"No, here they are quite safe; he did not want to take my money, but to give me advice, he said," and Rosa burst into one of her merriest peals of laughter.

"What did he say to you exactly? Now pray be serious, Rosa,"

cried Mrs. Brandon, impatiently.

"This is what he said, 'Hark'ee, my duck, do you marry that 'ere chap, that Mr. Lovell what's a courting you, and the sooner the better, for if you don't it will be the worse for you and for him, and for some one as shall be nameless. It will be the saving of his life, if you mind me my pretty gal.'

He added this, as I wrenched my arm away, and was taking to my legs."

"And he let you go?"

"No, he caught hold of me again, and begged for an answer. I am afraid I should have promised to marry Mr. Lovell, or to kill him, or anything else that was expected of me, in order to get away, when another man joined us, and muttered, 'Fool, you are dropping the Brentford ticket at Hammersmith gate.'

Upon which my friend screwed up his mouth into a particular shape, gave a kind of whistle, and both darted away among the bushes; and here I am."

I looked round to see how Henry took this account, but he was gone. Mrs. Brandon noticed also his disappearance, and left the room. Mrs. Ernsley, Sir Edmund, and the eldest Miss Farnley drew round Rosa, to hear her recount again her adventure, and the youngest Miss Farnley whispered to me: "Mr.

Lovell must be in love with Miss Moore, for I never saw a man more strangely agitated; but it is an odd story; what do you think it can mean?"

"Perhaps it is a hoax," I said; for I had a vague wish that the whole thing might be hushed up. I felt frightened--I thought it evident that Rosa had been taken for me, and I could not help thinking that the two men she had fallen in with, were those I had seen at Salisbury. Henry's agitation and his sudden disappearance confirmed my suspicions, and I felt the more tormented from having no one near me, to whom I could impart them. When we went into the dining-room to luncheon, Mrs. Brandon looked flushed and worried; she told Rosa that Henry had gone towards the East common, to see if the men who had frightened her, and used his name for that purpose, were lurking in that direction; that Mr. Brandon had sent the gamekeeper and some of his men to make inquiries in the neighbourhood about these fellows, and directed that they should be brought up for examination before him as a magistrate, if they could be found. Rosa proposed to me to ride with her and all the men of the party, that afternoon, and scour the park, the neighbouring woods and downs, in search of the men. Curiosity, and an intense desire to ascertain if I was right in my suppositions, made me agree to this plan. We were soon off, and galloping across the park.

Rosa was in tearing spirits; she had been somewhat alarmed in the morning, but the idea of a _quiproquo_, the amus.e.m.e.nt of a practical riddle, the fun of pursuing her a.s.sailant, (whose offence had not been of a nature which would make its results to him so serious as to check any levity on the subject) tickled her fancy exceedingly, and she kept her companions in a continual, roar of laughter. We rode about in different directions for nearly two hours, but, except a few labourers, we met no one. As we were walking our horses through a dell, that divided the upper part of East common from a wood of beautiful oaks, that stretched for miles beyond it, Mr. Manby suddenly exclaimed, "There are two men scrambling over a hedge in the direction of Ash Grove. Now, Miss Moore, for a desperate effort." We all looked in the direction where he pointed with his whip, and all set off at once at full speed.

There was a small ditch between the field we were in, and the one we were making for; all the horses took it at a flying leap, except mine, who positively refused to budge. In vain I struck him and urged him on; he began rearing violently, but would neither jump nor walk over it; the groom begged me to get off, while he dragged it across; I did so, and walked on a little to try and find a place where I could step over the ditch myself. I stopped a minute to look at a clump of ash trees, surrounding a little ruined hut, which I thought would make a lovely sketch. At that moment the door of the hut opened; a man came out and looked cautiously about him--It was Henry--two others followed him; the very men I had seen at Salisbury; these last turned into a lane which I knew led into the high-road to Blandford, and were out of sight in a moment.

Henry stood still for an instant, and then walked off towards the house. I was not surprised, but my heart sickened within me. I felt a vague pity for Henry, a nervous terror for myself; it never occurred to me to point out the two men, or draw attention to the spot where I had seen them disappear.

In the meantime the groom had brought a plank, by means of which I crossed the ditch; I got on my horse again, and rode slowly on to meet the rest of the party, who were galloping back in great amus.e.m.e.nt, at having mistaken Mr. Leslie and his clerk, who had been quietly clambering over a stile, on their way to the cottage of a sick old woman, for the dangerous characters they were in search of. We came up with Henry a few yards from the house. He looked ill and tired; Mr. Brandon hallooed to him, to know if he had seen or heard anything of the vagabonds.

"Have you?" was his answer.

"No," cried Mr. Brandon.

"Well then, Miss Moore," (said Henry, with a forced laugh,) "we must e'en wed to-morrow, or remain single at our peril,"

and he walked off, humming the tune of "_Gai, gai, mariez-vous_."

The subject of Rosa's adventure was now and then resumed, and became a sort of standing joke against Henry; evidently a disagreeable one to him, though he put a good face on the matter.

One day he asked Rosa, if she had not been laughing at us all, and whether the whole thing was not a practical joke. He took to twitting her about her visions, and proposed to write a ballad on "the two invisible men of Brandon Woods," on which I said, "And I will write a sequel, which shall be called 'The ruined Hut of Ash Grove.'"

Mrs. Ernsley looked at Sir Edmund, as much as to say, "What a silly attempt at _repartie;_" and said in a hesitating manner, "I do not _quite_ see what would be the point of that."

Henry looked as if the ground had suddenly opened and shut again before his eyes.

CHAPTER VII.

Turn to the watery world; but who to thee (A wonder yet unviewed) shall paint the sea!

Various and vast, sublime in all its forms, When lulled by zephyrs, or when roused by storms, Its colours changing, when from clouds and sun, Shades after shades, upon the surface run.

CRABBE.

And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover To entertain these fair well-spoken days, I am determined to prove a villain.

SHAKESPEARE.

Two or three weeks now elapsed, without the occurrence of anything worth relating; but in which I was much struck with two entirely new features in Henry's character, which were gloom and irritability. At times he was still as agreeable as ever, but the least coldness on my part, or the commonest kind of attention paid me by others, seemed to exasperate him beyond any attempt at self-government. He was once on the verge of insulting Sir Edmund Ardern, because I had talked to him for an hour together; and there was nothing touching in the fierce jealousy which he showed on these occasions. When under its influence, he seemed absolutely to hate me, and sometimes he quite frightened me by his violence. However, when that had been the case, he would suddenly recollect himself, and then, by his ardent expressions of pa.s.sionate affection; by the grief, the misery, he pleaded in justification of his violence; by the words of eloquent appeal, of tender entreaty, which seemed to spring from the very depths of his heart; he moved, he agitated, he persuaded me; and, half in weakness, half in self-deception, partly from the fear of losing the excitement of being adored by one who fascinated my mind, though he did not touch my heart, I tacitly encouraged him in the belief that I returned his affection.

On the 7th of July, after I had been about a month at Brandon, I received a letter from Mrs. Middleton, the purport of which was, that my uncle desired me to return immediately to Elmsley; that she was sorry that he was so positive about it, as she saw by my letters that I was amused there; that she would have been more able to withstand him on the subject, and to obtain for me a prolongation of my visit, had it not been that the very circ.u.mstance which had occasioned his decision, was one which, from motives which I could well understand, she could not discuss with him, and in which she could take no part; "and that, my love (she added), is my brother's unexpected visit to Brandon. I have seldom seen your uncle so much irritated as when he heard of his going there; and it was with difficulty that he refrained from writing by return of post to desire you instantly to come home. This would, however, have caused a sort of sensation, which, he felt himself, was undesirable; but now, he will hear of no delay, and my maid will arrive at Brandon the day after you receive this letter, and you will set off with her on the following morning. I think it right to tell you, dearest child, that Mr.

Middleton, in speaking to me of Henry the other day, expressed his determination never again to allow him to make up to you, or you to encourage in him the least hope of a marriage, which he is perfectly resolved never to give his consent to. He has desired me to tell you so, and to write to Henry to the same effect. You know (as we have often said to each other,) your uncle dislikes Henry, and that makes him, no doubt, more positive still on the subject than he might otherwise be; but I must admit myself, that my brother having no fortune whatever, and not having ever set about in earnest following up any profession, a marriage with him would be not only undesirable for you, but, in fact, impossible.

"You may be surprised, my own dearest child, at my speaking to you in this way of an affair which, perhaps, you yourself have not taken into consideration. I earnestly wish that Henry may not have made such an impression upon you, as to make this warning necessary; but, after what I saw here--though perhaps too late--and what I have heard goes on at Brandon, I scarcely venture to hope so.

"I will not talk to you, my own Ellen, of the happiness which your return will give me: you are the joy of my life; the star in my dark night; my best beloved, my precious child. If your tears should flow, if your young heart should ache, come to me, dearest, and lay your head on my bosom, and find in my love, which shall know no change, 'a shelter from the storm, a refuge from the tempest.'"

I pressed to my lips Mrs. Middleton's letter, but remained agitated by a number of conflicting feelings. She seemed unhappy, and I could not help thinking, that besides the anxiety she expressed about the state of my feelings, she was also grieved at my uncle's harsh decision against her brother.

I was vexed too at being _ordered_ back to Elmsley, I had been spoiled by unlimited indulgence, and unvarying tenderness, and though bitter sorrow had come upon me, and I had gone through severe suffering, it had not come in the form of discipline, or been turned to its salutary use. I dreaded the monotony, the a.s.sociations of Elmsley, from which I saw, by this letter, that Henry was henceforward to be banished; and, altogether, when I walked into Mrs. Brandon's room, and announced to her my approaching departure, tears of vexation stood in my eyes.

She said a great deal of her own regret, and proposed writing immediately to Mr. Middleton to entreat him to let me stay on longer, and urged me to wait for his answer, but this I could not venture to do. My uncle was a man who seldom gave an order, but when he did, I knew it was not to be trifled with.

I did not state to Mrs. Brandon the _real_ reason of my recall; but she gave me to understand that she knew it, and I did not repulse as much as usual, her implied sympathy.

We went down into the drawing-room together; and when Henry appeared, I watched his countenance to try and gather from it, if he too had received the letter which his sister had been desired to write to him; but he puzzled me completely. He was absent and pre-occupied, but did not seem the least depressed; on the contrary, there was a kind of excitement about him, that gave him the appearance of being in high spirits. When Mrs. Brandon spoke of my summons to Elmsley, and the rest of the company were, in their different ways, making civil speeches to me, he said nothing, but in his turn watched me narrowly.

He did not sit next to me at dinner, which I thought, with a little contrivance, he might have done; nor did he come near me during the first part of the evening, but seemed entirely engrossed by a long eager whispering conversation which he kept up with Mrs. Brandon.

At tea-time, she came up to Lady Wyndham and Mrs. Ernsley, and asked if it would suit them to make a party the next day to the sea-side. There was a beautiful little bay about twenty miles off, which would make an excellent object for an expedition, and which she would like to show me, before I left Dorsetshire. It so happened that I had never in my life seen the sea, except from a distance, and this made the idea of this excursion particularly agreeable to me. Everybody approved of it; for once everybody was like Mrs. Hatton, and liked nothing so much as an expedition, and more especially one to the sea-side, so it was settled that we were to be off at eight the following morning. Except in general conversation, Henry did not speak to me that evening, till, as he was lighting a candle for me, near the refreshment table, he said in a low voice, "Have you ever been so interested in a book that you have been obliged to shut it up, and to pause before you opened it again?"

"No," (I answered,) "I always look at the last page."

"I dare not look at my last page," he said, and his voice trembled. At that moment I thought I liked him.

At six o'clock the next morning, in my dressing-gown and shawl, I was at the window of my bedroom anxiously examining the state of the weather, and trying to stretch my head beyond the comer of the house, in order to find out whether there might not be a very little bit of blue sky visible behind an ominous ma.s.s of gray clouds; but either my head would not go far enough, or else there was no blue sky to be seen, and each survey only tending to discourage me more thoroughly, I laid down again, and tried to go to sleep. At seven my maid came in, and informed me that it was a dull morning, but the carriages were to come round all the same, and the ladies were getting up. We met in the breakfast-room, with the weary, cross, sick-looking faces, which early rising, especially on a gloomy day, is apt to produce. In the first carriage went Lady Wyndham, Mrs. Brandon, Mr. Ernsley, and Mr. Moore. In the second, Mrs. Ernsley, the two Miss Farnley's, and Sir Edmund Ardern; Rosa Moore and myself had a pony-chaise to ourselves, and the rest of the men rode. By the time we had reached the gates of the park, the clouds began to break, and to sail across the sky, in white fleecy shapes. Soon the sun himself appeared after a desperate struggle with the clouds that hung about him. Then the birds began to sing in the hedges, and every leaf to glitter in the sunshine, while Rosa, who had been yawning most unmercifully, and, in the intervals, holding her pocket-handkerchief fast upon her mouth to keep the fog out of it, brightened up, and began talking and laughing, as if she had not been forced out of her bed at an unusual hour.

We drove through lanes, such lanes as Miss Mitford loves and describes; through villages, each of which might have been _her village_, in which the cottages had gardens full of cabbages and sun-flowers, and the gra.s.s plots had geese and pigs and rosy children; through which little girls were walking to school in their straw bonnets and blue checked ap.r.o.ns, and stopped to stare and to curtsey to the grand people that were driving by; in which boys were swinging on gates, and urchins were dabbling in ponds in company with ducks that seemed hardly more amphibious than themselves, and then we drove by parks and lawns,--parks sloping, wooded, wild; lawns studded with beds of flowers, the red geranium or the glowing carnation, forming rich ma.s.ses of dazzling brilliancy on the smooth surface of the soft green gra.s.s. How beautiful they were on that day, that July day, "the ancestral homes of England," as Mrs. Hemans calls them; streams of sunshine gilding their tall elms, their spreading oaks and stately beeches. How that bright sunshine danced among their leaves, and upon the gra.s.s amidst their roots, and how the berries of the mountain ash glowed in its light,--the mountain ash, that child of the north, which with its st.u.r.dy shape, its coral fruit, and the gray rock from which it springs, looks almost like a stranger in the midst of the more luxuriant foliage of the south. But scarcely two hours had elapsed, when we turned a comer in the road, and for the first time the sea lay stretched before my eyes. It was rough; the waves were crested with foam; and already I heard them break with that sullen roar, with that voice of the ocean, in which, as in the thunder of Heaven, we instinctively recognise the voice of G.o.d. We drove up to the little inn where the horses were to be put up; I could hardly wait for the step of the carriage to be let down, and hastened alone to the beach; the sea was not, as I have seen it since, blue and calm, glittering with a thousand sparks of light; not like some quiet lake which ripples on the sh.o.r.e, and murmurs gently, as it bathes the shining pebbles in its limpid wave; no, it was as I would have chosen to see it for the first time, stormy, wild, restless, colourless from the everlasting fluctuation of colour, brown, purple, white, yellow, green, in turns; billows over billows chased each other to the sh.o.r.e, each wave gathering itself in silence, swelling, heaving, and then bursting with that roar of triumph, with that torrent of foam, that cloud of spray, that mixture of fury and of joy, which nothing in nature, but chafed waters combine.* [* See Coleridge's beautiful lines on the Avalanches.] O G.o.d, I have suffered much; terror, remorse, agony, have wrung my heart, have shattered my nerves; I have been guilty; I have been wretched; I dare not thank thee for the tumultuous joys of pa.s.sion, for the feverish cup of pleasure, hastily s.n.a.t.c.hed, and as suddenly dashed to earth; but I will thank thee, for the swelling of the heart, for the lifting up of the soul, for the tears I have shed, for the ecstacy I have known on the sea-sh.o.r.e, in the forest, on the mountain. The heart knoweth its own bitterness; but there is also a joy with which the stranger intermeddles not.

We wandered for some time on the beach, and then began scrambling among the cliffs, and clambering up to the various rocky points from whence the little bay and its wooded coast were seen to most advantage. In doing so, we gradually separated into different parties, and Mrs. Brandon, Rosa, Henry, and myself, went to explore a small cavern, where there were some curious sands of various colours, which Mr. Brandon had described to us the day before.

Rosa was on her knees upon the ground, collecting specimens of each; I was looking at the sea through a natural window in the rock; when Mrs. Brandon asked her if she had got all she wanted, and begged her, if she had, to walk back with her to the inn, as she wished to order luncheon, and speak to Mr.

Brandon about the arrangements for our return.

I was preparing to follow them, when Henry laid his hand on my arm, and said in so serious a voice that it quite startled me, "For my sister's sake, Ellen, stay with me here a few moments; we will walk back by the downs; I have much to say to you, and this is my last opportunity."

I stopped immediately, and leant against the entrance of the cavern.

Henry was as pale as death, his lip was quivering, and his hand shook violently as he took hold of mine.

"Ellen," he said, abruptly, "do you know that I love you, as much as a man can love,--more than words can express? Do you know, do you feel it, Ellen?" And he wrung my hand with nervous violence.

"Has your sister written to you?" I asked, with a trembling voice.