
It now gave some prospect of relief
to Mrs. Elwyn to leave home, and to be released for a short period from the
contemplation of her once-loved Elwyn, in his present enfeebled and degraded
state; to see his fine mental faculties—to see his energies destroyed—to contemplate that form, bloated and distended by corporeal indulgencies,
which had once rivalled with the statue of the far-famed Belvidere Apollo, for
a model of manly grace—to
behold all the gifts of fortune slighted, and not to be able to account in the
remotest way for the dire cause which led to this fearful, this appalling change—no wonder that the still acutely susceptible mind of Clara felt a
temporary alleviation of its misery, in a change of scene, and a removal from
the object of her ill-requited affection.
The attention of Mary Ellis to her
protectress was all that the fondest love and the most active
gratitude could inspire; without officiously obtruding on the invalid, she
sedulously watched the opportunity of stealing her (as it were) away from melancholy
contemplation; and varied her methods and her sources of amusement, as the
occasion required.
As a nurse, Mary had successfully
profited by the useful instructions which Mrs. Elwyn had imparted to her; and
her quiet, yet steady and uniform performance of the duties of a sick chamber,
while it proved the feeling benevolence of her heart, at the same exhibited
much presence of mind and great self-controul; for though tenderly,
apprehensively anxious for the event of this illness, Mary did not, by her
saddened countenance and agitated manner, give a hint to her suffering friend
of those tears, which often in the silence and the solitude of the night, when “all the world seemed
hushed to rest,” had sent her streaming eyes and piously clasped hands towards
the throne of Heaven, in prayers for Mrs. Elwyn; but in moments of reason and
reflection, Mary Ellis acknowledged, that nothing but the extreme of
selfishness could impel her to offer up a petition for the prolongation of that
life, which, it was evident, was become of no value to the possessor. “And
yet,” thought this grateful protegée, “by
precept, by example, by active usefulness, by patient suffering, by pious
resignation, of how much benefit to others has that life been! and how should I
have abused the mercies of the Almighty, I that have daily, hourly, been a
witness of her virtues, and her
meek submission, if I had not in some part learned to imitate her prompt
obedience to the will of Heaven!”
CHAP. VIII.
Her mien all swimming in delight,
Her beauties half reveal’d to sight.
MOORE’S FABLES.
HARRY Belford was not
at the Hall when Mrs. Elwyn quitted it for Cheltenham, but from the weekly
letters which she wrote to Mr. Elwyn, and which were in general carelessly
thrown on the library-table, he gathered that her health did not mend; and Mr.
Elwyn always yielding to any proposition of his favourite, Harry rode down to
Cheltenham to pay Mrs. Elwyn a visit.
The invalid was in her apartment
when Belford arrived; Mary Ellis was sitting at work, and in melancholy rumination
on Mrs. Elwyn’s evident increase of
illness.
She received him with smiles of
genuine satisfaction—“Mr.
Belford,” said she, as she rose from her chair, and met his extended hand,
“this is very good of you, but perhaps—” and her
countenance flushed with hope, “perhaps you are not unaccompanied?”
Belford understood the half inquiry
conveyed in the last word, and hastily said—“I came down with my servant only;
and now tell me, my dear Mary, how is our friend?”
Mary shook her head (while tears
started to her eyes), and as if that melancholy motion had been sufficient, she
eagerly desired Belford not to appear too much shocked at the alteration which
he would witness in Mrs. Elwyn. “It is not that I fear to alarm her,” continued Mary; “my beloved benefactress fears not
death; to her it presents no appalling terrors;
she knows, Mr. Belford, that ‘there the weary will be at rest;’ but it is for my sake, for our sakes, that
I speak; if she sees, from our countenances, that we judge her case to be past
remedy, may she not slacken in her efforts—may she not slight the means which are still essayed for her
recovery—may she not—” and now the tears would rush from her eyes, “may she not disregard any further
assistance, and thus accelerate the bitter moment of trial to us?”
“I will do all that I can,” said
Belford, in an hurried
tone; but his manly brow was overcast, his voice was impeded, as Mrs. Elwyn
entered the room, and his hand trembled as she held out her pallid, her almost
transparent one to him.
It was now that Belford first
observed the self-command and calm resolution of Mary Ellis—of her strong sensibility she had the moment before evinced unquestionable
proofs, yet with tranquillized feelings she now addressed both himself and Mrs.
Elwyn; and gently, and almost as if by enchantment, led the conversation to
indifferent and agreeable subjects.
“Is it the difference of nature, of
constitution, or of education,” thought Belford, “while every emotion of my
breast rages and wars with resistless impetuosity, this gentle, this delicate
girl, though tenderly alive to every soft emotion, has yet the power of saying—‘peace, be still,’ and in a moment all is quiet as the ‘pure translucent lake,’
while my ruffled soul continues turbulent as the unquiet and buffeting wave on
the tempestuous ocean?”
Mrs. Elwyn was much pleased at the
appearance of Belford at Cheltenham, and more so on Mary’s account than on her
own. She knew that Mary Ellis was exhibited to greater advantage in her present
situation, and in the performance of her present duties, than if surrounded by
a mixed and fashionable society.
Mary’s education had made her a
useful rather than an ornamental character; by the side of a belle of fashion,
she would have dwindled into a mere awkward and unpolished girl; for that understanding, which but cautiously and timidly
unfolded itself to the emboldening approval of friendly attention, would have
shrunk back with chilling apprehension from a competition with unblushing
effrontery and modern pertinacity.
Harry Belford appeared to be fully
aware of Mary Ellis’s attractive and endearing qualities, and while sedulously
courted by the gay world at Cheltenham, and received, wherever he appeared, as
the heir of Mr. Elwyn, the coveted partner of all the beauties at the balls,
and their favoured beau in their promenades on the walk, he yet retired frequently from the follies of fashion to the contemplation
of all that was patient and pious in Mrs. Elwyn—to the contemplation of all that was lovely, and worthy of being loved, in
the form of the artless and unassuming Mary.
But human
nature has its ebbs and flows, and Harry
Belford was by no means a perfect
character; he had formed a pretty good estimate of his own attractions and
advantages, and his vanity was much flattered at the evident marks of
partiality and attention, which were awarded to him wherever and whenever he
appeared. As a friend, as the companion of his youth, as an adviser, as the
gentle soother of his cares, he would have singled Mary Ellis from the world,
but the captivating Lauretta Montgomery was a far greater object of attraction
in public, and gave much more eclat to his taste.
Miss Montgomery was the beauty of
Cheltenham; she was lately arrived from the east with her mother, lady Lauretta
Montgomery.
Report, like an “avant courier,” had preceded these ladies to Cheltenham; it
was said that they had travelled one thousand, two thousand, three thousand,
and four thousand miles overland from
India, for the story gained a thousand miles at every time it was narrated,
(and promised to exceed the sand on the seashore in number, if these
exaggerating details were continued). In the same ratio, the camels which composed their train were fifty, sixty, seventy, and eighty; the size of their
oriental pearls was distended till they almost got to
the egg of the ostrich: but as a bulse of
diamonds sounded well for a Nabobess, the exact quantity contained in a bulse was increased only in the same proportion with the rest of the eastern
importation.
Miss Montgomery’s person was cast in
the mould of symmetry, and every embellishment of dress (or rather its rejection, as far as it could be done without quite
overstepping the bounds of decency) assisted in displaying every fine-turned
limb to the greatest advantage; her features were schooled in the arts of
attraction; and if she did not always say a thing worth listening to, yet the
pearly whiteness of her teeth, and the ruby richness of her mouth, gave
interest to the most trifling remark; but she could converse on all the
fashionable topics of the day—she could descant on the fashionable publications—quote
from the “Lay of the Last Minstrel”—warble the amorous effusions of Moore—speak of sentiment and sensibility with any German novelist—like
Niboe, almost “dissolve in tears,” and
instantaneously transform herself into all that was gay and lively, as she
sprang into the “frolic dance;” while presently she seemed to sink into all the
lassitude, the languor, and the inertion of Ottoman voluptuousness.
All the advantages of education
which could be procured in the east had been eagerly sought for the fair
Lauretta, and the last finish had been
put to every accomplishment, the last touch to every grace, since her arrival
in England; and she now broke forth from the east like the sun, to dazzle and
astonish all beholders.
Lady Lauretta Montgomery was passed
the bloom of youth, and even the maturity of her charms appeared to have been
hastily chaced away by the despoiling hand of sickness. The torrid zone had
given the tinge of yellow to her cheek, but her dark eyes yet flashed with fire
as she spoke, and the animation of her manner was peculiarly striking. In her
expressions, and even in her action, there was something so different from the
rest of the world, that she naturally attracted observation; and if reclining
almost at full length on a sofa, like an ancient figure at the foot of a family
tomb in a country church), enveloped in her shawl of camel’s hair, in the midst
of a crowded ball-room, such behaviour was excused, nay even admired, on the
plea of its being “foreign,”
“quite Asiatic,” “perfectly nouvelle.”
In Lady Lauretta’s language, she
adopted all the flowery figures of eastern poesy; but as these could not be
easily woven into the trivial occurrences of the passing moment, she did not
condescend to notice them, unless
she shrouded them in metaphor and sublimity.
In her addresses to Miss Montgomery
she used every appellative of tenderness, and redundantly expressed affection,
which she had gleaned from the copious sources of oriental phraseology. All her
ideas, all her sentiments, seemed sublimated from every thing that was
terrestrial; and while the impassioned voice of the mother
was thus pouring forth the warm effusions of the heart, the enchanting smiles
of the daughter, as she silently received them,
formed a picture, which, from its singularity, was calculated to interest; and the unabashed and unconstrained manner
with which the young lady heard these tender addresses, while they gave her in some
eyes a double charm, and showed the sweet simplicity and consciousness
of her supreme attractions,
had quite a contrary effect on others, who traced in her behaviour the very
acme of indulged and overweening vanity; and who scrupled not to aver, that under
the appearance of “naif” simplicity, much art and much duplicity lay concealed.
To this number Belford did not belong; he saw in
Lauretta Montgomery all that the highest refinement could wish for; as a model
of fashionable elegance, to him there appeared
a nameless grace in her every action, an
indescribable charm in her every word; when she spoke, he seemed bound as if by
a spell of enchantment—when she
danced, he seemed drawn into a magic circle of delight—when she sang, and accompanied the finely-modulated
trill of her voice with her harp, as if “lapped in Elysium,” he was all ear;
his mind seemed in a rapturous tumult in her presence; and when he quitted her,
he was agitated with impetuous passion, till he repaired to Mrs. Elwyn’s; and there he contemplated the modest and placid Mary Ellis, who, “like the mild green of the soul,” seemed to refresh his senses, and to
compose his mind, after those brilliant corruscations, which, while they
dazzled, had filled him with perturbation.
Alike alive to the calls of pride as
of vanity, the thought of marrying Mary Ellis had never entered the imagination
of Belford; indeed, the idea of marrying at all had never been seriously
reflected on; but he daily felt more flattered at the marked distinction of
Miss Montgomery; and when he was joked on the subject, though he affected to
disclaim it, yet his self-exultation was pretty evident.
It was not likely that either Mrs.
Elwyn or her protegée should hear of Belford’s
flirtation with Miss Montgomery; they saw no one but himself, (for Mrs. Elwyn
was unable to quit the house, and Mary never left her); and though Lauretta
Montgomery was the all-engrossing subject of his thoughts, when he reached Mrs.
Elwyn’s door, he found her image very soon put to flight, while witnessing the
patient suffering of Mrs. Elwyn, and the gentle attentions of Mary.
Amiable, charming, sensible, and
dignified as was Mrs. Elwyn, Belford still saw that she would not comprehend the characters of the Montgomerys by description,
and that any attempt to give it might be dangerous, lest in pourtraying their unique graces of conversation and manner, eccentricity might
be supposed to form a part.
It was only those who knew them, who
had personally conversed with them, who
could properly appreciate their indescribable and countless attractions.
Exemplary in her conduct and deportment, there was a regular and systematic
rule of right in every word as well as
action of Mrs. Elwyn. She had been
educated in the sterling principles of rectitude, which used
to be implanted with the first rudiments of female education, in the good old
times. The natural ingenuousness of youth was then
chastened by proper and maidenly reserve, and politeness of behaviour
inculcated by those enforcing rules, which, if they gave rather too much formality to the
manner, and imposed a little too much
restraint on the conversation, were yet deemed by our grandmothers as the
proper bulwark of female modesty and virtue; by their grandchildren
this mode of education would have been
termed “the reign of terror;” and to
say the truth, it must be allowed, that there is nothing terrifying
in the forms or the ceremonies
practised by the gay belles of this century; though frequently the most terrific consequences have ensued to the unshackled laxity
of modern manners.
CHAP. IX.
With smiles and adulation bland.
MOORE’S FABLES.
BELFORD had always
felt an unaccountable repugnance to speak of the Montgomerys in the presence of
Mrs. Elwyn, and that pride which was gratified at the distinguished notice
bestowed on him by persons so high in rank and in notoriety as were these
ladies, seemed to slumber in the society of the invalid and her interesting
young attendant; but it “raged and reigned without controul” when he quitted them; and the
look of gratified and conscious exultation with which he looked around him,
when receiving some proofs of Miss Montgomery’s or her mother’s marked
attention, would have evinced to any one who had been prepared for the
scrutiny, that self-consequence and pride were the ruling traits of his
character; but sailing down the stream of pleasure, while every thing is
propitious to the wishes, there is in the ardent and sanguine temperament of
youth so buoyant and so bright an expression of felicity, that, dazzled by the
exterior, we are apt to give it credit for more amiability, and for more
perfection, than falls to the lot of human nature.
The pleasing address, the fine
person, the agreeable conversation, and the fair prospects of Belford, were
alone viewed by the multitude; and in his turn he was
as much extolled by the young ladies and their mamas, as Miss Montgomery had
been by the beaux.
The flattery of the world—its artificial manners—its affectation of interest for our persons—its approbation of our sentiments—its warm expressions of regard and admiration, which are merely words of
course, and lip deep—used to
all people on all occasions, are calculated to do incredible mischief to the
minds of youth, more especially to those who, like Belford, have their
prominent foibles encouraged by this mode of behaviour; and who, unpractised in
the varnished arts of insincerity and dissimulation, are well disposed to lend
a ready ear to every thing which feeds their vanity.
It was at an elegant ball and supper
given by lady Lauretta Montgomery to about an hundred of the most fashionable
people at that period in Cheltenham, that Harry Belford seemed absolutely
lifted above himself, by the marked distinction with which he was treated by
the interesting mistress of the revels and her enchanting daughter.
As lady Lauretta’s behaviour gave
the tone to her guests, Belford seemed the universal object of applause and
attraction. If he spoke, his speech was retailed
as a jeu d’esprit to lady Lauretta, as she
rested on an Ottoman couch of rose-coloured satin at the head of the room. If a
young lady was heard to say something indicative of her admiration, with much
avidity Miss Montgomery had it repeated to her; and the bewitching smile with
which she instantaneously turned towards Belford, as if to observe whether he
had noticed it, while it gave to every one an opportunity of making their own
remarks, was calculated to fill the breast of Belford with the most ecstatic
delight.
The ball had been opened by the fair
Lauretta and himself on that evening; never had she looked more lovely; and the
bird of paradise, as it waved its feathery plumage on her head, seemed to point
her out as one of the fabled houris, which had been described by Mahomet to his
impassioned followers, as an inhabitant of that favoured land.
She danced that night in a style
which surpassed every thing which had been seen; and Belford, who was not
deficient in this accomplishment, felt inspired with emulation as he looked at
his bewitching partner, and never had moved more gracefully, or looked more
irresistibly.
All rapture, all delight, all
enchantment, he led the beauteous fair one to the supper-room, where all the
luxuries of European elegance and Asiatic splendour seemed combined to make out
an entertainment for the admiring guests. No longer could he restrain his
emotions, but bending his head to the not unwilling ear of the fair Lauretta,
while he played with the ivory fan, which he had sportively taken from her, he
poured forth a strain of admiration, and fond protestation of adoration and
attachment, with all the sanguine and ardent impetuosity of his nature.
The bewitching maid, while she half
looked down, yet betrayed no symptoms of uneasiness; and while fondly expecting
from this gentle softness some confession of reciprocal tenderness, and
pleading for it with a degree of impassioned earnestness, which made him
forgetful of every thing beside. Lauretta turned her melting eyes towards him;
her coral lips were severed, as she seemed beginning to speak: all eye, all
ear, Belford sat in mute and throbbing expectation, when, feeling a gentle tap
on his shoulder, he hastily turned round, though not much pleased at the
interruption, when he met the face of his own servant, who respectfully putting
a note into his hand, said—“The servants here, sir, all being engaged, I thought it better to find you
out and deliver it myself, for fear of any delay.”
The hand of Belford trembled, for as he took the note, he recognised the hand-writing of Mary Ellis: with a slight inclination of the head, Miss Montgomery gave the permission for perusal, which he seemed to have asked, though he had not uttered a word; and with the most painful emotion he read the following words:—
“MY DEAR SIR,
“I
am sorry to break in upon your festivities, but a change so much for the worse
has taken place in our beloved friend, within the last two hours, that it is
necessary Mr. Elwyn should immediately be apprized of it.
MARY
ELLIS.”
Lauretta Montgomery was vanished from the imagination of Belford—the
enchanted supper, the ball, the sparkling decorations, were fled—he was already
in the street, and in a few seconds at Mrs. Elwyn’s door.
In the parlour he was met by the
gentle Mary; in a subdued but articulate voice, yet trembling with apprehensive
affection, she informed him, that in the middle of the night, Mrs. Elwyn had
been seized with an alarming fit of coughing, and that in consequence she had
broken a blood-vessel, from which the most alarming consequences were to be
apprehended.—“She is now easy,” said Mary, “and, thank Heaven, for the present we have nothing to dread; but how soon the
hemorrhage may return, alas! we cannot say—she must be kept perfectly quiet.
Ah, Mr. Belford, she looks like an expiring saint!” cried Mary, breaking out
into a passionate flood of tears. “She would not suffer me at first to send for
you, with her usual goodness, unwilling to shorten the enjoyment of others.”
“Enjoyment!” repeated Belford, with
a bitter expression of countenance, and putting his hand to his forehead,
“enjoyment! and that while my dearest friends were suffering!”
“But sensible,” continued Mary, “of
her imminent danger, and anxious to see Mr. Elwyn once
again,” here Mary’s voice was lost, and she turned from Belford, and hid her
face in her handkerchief.—“But I forgot myself,” said she; “no time must be
lost—our beloved Mrs. Elwyn desires to see you for one moment—she thinks you will write to Mr. Elwyn.”
“Write!” hastily repeated Belford,
“I will go, instantly go—no messenger could go so quickly as I shall, Mary,
guided by duty and affection.”
“Thank you, bless
you, Mr. Belford,” said Mary, catching his hand, and pressing it with fervor to
her lips; she knew not what she did, but the artless action was felt—it was remembered by Belford—it
afforded him an instance of the intuitive gratitude of her nature, of the
enthusiasm of her affection for her protectress, which was never erased from
his mind.
“You,” said
Mary, “can tell Mr. Elwyn how very ill my
dear benefactress is—it is not a very long
journey for him to take—besides you will
accompany him back; and—and—” Mary felt that she was putting persuasives for
Mr. Elwyn to undertake the journey into the mouth of Belford—alas!! her
foreboding mind had told her they would be necessary; but she tried to believe
otherwise, and only adding—“He will come, he cannot but come,” she led the way
to Mrs. Elwyn’s apartments, and gently moved on tiptoe; thus delicately, by her
example, teaching Belford to do the same.
Mrs. Elwyn’s pallid countenance could
scarcely be distinguished from the white pillow on which it rested. Belford
approached the bed; she received him with a faint smile; and as he reverently
bent his head, and pressed his lips to the hand which, extended on the
counterpane, she did not seem to have strength to hold out, Mrs. Elwyn feebly
whispered –“Tell Mr. Elwyn it will give me comfort to behold him once more, and
bid him lose no time.”
“Mr. Belford says he will go
himself, my dearest mama,” said Mary, in a gentle whisper.
The pleased expression of Mrs.
Elwyn’s eye, as she turned it on Belford, conveyed the warmest satisfaction to
his heart. Again he bent upon her hand, and exchanging a kind look of adieu
with Mary Ellis, he quitted the apartment.
With the utmost speed Belford
changed his ball trappings for a travelling suit, and mounting his own horse,
thinking it would carry him more swiftly than he could be conveyed in a chaise,
he set off for Elwyn Hall.
The rapid haste with which he moved
along seemed to preclude his mind from much reflection; yet, strange as it may
seem, the image of Lauretta Montgomery was chaced away by the dying form of
Mrs. Elwyn, and tearful eye of Mary Ellis; and when he glanced at the festive
scene which had so recently entranced his senses, it was with something of
self-reproach, for he dwelt on the more recent and affecting one to which he
had been summoned.
As the ignis
fatuus dazzles and misleads the
traveller, by its playful and versatile brilliancy, and as the mild influence
of the chaste orb of night, as it pursues its steady track, gives him both
content and resolution on the way, so did the benign form of Mary Ellis appear
to Belford; and each wish of his soul seemed now to be turned towards the
amelioration of her situation, and in hasting back to Mrs. Elwyn, with that
comfort which a husband’s presence alone could give.
Mr. Elwyn was just taking his
afternoon’s nap (after a plentiful meal) when Belford entered; he had given
orders not to be disturbed, but the servants knew that there was always an
exception in favour of their young master; neither were they mistaken; Mr.
Elwyn roused himself with some appearance of pleasure, as he said—“Henry
Belford, my dear boy, where did you come from? sit down—I am delighted to see
you—and now you are come home to stay, I hope?”
“A very short time, my dear sir,”
answered Belford, respectfully taking the hand of his patron; “but I am going
to take you back with me to Cheltenham; Mrs. Elwyn wishes for your company, and
I know you will not deny us.”
A “pshaw” half broke from Mr. Elwyn
as Belford named his wife; but, as if recollecting himself, he made a cold
inquiry after her health.
Belford then unreservedly acquainted
him with the precarious state in which she lay, and which had been the occasion
of his sudden return; and after having waited for some moments for Mr. Elwyn to
speak, but without effect, he again addressed him, and urged the wishes of Mrs.
Elwyn, saying—“I ordered the travelling chaise as I came in, for if we do not
set off instantly, I fear we can
hardly expect to see her alive.”
Mr. Elwyn trembled all over, but his
silence was taken for consent by Belford, who was hastily quitting him, to see
that his orders had been followed up, when Mr. Elwyn said—“Stop, Harry—come
hither; stop, Harry—I cannot go.”
“Not go, my
dearest sir?” said Belford; “not go! to afford the last earthly consolation to
the amiable, the suffering, the dying Mrs.
Elwyn?”
Elwyn shuddered, and putting both
his hands before his face, he said—“No, I cannot
go—I cannot behold Clara in her last
moments.”
“Ah, my beloved, my honoured
benefactor, say not so!” cried Belford; “it is a scene calculated to give peace
and comfort to all her friends. The greatness of
Mrs. Elwyn’s mind never shone more conspicuously than during this her long and
trying illness, and as she gets nearer to the closing scene of her
pilgrimage—(“Pilgrimage!” repeated Mr. Elwyn in a hollow whisper, while a sigh
issued from the bottom of his heart)—her patience, her fortitude, and her
faith, seem to be gaining strength as her bodily faculties decay. Believe me,
my dear sir, such a contemplation has in it something, which, though it cannot
be expressed, yet seems to afford us consolation, even in the midst of our
affliction. We must regret her for ourselves—but
for her, she seems already to have a
foretaste of the happiness prepared for her; and but that she still fondly
clings to attachments closely rivetted to her affectionate and benevolent
heart—to you, her husband—to the
child of her bounty—and to me, the happy
object of your goodness, she seems already an inhabitant of that world to which
she is going. The only earthly wish that now remains is once
more to see her husband—and surely it will
not, cannot be denied to her!”—and Belford
grasped the hand of Mr. Elwyn, and looked in his face with a beseeching
expression.
The countenance of Mr. Elwyn was no
longer hid by his hands, but he seemed to look on vacancy rather than on the
animated pleader, who was in an attitude which might almost be called kneeling
before him.
“Pray—pray sir, do not deny me,”
cried Belford, “do not now deny your own Harry
Belford this one request—a request which for
your own sake you ought to accede to, as well
as for that of the dear sufferer.”
“I cannot
go,” said Mr. Elwyn, “have I not said so?—Harry, torture me no longer; tell
poor Clara—tell her—I do not know what I would say,” said he, pausing, and
leaning on the mantle-piece.
“No!”
said Belford, “you cannot frame a message that will excuse your attendance—I
know, I feel you cannot—and you will accompany
me.”
“Never!” said Mr. Elwyn; “I am ill—I
am unhinged both in mind and body—I am not equal to the exertion—you see I am
not; tell her so—say that I am indisposed, dear Harry,” said he, with some
appearance of eagerness, as if happy to have hit on any thing which might wear
the semblance of a reasonable excuse.
“But will you not be worse, my dear
sir, if you thus give way to an imaginary imbecility? believe me, my honoured Mr. Elwyn,” and Belford spoke with the warmth of
virtue, “there can be no danger to be apprehended from that exertion which is the offspring of duty and affection. Pray,
pray do not be angry with your Harry
Belford, if he ventures to suggest to you that you will have more to dread from
the pangs of self-upbraiding, should you remain here, than could possibly await
you in taking this journey.”
“Self-upbraiding! what do you mean,
Harry?” asked Mr. Elwyn, with quickness; “are you
then become my inquisitor and my judge? does my own—does—do you, Harry, condemn me?”
“Condemn you—God forbid!” cried
Belford with emotion, his heart overflowing with gratitude to his patron, yet
at the same moment throbbing with agonizing emotions at the idea of returning
to Cheltenham unaccompanied—“God forbid, my dear Mr. Elwyn!” repeated he with
fervor; “but in return for the countless obligations you have heaped on me, I
would try, if possible, to prevent you from experiencing one moment of
self-reproach.”
Mr. Elwyn was softened towards his
favourite, but he still persisted in declaring his inability to take the
journey; and Belford, who believed the idea to proceed wholly from his habitual
indulgence and supineness, while he lamented that long course of intemperance
which had produced such imbecility and timid apprehension, saw that nothing which
he could urge had power to persuade him to the contrary.
In the utmost mortification and
distress, as he pictured the sad consequences which might too probably ensue to
Mrs. Elwyn, when she should see him arrive without her husband, he left the
room, and tried to compose the tumult of his agitated mind, in pacing with
hurried steps the spacious hall; but suddenly recollecting that every moment
was precious, and that while he yet lingered Mrs. Elwyn might be breathing her
last, he returned to the dining-room. Rising from his seat, Mr. Elwyn poured
him out a large bumper of Madeira, (having during this little interim fortified
his own courage not
to take the journey, but more resolutely
to withstand the intreaties of Belford, with two or three glasses)—“Come,
Harry, take a glass of wine; it will do you good.”
Belford declined the invitation,
saying—“That having eaten nothing for the day, he was afraid to venture.”
Mr. Elwyn instantly pulled the bell,
saying—“Good God!! why did you not say so before? why would you not order
something? Harry, my dear Harry; you know you are master here; every thing I
have is yours. Why did you wait to be asked?”
“Alas!” answered Belford, “I have
had no time to bestow a thought on myself; and even now I scarcely dare take advantage
of your kindness; but if you will say that after I have
taken some refreshment, I shall have your company on
the way”——
“I have told you, Harry,” said Mr.
Elwyn, “that I cannot go;” and he spoke with
more peevishness than he had ever used to his favourite. “You would not ask me,
if you—if you knew how I felt.”
“But am not I a proud, a living
instance,” asked Belford, “that selfishness does not form a part of Mr. Elwyn’s
character, and to evade a temporary inconvenience, would he run the hazard of
purchasing to himself a lasting subject of regret?”
“Urge me no more, imprudent boy; if
you will persist, you drive me to distraction.”
The look of agonizing suffering
which Mr. Elwyn’s countenance exhibited, as he said these words, appalled and
confounded his hearer; he said no more, but hastily snatching a few mouthfuls
of refreshment from a tray which a servant had put on the table, he looked at
his benefactor with an expression of mingled duty and compassion, as he drank
the glass of wine which he had poured out for him, and grasping his hand with
emotion, (while Mr. Elwyn threw himself back in a chair, and turned his face
from his gaze), he caught up his hat, and left the room; the chaise which he
had ordered was at the door, and, without further delay, he sprang into it, and
was driven off.
CHAP. X.
She, frail offspring of an April morn,
Poor helpless passenger from love to scorn;
While dimpled youth her sprightly cheek adorns,
Blooms a sweet rose, a rose amid the thorns;
A few short hours, with faded charms, to earth
She sinks, and leaves no vestige of her birth.
MISS
AIKIN.
THE morning which
dawned upon the sick-bed of Mrs. Elwyn, soon after Belford had quitted the
room, brought with it some amelioration to the griefs of the watchful Mary, as
she saw her beloved protectress gently resign herself to the influence of
sleep.
After enjoying two hours of tranquil
slumber, Mrs. Elwyn awoke calm and refreshed, free from pain, though much
weakened by her recent violent attack. Sensible that she had not long to live,
her eyes seemed to fix themselves on the darling object of her affection, and
her heart to overflow in love towards her.—“My best child,” said she, tenderly
holding her hand, “come nearer to me, and let me seize the last opportunity which
may be allowed me, of making known to you my wishes, with regard to your future
destination.”
Mary bent her lovely mournful
countenance towards her dearest friend; she softly pressed her warm lips on her
cold moist forehead, and in an attitude of pious attention, and holding in her
breath, as though she would not lose a syllable, she listened to that maternal
advice, which she resolved to make the sacred rule of her conduct, and which
might be truly said to be engraven on her heart.
Mrs. Elwyn did not conceal from Mary
that she did not entertain very sanguine expectations of seeing her husband; he
had never visited her bed of sickness,
and her bed of death was not likely to be a
scene which would be contemplated by him; yet, to have assured him in person,
that never in thought, word, or deed, had she swerved from her allegiance to
her early love—to have bestowed upon him her last prayers—to have communicated
personally to him her wishes concerning Mary Ellis, would have afforded her the
most heartfelt satisfaction; but as she feared that it was likely to be denied
her, she had addressed a letter to him, in an hour of comparative
convalescence, and she now informed her weeping auditor of its contents.
Mrs. Elwyn still felt the most
tender and affectionate interest in her husband’s happiness; by the natural
goodness of her own nature she judged of his; and though his neglect and
indifference had been closely folded in the deepest recesses of her heart, yet
she suspected that they would be conjured up by the “busy meddling memory,” and
that when she was gone for ever, Mr. Elwyn might feel regret and compunction;
she therefore had urged in her letter to himself, and also in her advice to
Mary Ellis, her continuing to reside at Elwyn Hall, till the period when her
virtues should have fixed the affections of some worthy being, who might make
her his willing partner for life.—“You know Mr. Elwyn’s turn of mind, my
beloved girl, his peculiarities, and the different shades of his temper—you
will not break in on his retirement by officiousness—you will not disturb his
period of abstraction by ill timed loquacity—your gentle and unassuming manners
have particularly calculated you to be an inmate in his family; and your quiet
and regular method of pursuing your active avocations, while they cannot offend
the most fastidious, will always afford you self-satisfaction in their
discharge; besides, where could I point out for you a more eligible asylum,
than under that roof which has been your shelter from infancy, and under the
immediate protection of my husband?”
“But without you, without
you!”—sighed out Mary.
“Mary, we must not dare to murmur at
the dispensations of the All-Wise. I have had a long time of suffering.”
Mrs. Elwyn paused, and Mary once
more essayed to resume her fortitude, from which she had been instantaneously
bereft, as the idea forcibly presented itself to her imagination, of the
solitary gloom of Elwyn Hall, when bereft of its mistress.
Mrs. Elwyn proceeded—“I have already
told you, my dear child, that in the provision which I have requested Mr. Elwyn
to make for you, I have removed you from an affluent rank of life, while I have
guarded you from the distresses allied to poverty. If four thousand pounds
would not make my Mary happy, double, nay treble that sum would fail; and the
man who would not take Mary Ellis with four thousand pounds, would not deserve
her.”
“Enough, enough!” whispered Mary; “enough for me; what do I merit—what do I deserve—what ought I
to expect? a poor orphan—a foundling; I owe my life
to you. Oh, my dear madam, where might poor Mary Ellis have been at this
moment, if you had not preserved her?”
“Compose yourself, dear Mary; for my sake, compose yourself. My fortune would at my death have
been unalienably Mr. Elwyn’s, had I never become his wife.” Mrs. Elwyn sighed
and paused—“I do believe, that if I were to desire him to give you the half of
it, he would scrupulously, nay promptly fulfil my last request; but I have
perhaps been more delicate in my expenditure, from knowing the liberality of
disposition which has always distinguished Harry Elwyn.”
After some more affectionate
instructions on the subject of Mary’s future conduct, Mrs. Elwyn proceeded as
follows: —“A few words more I must add, my dearest Mary, on a topic which, perhaps,
you have not yet considered; it is with regard to your settling in marriage. I
do not guard you against forming a connexion with the profligate, the
irreligious, or the undeserving; I feel that your good sense, and your good
principles, will preserve you from such an unhappy fate; but I would shield you
from the bitter pangs of ill-requited affection—I would guard you from the
weakness of your own heart—I would earnestly beseech you not to accept the hand
of any man, till you have in some measure proved his constancy—till you are assured that your affection is reciprocal. Duty, gratitude,
transient partiality, many feelings may, I fear, be mistaken for that exclusive
attachment which ought to subsist to render the
married state a happy one. I am not pleading for the existence of that
all-engrossing passion which, alas! is to be found only in the enthusiasm of
youth, and in the pages of romance, but for that steady and reasonable
affection, which is calculated to ripen into mutual confidence and esteem, and
to smooth and gild the passage to the tomb.”
Insensibly, as if pourtraying from
having experienced the painful reverse in her own case, Mrs. Elwyn grew more
energetic, but more affected as she concluded the last sentence, till exhausted
by the exertion, she was obliged to fall back on her pillow.
Much impressed with the feeling and
goodness of heart which Belford had evinced in his late visit to Cheltenham,
his attention to herself, his brotherly kindness towards Mary, together with
the prompt manner in which he had met the summons from the scene of festive
pleasures, and had commenced a hasty and solitary journey, Mrs. Elwyn felt a
latent hope arise in her mind, of his becoming, at no very distant period, the
protector and husband of her Mary. In desiring that she might remain an
inhabitant at the Hall, she knew that she was giving him an opportunity of
seeing her in the fairest and most interesting light; and she thought it was
highly probable, that the generous and ardent temper of Belford might be taken
captive by so much excellence, notwithstanding that his natural pride, and his
self-consequence, might at first have revolted from the idea; but remembering
her own unhappy case, and fearing that the fatal error into which her husband
had fallen, (for of selfish or of interested views, in forming a connexion with
herself, she had never accused Harry Elwyn), she had been thus particular in
warning her youthful protegée.
Although Mrs. Elwyn tried to conceal
the disappointment which she experienced, on seeing Belford return
unaccompanied by Mr. Elwyn, yet it wounded her soul—her faithful heart; to be
denied a last look of the beloved object, for whom she had sacrificed all her
earthly prospects, and all her earthly happiness, was painfully, acutely felt,
even when her entire resignation to the will of Heaven, and the fortitude with
which she contemplated her approaching dissolution, might, in some measure,
have been supposed to have blunted these sensations.—But
On some fond breast the
parting soul relies,
Some pious drop the
closing eye requires;
Even from the tomb the
voice of Nature cries,
Even in our ashes live the wonted fires.
The constant and the faithful heart
of virtuous woman, clings with its last sigh to the object of early and pure attachment;
of this nature was the attachment of Mrs. Elwyn; it had upborne itself in the
midst of coldness, estrangement, and neglect, and it did not reproach Mr. Elwyn for this last instance of unkindness; for
every jarring, every warring sentiment; was extirpated from her pious breast;
and in the arms of her beloved Mary Ellis she resigned her last breath, while
beseeching Heaven to shower down its blessings on the heads of Mr. Elwyn, on
her child, and on Harry Belford, who, overcome with grief, knelt at the foot of
the bed, (and clasped his hands in speechless but pious earnestness, lifting up
his eyes to Heaven, as if to witness the sacredness of his promise), as the
expiring saint, pointing to Mary Ellis, besought his
care of her.
Such scenes as these have truly been
said to better the heart. In the contemplation of the latter end of such a
woman, the soul seems purified from all selfish, from all gross feelings.
Belford lifted up a fervent
aspiration for such an happy exit to himself; and while he took the hand of
Mary, in order to speak words of comfort, he approached her with the respect
and veneration with which he would have addressed a ministering angel, for such
had she appeared to him.
Poor Mary could
not be comforted—“I weep, dear Mr. Belford,” said she, “but it is for myself I
weep; leave me, leave me now—let me give way to my feelings for a few hours—I
shall then be better—I will then try to frame my mind to some degree of
composure.”
Belford pressed her hand in silence,
and retired to acquaint Mr. Elwyn with the melancholy event which had taken
place, and to give the necessary orders, and make arrangements for the removal
of the body to Elwyn Hall.
CHAP. XI.
Do foul misdeeds of former times,
Wring with remorse thy guilty breast,
And ghosts of unforgiven crimes,
Murder thy rest.
Lash’d by the furies of the mind,
From wrath and vengeance wouldst thou flee?
MONTGOMERY.
WE will not weary our
readers with a minute detail of these cheerless scenes; suffice it to observe,
that Mary Ellis and Belford preceded the hearse which contained the remains of
their lamented friend, in a mourning chariot, the servants following in a
coach.
By the express desire of Mr. Elwyn,
the melancholy procession did not rest at the Hall, but proceeded immediately
to the parish church. As they slowly passed through the village of Norton, and
the heavy bell of death first struck on the ear of Mary, she leant back in the
carriage, all her fortitude seemed to forsake her at the sound, and the
consoling and encouraging voice of her companion was scarcely heard in this
excess of grief; but the chaise stopt at the church-yard-gate, and through that
walk, where her kind protectress had often leant on her
youthful arm, it was now poor Mary’s turn to be supported by Belford. The
servants of the Hall, the tenantry, and the sorrowing peasants, lined the way,
and sighs and tears only broke on the silence. Mr. Elwyn was missing; he had
signified to Belford that he was unable to witness the scene; and as he had
made that an excuse where his presence might
have given comfort, Belford did not wish to tax his feelings on the present
occasion.
Mary Ellis seemed as if she had lost
all that the world contained worth living for, when the corse was interred in
the family vault of the Elwyns; but she remembered that she was now going to
meet Mr. Elwyn, and that she must endeavour to put in practice some of that
advice with respect to her future conduct, which had been given her by one whom
it had hitherto been her delight to obey.
The manly soul of Belford
sympathized with the lovely girl, but he tried, by his steady manner, to infuse
some portion of resolution into her.
Mary had always feared Mr. Elwyn,
because she had always perceived that she was not beloved by him, and this
feeling had added to her natural reserve in his presence; now
it seemed as if her imagination was conjuring up his recent neglect of her
beloved protectress, more painfully to distress her; and she trembled from head
to foot, as Belford almost lifted her from the chaise, and assisted her across
the hall to the library, where Mr. Elwyn was sitting by the fire.
The windows were already closed, and
candles were lighted, though it was yet early in the afternoon, and the sun had
not reached the end of his daily career; but the idea of seeing the funeral
procession, as it passed through the long avenue which led from the Hall to the
village church, (and which had been the accustomed burial-path time
immemorial), was insupportable to Mr. Elwyn, who would also, had it been possible,
have stopt all entrance to his ears, when the bell announced to him the
expected approach of the procession. Alas! it would have seemed as if he had
wilfully closed the avenues of his heart, to give force and bitterness to the
complicated emotions of his anguished and tortured spirit.
A large folding screen concealed
Mary Ellis from the view of Mr. Elwyn; with something like a forcible action,
she withdrew her arm from the supporting one of Belford, and while she impelled
him forwards, she yet lingered behind the screen, putting her hand to her
panting side, as if to acquire resolution.
“My dear sir, how are you?” asked
Belford.
“Harry, my dear fellow, my dearest
boy, are you come? is it past—is it all over? how glad I am to see you!”
Mr. Elwyn’s voice seemed obstructed,
his words were hurried.
Mary now advanced, but her pallid
cheeks, her tearful eyes, her agitated frame, as she tottered towards Mr.
Elwyn, all spoke a language too intelligible to him; he started, and as she
would have taken his hand, he turned from her, and burst into tears.
“It is too much, Henry,” said he;
“it is too much—I can’t bear it. Harry, take her away, if you will not have me
die before you. I cannot bear to look at her.”
Poor Mary heard no more; she sunk
fainting on the floor, and was borne out of the room by the kind and generous
Belford, who, hastily giving her to the care of the housekeeper, returned to
his benefactor.
Belford saw, and deeply lamented,
that weakness and imbecility of mind which had so fatally usurped the place of
every manly sentiment in the character of Mr. Elwyn, and he resolved to seize
the present opportunity of making known the last wishes and intentions of Mrs.
Elwyn with regard to Mary Ellis.
He must have wanted discernment and
observation, if he had not always noticed the indifference with which Mr. Elwyn
had treated this gentle girl; but he had, at the same time, felt his indulgence
to himself, and had seen that this had been an all-engrossing preference.
Mrs. Elwyn’s capacious heart had
taken an interest in his welfare, as
well as in that of Mary; but dreadful would be the fate of this poor girl, if
in losing her kind and affectionate protectress, she should find herself not
only an object of indifference, but almost of disgust and aversion to him, who was to supply to her the place of all she had lost.
Painful as the duty was, and
conscious that the subject was a most ungrateful one to the mind of Mr. Elwyn,
yet Belford did not falter in the task he had deputed to himself; he went
through a cursory review of the patience, the resignation, and the fortitude
which Mrs. Elwyn had evinced on her deathbed, and entered into a minute detail
of her wishes, with regard to the future destination of Mary, as expressed to
him, and through him to be communicated to Mr. Elwyn.
As Belford spoke, Mr. Elwyn
exhibited evident symptoms of uneasiness.
When he mentioned the sum which Mrs.
Elwyn had requested him to bestow on Mary Ellis, (and which she had likewise
specified in a short address, which she had written to her husband)—“Four thousand pounds!” repeated Mr. Elwyn;
“poor Clara! always modest—always considerate—always fearful of overstepping
the bounds of justice—always setting limits to thy noble liberality of spirit. If thou hadst said ten, twenty, thirty, it should have been
hers.”
“I know it would,” said Belford, his
bright eyes sparkling; “but Mary Ellis, if I rightly estimate her turn of mind,
would not have felt happier for the addition.”
“I could
have wished,” said Mr. Elwyn, “that she might have been allowed to fix her
residence any where but here.”
“And why, my dear sir?” asked
Belford with eagerness; “why should such a wish arise in your breast? I am
conscious that it was on your account, more than on that of Miss Ellis, that
our departed friend recommended her residence here.”
“On my
account, Harry?”
“Yes, sir, on your
account. Mrs. Elwyn knew, that in the soothing delicacy, in the devotedness of female attention, there is something which is
denied to our rougher sex; bereft of her society, of
her converse, of her
fond, of her attentive cares, who would cheer—who
would enliven—who would administer to you—who but this good girl? who, trained
up in the principles and practice of her revered friend, will feel it the pride
and the glory of her life, to be in the remotest degree instrumental to your
comfort.”
“Well, well, she may stay—she is to stay—Clara commanded it,” said Mr.
Elwyn, with some degree of peevishness.
“And you will bless
her for it,” said Belford, with much warmth; “without
female society, what should the best of us become? and now that death has
deprived you of her—”
“No more—no more, Harry; not a word
more, if you love me,” said Mr. Elwyn, starting from his seat.
“Forgive me, my best friend,” said
Belford, “for thus cruelly reminding you of the extent of your loss. Alas!”
continued he, with a deep-drawn sigh, “we all feel it to
be irreparable.”
Mr. Elwyn walked to the other end of
the room, he clasped his hands in agony, he almost groaned as he said—“Harry,
Harry Belford, I believe I shall go distracted!”
Belford was awed into silence by the
unaccountable emotion of Mr. Elwyn; for it seemed unaccountable to him, that a
man, who could feel so acutely, and who exhibited such undissembled marks of
sorrow at the death of his wife, should yet have treated her with such cold and
cutting neglect during her life, and have cruelly refused her last—her dying
request.
Belford was at this period new to
the emotions of the human heart, he had never before witnessed the
“compunctious visitings of conscience.”
Mary Ellis soon recovered her sense
and recollection; but it was some time ere she ventured again to obtrude
herself into the presence of Mr. Elwyn; she might have absented herself
entirely, and not have feared that an inquiry would have been made after her
from the master of the mansion, (so wholly insignificant did she seem in his
estimation); but when he happened to cast his eyes accidentally on her
grief-worn countenance, immediately were they withdrawn, for it seemed as if
the alteration he there witnessed always carried a pang to his heart.
At these moments the kindness and
consideration of Belford were deeply felt by our amiable orphan; he strenuously
endeavoured to divert his patron’s mind to another subject; and he never drew his
attention towards her, unless when a gleam of cheerfulness overspread her
features, or some degree of gaiety was perceptible in her conversation. In the
most trifling instances, he discovered a scrupulous care of wounding her
delicacy, or embarrassing her feelings.
The first time that she made one of
the dinner-party, he saw the diffidence with which she entered; he saw the
painful recollections which threatened to overcome her, on seeing the head of
that table vacant, which used to be graced by one, whose refined sense and
comprehensive mind had been the soul of the repast. He marked the irresolute
step with which she seemed to linger, as if waiting for Mr. Elwyn to tell her
where to place herself; with that promptness of decision, which, when accompanied
by judgment, is of incalculable advantage in our journey through life, Belford
took her hand, and seating her where from infancy she had been seen, (near the
loved mistress of the mansion, as he said—“I will take this office on myself,” he sat down at the head of the table; thus sparing
Mary Ellis from the hazard of displeasing Mr. Elwyn by doing wrong, and
preventing the mutual embarrassment, which would have naturally ensued, had her
diffident eyes constantly met those of Mr. Elwyn, (when they were lifted from
her plate), and had he beheld in them (as he usually seemed
to do) the silent accusers of his conduct.
Mary Ellis, with an activity of mind
which she had ever been accustomed by her benefactress to prize, and to
encourage, as the first of human blessings, resumed those occupations and
employments in which she had been used to pass her time; and though she seemed
to have lost the stimulus to all her exertions, the master-spring of all her
actions, in losing this dear friend, yet that friend had given her too right a
notion of the duties of a Christian, for her to suffer herself to sink into
supineness and despondency.
In being still permitted to inspect
the village school, which Mrs. Elwyn had founded; in being still permitted to
assist those poor cottagers, who had been used to be benefited by that dear
friend’s bounty; and in visiting, as heretofore, the sick and disabled children
of industry, she felt that she was pursuing that course which had been marked
out for her. While in cultivating those flowers which Mrs. Elwyn had most
admired; in rearing, in fostering those plants which she had beheld with an eye
of pleasure, the most grateful, the most sacred feelings
of solitary satisfaction seemed to infuse themselves into the mind of our
youthful orphan; and often, in the fulness of her heart, would she piously
recollect the many mercies and blessings which were yet retained to her.
She had a respectable protector in
Mr. Elwyn—a home of comfort under his roof—a kind, a considerate friend in
Harry Belford; and that kindness, that consideration, that affection, had shone
forth tenfold since the demise of her first friend; and if her society could in
any shape, could in the most trifling way, be useful to Mr. Elwyn, how
delightful would be the idea of returning some small
part of that obligation which she owed to his protection! and how pleasing must
such conduct be to the sanctified spirit of Mrs. Elwyn, were it permitted her,
from the regions of blessedness, to take notice of those whom she had once valued
below!
We shall be accused of drawing our
heroine (as is usual with all novelists) a creature of perfection, though it must be allowed, that the two words thus joined are a contradiction in terms; but our design is
to shew the practical advantages of a judicious education, and the stability
and the strength of mind which may be derived from an early knowledge of
religion, and an exercise of its duties, even by a
weak and timid female.
Mary Ellis was attractive in person,
but to those only who were accustomed to look
for natural beauties; she had great diffidence in her manner, and very little
enthusiasm in her expressions; neither had she much
romance in her composition; yet her feelings were by nature acute, and her
heart alive to every painful and pleasurable emotion.
With the death of Mrs. Elwyn, the
wish of one day discovering her sister seemed to have taken a firmer hold on
the mind of Mary; and, perhaps, the idea was not, at this time, without its
beneficial effects, as it, in some measure, diverted her thoughts, and turned
them into another current. Hope flushed her animated features at the prospect
of being known—of being restored to this long-lost sister; she would retrace
the circumstances of her infant days, and dwell on the description of the lady
who had taken her sister away, as given her by Mrs. Elwyn; but naturally prone
to extenuate, and willing to encourage cheerful ideas in the breast of her
child, the hopes, and not the fears,
which that eccentric and mysterious female’s protection might have been likely
to have produced, were alone displayed to Mary; for Mrs. Elwyn had long given
up all idea of hearing of the fate of the other orphan.
In being restored to her sister—in
having a relative claim on one human being, there was something so approximate
to the disposition of our heroine, that she could not help believing that she
should one day see it realized; and in the bright tints in which youth is used
to deck a favourite perspective, she expected to be pressed to the arms, and
received into the heart of all that was amiable, good, and virtuous.
In contradiction to what we have
remarked above, this idea may be called enthusiastic, and breathing the true
spirit of romance; but we would rather have it called the ardent glow of
sisterly affection.
From reveries of this kind Mary
frequently roused herself, acknowledged the improbability of having her wishes
realized, and by more sedulous attention to her pursuits, she endeavoured to be
thoroughly content with such things as were granted to her, and not to waste
her time in shadowy visions, when substantial blessings were within her reach.
Mr. Elwyn had retained all the
domestics of his late lady, and from the old housekeeper to the kitchen-maid,
there was not one of them who did not respect and love the gentle Mary.
Since the death of Mrs. Elwyn, no
ladies had visited at the Hall; Mary Ellis not being recognised as its mistress
by Mr. Elwyn, her name being seldom mentioned by him, her having taken no
consequence upon her since her return, (but on the contrary, appearing to
conduct herself with greater humility than she had done before), her
disappearance when any gentlemen had called at the Hall, and her continuing to
sit at the side of the table, (all which particulars had been scrupulously
inquired into by the decorous females of Norton), had determined it against
her.
“In the best
of days, Elwyn Hall had not been a very gay house to
visit at; there was something very odd, and very unaccountable, certainly,
about Mr. Elwyn.”
There existed no law, however, against brothers, and fathers, and uncles, and
sons, and twelfth male cousins, inviting Mr.
Belford to all the parties in the vicinity; so it was finally decided, nem. con. that Miss Ellis was not
to be taken notice of—she was nothing—nobody;
and if her origin should
ever be discovered, in all probability, they might have to hug
themselves on this prudential resolve.
Poor Mary Ellis never having
conceived herself to be anybody, was
not surprised at receiving no civilities from those ladies who used to be so
attentive to her when they visited Mrs. Elwyn. Mrs. Elwyn was gone, and she had
not an idea of meriting a shadow of distinction on her own account. From how
many mortifications—from how many slights is a truly humble mind shielded!
CHAP. XII.
The passions are the chief destroyers of our peace;
the storms and tempests of the moral world (to extir-
pate them is impossible, if it were desirable); but to
regulate them by habitual care, is not so difficult,
and
is certainly worth all our attention.
KNOX.
THE spirits of Mr.
Elwyn seemed in some measure to have recovered from their temporary depression;
he was as partially indulgent as ever to his favourite, yet of late there had
been something particular in his manner when they were left tête-à-tête; frequently had Mr. Elwyn called off Belford’s
attention from the book he was reading, and had began to address him with an
air of extraordinary seriousness, when Belford having put himself into an
attitude of profound and respectful attention, instantaneously the resolve of
Mr. Elwyn seemed to be changed, and pointing to him to continue his studies, he
had resumed his seat, and his usual air of abstraction.
More than once had he started from
his chair, and as if on the point of communicating something of great moment,
had placed himself close to the ear of his expecting auditor, and scarcely had
he uttered a sentence, ere his whole soul seemed to recoil from the purposed
communication; and Belford had again been left to conjecture what undiscovered
secret thus troubled the spirit of his patron.
Mrs. Elwyn had now been a month
dead, and Mr. Elwyn had one afternoon been more than usually quick in taking
his wine. Mary Ellis had long quitted the dining-room, and on the servants
appearing with candles, Mr. Elwyn said—“No, take them away, we will ring when
we want them.”—His spirits fortified by wine, and shrouded from the piercing
gaze of Belford by the tempered light, he drew nearer to the fire, and pointing
to him, said—“Come nearer, Harry.”
Belford obeyed in silence.
“We have been very dull of late;
will you take a journey with me?”
“Certainly,” said Belford; “it will
give me great pleasure to attend you, my dear sir, as I flatter myself that the
change will be very beneficial to your health and spirits.”
“I flatter
myself too, perhaps,” replied Elwyn; “but I think it will.
Harry, I think you do not remember your mother?”
The question startled Belford; he
had never before heard Mr. Elwyn mention the name of either of his parents; he
had always understood that they had died when he was an infant; he looked at
Mr. Elwyn, as if to know whether he heard aright; that gentleman, however,
proceeded with the hurried articulation which a person may be supposed to use,
who wants to get over a painful recital.
“She must be very anxious to see
you, I am sure—I mean to take you to see your mother.”
“To see my mother!” repeated
Belford; “to see my mother!” and seizing his patron’s hand, as if fearing that
his senses were quitting him, he said—“My dearest sir, recollect yourself a
moment; your Harry Belford is the child of your bounty—he is an orphan—deprived
of both his parents.”
“No, no; not so, Harry,” answered
Mr. Elwyn, pressing his hand with impulsive tenderness; “your mother lives!
your—you shall see her, my dear boy—you shall be held to the heart of your
mother.”
“Almighty God! what
is it you tell me?” cried Belford; “oh, pray sir, I conjure you, deceive me
not—but say, where is this dear—this long-estranged parent? Oh, take me to
her—lead me to her—and fear not, that while I evince my duty to her, my affection
towards yourself can ever know diminution.”
“I hope not, I trust not, Harry,”
said Mr. Elwyn, pressing his outspread hand upon his heaving breast; “but hear
me, hear me out, and interrupt me not.—It is now something more than
two-and-twenty years ago since your father, a young unthinking man, of good
family and expectations, by accident saw your mother. She was then in the bloom
of fifteen, and never did the eye light on a lovelier object; she was pure as
an angel—simple as an infant—guileless as a dove; in comparison of your
father’s, her situation in life was humble—she was an orphan, and under the
protecting care of a brother, who, with the scanty stipend annexed to a village
cure, sheltered his sister from want, and secured her comfort, while he
shielded her from insult. This clergyman had been a college acquaintance of
your father’s, and while making a little pleasurable tour, he happened to light
on this humble residence of innocence and piety. He saw—he loved
the angel girl I have described.”
Belford started from his seat, and
clasping his hands furiously together, he cried out, with all the fatal
impetuosity which characterized his disposition—“Oh, say not that he seduced
her—say not, I charge you, say not that a villain triumphed over her fall—oh,
say not, for God’s sake, say not, that your Harry Belford is the child of
shame!” and then he fell back in his chair, as if entirely overpowered by the
oppressive weight of his feelings.
Elwyn trembled as he sat—“No, no!”
cried he; “oh, hear me, hear me out; Harry, hear me say, from that guilt your father was spared—he married her—the ceremony was solemnized in
the parish church of which her brother was the pastor.”
“My father was a man of honour!”
said Belford, in a tone of the most proud emotion; “thanks, thanks be to
Heaven, I am not an illegitimate child!”
“In that
instance,” said Mr. Elwyn; “in this
instance—oh, what was I saying? hear me out, for mercy’s sake, Harry—do not
interrupt me. I have said that your father had good expectations, but his were
only reversionary prospects; and your grandfather having impaired his paternal
fortune, naturally wished to secure one to
his son, by an advantageous matrimonial alliance. An engagement of this kind
had been entered into with a young lady, a relative of the family; the passive
consent of the young man had been gained previous to his seeing your mother.
But then, what had the prudential maxims of
his father to oppose to such an all-engrossing passion as his? his marriage was
kept secret—his frequent absences from home were not inquired into by his
indulgent parents—neither by the easy object of their
choice. Harry, let no one say he can withstand temptation till he has met the
trial. In his early years, had the book of his succeeding life been opened to
him, your father, like Hazael, would have said—‘Is thy servant a dog to do this
thing?’ To his first faulty conduct, to his clandestine and concealed marriage,
ensued the long catalogue of his crimes.”—Belford started—“He dared not confess his marriage to his father—neither to the
lady to whom he had been plighted; for while the former looked forward to his
speedy and certain advancement, the latter credulously believed herself the object of his fondest love. Your father had been
nurtured on the lap of ease and luxury; he had imbibed ideas of expense and
profusion, but ill according with the connexion he had formed; bred to no
profession—used to little exertion, he had no means of maintaining his wife.
Ah! why seek to extenuate—why dwell for a moment on this ungrateful, this
piercing subject? The clergyman, the brother of your mother, died of a
contagious fever, which he had taken in administering the last solemn offices
of religion to a sick parishioner. The time drew near when your father was
expected to unite himself with the other lady—he succeeded in deceiving the
unsophisticated mind of his wife—she believed what he
told her, that the marriage being solemnized before she was of age, was
consequently illegal, and that it had been otherwise informal. With her brother
she had lost her only adviser, her only relative; and passively relinquishing
her boy to the sole care of his father, she silently sought the asylum which he had prepared for her.”
“Dear suffering angel!” ejaculated
Belford.
“Your father then resigned himself
to the wishes of his family, and married the lady they had chosen for him.”
“Married! married did you
say—married?” groaned out Belford; “married? and was this vil——” the word was
but half-uttered—“and was this my
father?”
He strode about the room in agony;
then walking up to Mr. Elwyn, whose emotion was but too evident, as he
witnessed the tumultuous anguish of Belford’s jarring feelings—“Oh sir, tell
me—tell me—where—when—how did he
die?” and then falling back, with fearfully uplifted hands, as if he expected
to hear that he had been his own executioner.
“He lives, my son!” cried Mr. Elwyn,
sinking on his knees before him; “he lives! behold him here—Harry, behold your
father!”
“My father?—Mr. Elwyn—my
benefactor—my friend!” cried Belford, throwing his arms round him, tenderly
embracing him, and lifting him upon his seat—“Oh, my father!” then suddenly
recollecting the virtues and the injuries of the deceased Mrs. Elwyn, of the amiable
friend, of the irreproachable protectress of Mary Ellis, he retreated to
another part of the room, and burst into tears.
A long explanation ensued to this
affecting discovery.
The ardent and impetuous disposition
of Belford impelled him to seek his mother immediately, and he eagerly demanded
Mr. Elwyn’s promise for setting out on the journey the following morning.
Yes, he should be introduced—he
should be known to this lovely, this much-injured parent—no longer would she
mourn in solitude and sorrow the disappointment of her early prospects—her
estrangement from her child; she would be restored to the arms of her
husband—she would appear to the world in her real character—she would
acknowledge her son, her legitimate son;
from henceforth, he should bear the name of his father; he should be known—he
should be received as the lineal heir of Mr. Elwyn.
These
were bright prospects, well calculated to sooth the high spirit, and to blow
the latent pride of Belford into a flame; but quickly were his sensations
changed, for when, with the most undissembled satisfaction, he expressed
himself on the subject of his mother’s restoration to fame, and to a highly
respectable situation in society, he was stopped by the piercing groan of his
father.—“Alas! my poor Harry, in vindicating the honour of your injured mother,
would you pass sentence on that of your father?”
The question was
unanswerable—Belford felt it through his whole frame, which thrilled with
horror; yet, starting up, he cried—“Oh, tell me what you would do? would you
introduce a son to a parent, and still let that parent behold in him the child
of her degradation and infamy? Oh, why, why was this fatal discovery made to
me, if still—”
“Harry, have patience; have a little
command over your feelings, and hear me.”
Belford was recalled to
recollection, and his countenance again assumed that air of respectful
consideration with which he had been always used to regard Mr. Elwyn.
“It has long been my determination,”
said Mr. Elwyn, “to bring your mother to the Hall as its mistress; the
declining health of—of poor Clara had prepared me for the event, and determined
me as to my future conduct—my injury to her had been
irreparable. I had no alternative, but to let her die in ignorance of my guilty
conduct; but fearful that the sight of her sufferings might bereave me of my
self-command, I refused—I could not consent to her—to go—you know what I would
say, Harry. In declaring myself the husband of your mother, I am fulfilling an
act of duty towards you. You must have
no doubts on the subject—I will shew you the marriage certificate, and from
henceforth you shall not only feel yourself
my son, but you shall be called by the name of Elwyn.” The eyes of Belford were
involuntarily lighted by added brilliancy, as he heard these latter
words—“This, for your sake, my child; but to carry
some appearance of propriety to the world, I shall again unite myself, and that
publicly, to your mother.”
“But why?” asked Belford, with
quickness, “why, if the first marriage be legal, why the necessity of a second?
will not such a proceeding appear to establish the criminality of the former
connexion? shall I not still appear the
child of infamy?”
“And would you have me throw myself
at once upon the world the thing I am—a cool decided villain? Shall I
acknowledge the dissimulation which for a long term of years I practised on a
woman, whose virtues, whose talents, whose greatness, whose undeviating
goodness, were seen, were known to all? shall I hold myself up to view an
object of universal abhorrence and scorn? and shall that heart, which long has
borne the barbed arrow, at length burst with agony?”
“Oh, no—no, my father, my friend!
pity, pardon me!” cried Belford; “but overwhelmed by a contrariety of new, of
overpowering emotions, I know not what I say, nor scarcely what I think.”
“Had the much-abused Clara any
relative to whom I could make restitution for the injuries I heaped upon her,”
continued Mr. Elwyn, “I would with joy, with satisfaction, relinquish that
fortune for which I sacrificed my principles, for which I bartered my
integrity, but which never contributed to my happiness. She had no friend, no
relative but myself; and I, how did I abuse the
sacred trust?” Mr. Elwyn paused, and then resumed as follows:—“Your mother, I have
said, believed our marriage informal; and consequently, now that I am at
liberty to make another choice, she will feel herself restored to fame and
character. In her retirement she has assumed the name of Belford, and has
passed for a widow—you are her son;
and if I suffer you to take my name, on bringing your parent to the Hall, the
world may conjecture what it pleases—you
will know the truth; and at my death, it
then may be discovered. Oh, spare, spare me only till then,
Harry!” and Mr. Elwyn, with clasped hands, looked beseechingly at his son.
Belford was deeply affected, and
returning an answer of mingled respect and feeling, he besought Mr. Elwyn to
let him retire, and endeavour to tranquillize his mind; but alas! a most
difficult task still awaited Belford; Mr. Elwyn commissioned him to prepare
Mary Ellis for the reception of the new mistress of the Hall.—“Take an
opportunity of doing so this evening, Harry,” said Mr. Elwyn; “I shall retire
to the library; explain as much to her—say what you think fit. For this cause
it was that I could have wished her deceased friend had not recommended her
residence here.”
“Why—why, my dear sir?” asked
Belford, with his accustomed ardour; “will not the society—will not the
converse of my amiable mother, such as you have
pourtrayed her to me—will not these be of invaluable benefit to the gentle
Mary? will not my mother soon learn to estimate the
mild retiring graces of her character? and when the awkwardness of the first
introduction is over, will it not be a mutual benefit? and, in the reciprocal
interchange of good offices, will not their comforts be augmented—their
happiness improved?”
“I hope so,” answered Elwyn, as he
motioned towards the door.
Belford understood his meaning, and
left the room; but he took his hat in the hall, and walked for some time in the
avenue leading to the house, ere he could attain resolution to seek Mary Ellis.
Good Heavens! what a recital had he
just heard! and how did he pity, accuse, extenuate, lament, and mourn by turns,
as he thought of his mother, of his father, and of the excellent, the
much-injured woman, who had so long usurped the place of another—unconsciously,
innocently usurped it! To tell the child of her benevolence
of the base, the deceitful conduct of the man she had called her husband—of her
nearest relative, while that child’s soft eyes were yet moistened with tears
for her death—and to tell her that this man was his
own father—oh, dreadful, heart-piercing idea! “No, it cannot—cannot be,” said
Belford, “I cannot teach the gentle girl to hate me—to despise my father; what
then shall I dare acknowledge, or rather ask—what shall I dare
conceal? Dissimulation, what pangs dost thou inflict upon an open and ingenuous
mind!”
Belford saw, and deeply lamented the
fatal weakness of his father’s character; he had courage
to confess a part, but not the whole of his
nefarious conduct to the world; he still feared its condemnation, although he
had voluntarily defied a higher and more dread tribunal; and though, by
involving his former connexion with Mrs. Belford in mystery, he would most
assuredly affix an imputation on her character, and hold up his son to the
world in a “questionable shape,” yet he still pertinaciously adhered to this
half-deceptive and half-repentant conduct, and selfishly shrouded his own
guilt, though conscious that his only refuge consisted in the apparent
culpability of the innocent mother of his son.—“Let me not dwell on this
subject,” thought Belford; “oh, let me cautiously scan a parent’s faults!”
CHAP. XIII.
“Oh, fate
unjust,
Of womankind,” she cried.
SOUTHEY.
BELFORD knew where to
find Mary Ellis. In a little apartment, which had been fitted up by her
benefactress for her use, and which had been the daily, almost the hourly scene
of her early instructions, and which now exhibited, in the books, the pictures,
the furniture, and in an hundred inanimate objects, memorials of her kind care
and of her tender affection; to this little sanctuary Mary retired, with all
the reverential fondness which may be supposed to fill the soul of the devotee
when visiting the shrine of his tutelar saint. Here she again seemed to hear
the voice of her beloved Mrs. Elwyn; it spoke to her in every article which
surrounded her; and here, as if she was still conscious of being beheld, and
being approved by her, she delighted in pursuing those studies, and those
occupations which she had more particularly recommended.
A gentle tap at the door was
answered by the soft voice of Mary; and looking round to see the intruder, she
hastily rose on seeing it was Mr. Belford.
“I am not come to disturb you,
Mary,” said he; “sit down;” but his hand trembled as he took hers to reseat
her. “I want to say a great deal to you, so you must give me a cup of tea tête-à-tête to-night, for Mr. Elwyn has desired not to be
interrupted: we are both going on a journey to-morrow, and he has some business
to settle.”
“Both going?” repeated Mary; “this
journey is sudden—is it not, Mr. Belford?”
“Yes, it is,” answered he; and he
grew more confused as he endeavoured to proceed.
“I am glad Mr. Elwyn has summoned
resolution to leave home,” said Mary; “he will be the better for the change;
this place must every moment remind us of her who is for ever gone. There is no
accounting,” continued she, “for the different effects such a remembrance
produces on different dispositions. To Mr. Elwyn it evidently conveys the most
distressing sensations; but for myself, believe me, when I say it gives me a
feeling which, though I cannot describe it, I would not be divested of for
worlds.”
Mary spoke with more than usual
animation; the recent scenes in which they had been joint partners, and the
amiable light in which Belford had appeared, had insensibly divested her manner
of all that timidity and reserve which she used to feel in expressing her
sentiments to him. Since the death of her protectress, he had been her only
friend and confidant.
“Some cloud hangs on your brow, Mr.
Belford,” said Mary; “tell me, do I not guess aright ? have you not been
reviewing the scene in which we both took a melancholy part on this day month?
even now, I seem to hear the solemn bell, which told us all our earthly duties
were ended.”
“Yes, I well recollect that it was
on this day month that we returned to the Hall,” answered Belford, with a sigh;
“but, Mary, I am come to tell you of an important event, of a circumstance
which has just been made known to me—I have found a parent.” Mary Ellis
started; she fixed her eyes on his agitated countenance. “Yes, Mary, I am going
with Mr. Elwyn to be introduced to my mother.”
“Your mother?” asked Mary; “and have
you a mother living? Oh, happy, happy
Belford! and have you then found what I have just
lost for ever? But tell me,” continued Mary, who did not suffer selfish regrets
to take place of the undissembled satisfaction which she felt in Belford’s
recovery of a parent, “tell me, why have you been kept thus long in ignorance
of her existence? I always thought you were an
orphan like myself; and Mrs. Elwyn thought so—surely Mrs. Elwyn thought so?”
and she seemed to ask the question of Belford.
“I hope
she thought so!” hastily cried he; but checking his emotions, he said—“Mr.
Elwyn, you know, has hitherto supplied the place of both my parents to me; but now he kindly—now he is going to make me known to my mother;
she has lived in retirement for many years. My father was—my father was well
known to my—to Mr. Elwyn; my mother is to return with us to the Hall. Say,
Mary, will you not love her? will you not esteem her? will you not respect my
mother?’
“Yes,” said Mary with warmth, “I owe
you many, many obligations, Mr. Belford; you have been uniformly kind,
attentive, and affectionate to me; and now that—now that the mistress of this
house is no longer here, Mary Ellis will do her utmost to make it comfortable
to Mrs. Belford, to evince her respect for your mother.”
“Generous good girl!” said Belford,
pressing her hand; “and even if you should see her appear in another character—if you should find that by doing so the
happiness of Mr. Elwyn was augmented—oh, Mary, if he should introduce her as
his wife—”
Mary withdrew her hand.—“So soon, so
very soon forgotten!” said she, casting
her eyes round the room, as if she were calling every article within it to
witness to the truth, the tenderness, and the virtues of her beloved Mrs.
Elwyn. “Do I, can I understand you, Mr.
Belford?—have I heard aright? and is it you who have
said it? and is it—must it be
true?”
Mary took out her handkerchief; she
read the answer of Belford in his countenance, and she gave vent to those
gushing tears which forced their way. This moment appeared to her the most
afflictive one which she had ever known. She felt a sensation of indignation
rise in her gentle bosom towards Mr. Elwyn—of disgust towards the woman who
could so soon consent to fill the place vacated by her excellent friend. But
she was Belford’s mother; and Belford himself
seemed unable to add a syllable in extenuation of this indecorous haste; for he
sat the image of mute melancholy, leaning his head on his hand, as he listened
to her piercing sighs.
“And when—and how—and where did Mr.
Elwyn?—oh, Mr. Belford!” cried Mary, “tell me all
you would have me know?”
“Dearest Mary,” said Belford, “the
sight of your distress tortures my inmost soul; only within the last hour have
these circumstances been known to me, but if there is truth
in man, I must believe that I am the son of
a virtuous woman. It seems,” continued
Belford, with that confusion which must ever attend a voluntary deception in a
candid breast—“it appears,” continued he, “that Mr. Elwyn has long known my
mother.”
“And loved
her!” added Mary; “ah, I now see it as
it was; without a previous attachment,
could Mrs. Elwyn’s virtues have been slighted, overlooked—could she have been beheld with such cold, such cutting indifference?
oh, Mr. Belford, forgive me if I offend.”
“Mary, you cannot offend!” cried
Belford, with warmth; “in the natural expressions of your grateful and
ingenuous mind, can I discern any thing which I do not applaud and admire?
elieve me, dear Mary, that not for his own mother
would Belford plead if he thought her unworthy—if he thought her conduct had
been faulty; the fostered protegée of
Mrs. Elwyn shall never become the associate of vice or imprudence. Mr. Elwyn
has assured me that my mother’s conduct has been spotless, and that I am the legitimate son
of my parents; he acknowledges that he long has loved my mother—he represents
her as a model of all that is lovely and attractive in woman; and if my mother
consents to gild the evening of my benefactor’s days—oh, Mary, shall we not
mutually rejoice in his happiness?”
“We ought—I ought,” said Mary, “I
hope I shall—but taken so
unawares—this very evening—such
an unlooked for, such an unexpected change! my spirits too having been much
depressed of late—you must excuse me, Mr. Belford, if I say not all I ought;
but at your return I hope you shall have no cause to condemn me.”
“Never can I condemn you,” cried Belford; “but severely do I now
condemn myself for thus distressing you; and yet some preparation was
required—some explanation was necessary.”
“Indeed there was,” answered she;
“and I will sedulously employ the period of your absence, in bringing every
unruly emotion into subjection.”
“And I,”
cried Belford, with enthusiasm, “will employ mine in preparing my mother to
love and to esteem you.”
Belford then entered into a more
particular description of his feelings of delightful anticipation, at the
expected introduction to his mother, in the hope of diverting the channel of
her thoughts. With his accustomed rapid energy, he depicted his mother as she
had been represented to him by Mr. Elwyn; but while sitting with Mary Ellis
before him, and pourtraying all that was amiable, gentle, domestic, and
retiring in the female character, our readers may be apt to suspect him of
painting from the page that thus lay open to his view, rather than from one
which he had never studied.
Of a temper which peculiarly
qualified her to share in the pleasurable emotions of others, because it was so
entirely divested of egotism and selfishness, Mary entered with generous ardour
into the sanguine emotions of delight which Belford expressed; and she did not
endeavour to lower, or to detract from those high ideas of perfection and
pre-eminence with which his radiant fancy had encircled the form of this
maternal relative.
He unfolded to her Mr. Elwyn’s
intention of giving him his family
name; and as Mr. Elwyn was going to marry the parent, and her son had long been the son of his fond
adoption, Mary thought this
design was very natural.
The doubts and suggestions which
were likely to have arisen, even in a mind of simplicity like that of Mary
Ellis, were entirely dispelled by the solemn seriousness of manner which
Belford had assumed, when he had told her that Mr. Elwyn had assured him of his
parent’s honour.
That Mrs. Belford must have loved
Mr. Elwyn previous to the decease of his wife, was evident, else how could her
sudden acceptance of him be accounted for?—“At
any rate,” thought Mary, “there must be indelicacy of sentiment, or defalcation
of principle.” This sudden haste seemed inconsistent with that extreme
solitude, that rigid privacy, in which Belford had decorated the picture of his
amiable recluse, and which he had really understood to have been her situation
from Mr. Elwyn.
We shall probably tire our readers
with the minuteness of our relations, but we have wished to give them a proper
insight into the meek and attractive qualities of Mary Ellis; and we have not
performed our part, if we have not taught them to look with more partial eyes on Belford during the last month, that he
has been the consoler, the friend, and the encourager of our youthful orphan, than when they saw him dazzling in manly beauty, and
decorated with all the attractive graces, pouring out a strain of animated and
rapturous admiration into the ear of Lauretta Montgomery.
Some characters shine in retirement;
alas! the world presents a wide scene of temptation to the ardent, the
self-willed, and the impetuous. How necessary is discipline—what miseries are avoided by the judicious controul of
these otherwise unruly emotions!
Mr. Elwyn and Harry (by which name
we shall henceforth call him, as that of Belford must be dropped in compliance
with the wishes of the former) lost no time in setting out on their journey; to
have beheld their different countenances, it might have been imagined that the
expectant bridegroom had been the son rather than the father, so full of
animated and sparkling expectation were the fine features of the former; while
the once equally handsome ones of the latter were so blunted by a constant and
hacknied course of dissimulation, so bloated by intemperance, that they
exhibited scarcely a trait of human intellect or animation.
That Mr. Elwyn had told the truth, and nothing but the truth
to Henry, was certain; but he had not told the whole
truth.
As we dare not put off our readers
with a cramped or garbled detail, we must ask their patience and attention,
while we take a cursory review of those transactions and events, which had finally
led to that journey which our travellers had now undertaken; but for this
explanation we must refer them to the second volume.
END OF VOL. I.
Printed by Lane, Darling, & Co. Leadenhall-Street,
London.