When I opened the door of the library, Edward was sitting with his back towards me, talking eagerly to Mr. Middleton; as I approached them I heard him say, "If I could only be convinced of it, nothing on earth would make me so happy."

As my uncle turned his head, he did so too, and coloured when he saw me. I sat down on the sofa by the chimney; and every corner of that old library seemed to me in some way different from usual. I did not wish Edward to speak to me; on the contrary, it was enough to feel that he was there; that at any moment, by looking up, I could meet his eyes, and to know instinctively when his were fixed on mine. When I fancied myself in love with Henry Lovell, it was chiefly while he was talking to me, in the height of discussion, in the excitement of conversation. When I had not seen him for some hours, I was impatient to see him, and speak to him again, in order to prove to myself that I liked him; but with Edward it was not so. Alas! would it not have been for me the most dreadful misfortune to have loved him? Was not there, as Henry had said, a gulf between us, which could never be filled up? Would he not have shrunk from my love as from a poisonous thing, and have recoiled from the touch of my hand as from a serpent's sting?

Tears gathered in my eyes at this thought; I felt them tremble on my eye-lashes, and brushed them hastily aside as I walked into the dining-room with my uncle. Edward talked of his travels, of various persons whom he had made acquaintance with, in France and in Italy, of English politics, and the approaching session. There was nothing in his conversation peculiarly adapted to my taste; and yet I listened to each word that fell from his lips with an interest which my own feelings stimulated to the highest pitch.

In the evening he asked me to sing to him, and as he leant his head on his hand, and sat in silence by my side, listening to song after song which he had known and liked in former days, I felt my heart grow fuller, till at last my voice failed, and in its place a choking sob rose in my throat. He raised his head abruptly, and looked at me sternly. "It is only that I am a little nervous," I said; "I have taken a long ride, and being tired--"

"Oh, pray make no explanations," he replied; "excuses are perfectly unnecessary;" and he suddenly left the pianoforte.

He spoke to me no more that evening; but the next day he treated me again as he had done at first, and even seemed in some ways more satisfied with me than he had ever been before.

I have never yet described Edward, and I do not think I could describe him. He was always unlike anybody else, and yet it would have been difficult to point out any peculiarity in him.

It was not only truth, it was _reality_, that marked his character. He never was, never could be, anything but himself; and, like all perfectly true characters, could not even understand those that were not so, and judged them too severely, or too leniently, from the impossibility of putting himself in their place. His manner was always calm; even emotion in him never partook of the semblance of agitation.

Where others were angry, he was stern; a few simple words from him always carried with them a strength of condemnation, which crushed under its weight any attempt to resist it. From a child I had been afraid of Edward, and he had never perfectly understood my character; now that I had so much reason to fear him, in some ways I felt more at my ease with him, because as I had ceased to express all my feelings, and pour forth my thoughts before him, I dreaded less the severity of his judgment.

During the next two or three weeks that he was at Elmsley, I felt in his presence as a criminal before his judge; his sternness was justice, his kindness was mercy; and, in the softened tones of his voice, and in the tenderness of his eyes, I only read the tacit grant of a pardon, which mine mutely implored. This gave to my whole manner, to my disposition I might almost say, for the time, a humility, a submission, which were in no wise affected, but which did not naturally belong to my character. Edward's was despotic, as well as uncompromising; perfectly conscientious himself, strict in the discharge of every duty, he exacted from others what he performed himself. He allowed of no excuses, of no subterfuges, and ranked the weakness that shrinks from suffering in the accomplishment of what is right, in the same line as that which yields to the allurements of pleasure, or the temptations of guilt. In many respects he resembled my uncle, but still the difference between them was perceptibly great. Edward's feelings were stronger; it was impossible to observe the depths of thought manifested in his eyes, and in his pale, high forehead; to hear the sound of his voice, when he addressed those he loved; to see the colour rise slowly in his check, as he spoke of some act of virtue, of heroism, or of self-conquest, without the conviction that powers of heart and mind, not an atom of which were frittered away in vain words and empty fancies, were at work within him.

Once he spoke to me of Henry's marriage, and told me he had seen him in London. They had met accidentally in the street; and he had offered to go and call on his wife; but Henry had made some excuse or other, and the visit had not taken place.

He did not add one word regarding Henry's conduct, or what view he had taken of it himself, but looked earnestly into my face, as if he expected me to speak first on the subject; but seeing I was silent, at last he said, "Ellen, was this marriage a disappointment to you?"

"It was a relief to me."

"How so?"

"Because I had deceived Henry, and _almost_ deceived myself into the belief that I liked him; and his marriage proved to me bow much I had been mistaken."

Edward took my hand and kissed it; I drew it away with great emotion, and exclaimed, "Good G.o.d, don't you know what you are doing?"

He did not say another word, and left me abruptly.

For two days afterwards, he spoke to me but little; and when he did so, his manner was cold.

One day that we were taking a walk together in the park, after one or two insignificant observations had pa.s.sed between us, Edward asked me if I had ever received the book which lie had left for me the year before. As usual, I had it in my pocket; I took it out, and gave it to him, without making any other answer. He opened it and turned the pages over as we walked along.

"_Now_ is the time come," I said to myself; "_now_!" and the blood forsook my heart, and my legs seemed to fail under me.

In a moment of morbid irritation, I had written on the blank page of the book, the words which had remained coupled in my mind with this gift of Edward's: "Beware; I know your secret!"

and now they were before his eyes; and now he was reading them; and now the explanation was at hand; and all that I had suffered before was as nothing, compared to what I had wilfully brought on myself.

He turned to me, and said with a smile, "What do those mysterious words mean?"

I felt as if I was dreaming, but as if in my dream a mountain had been removed from my breast. I laughed hysterically, and said they meant nothing. That was the first time I lied to Edward.

He said that I must have read the book attentively, for he saw that it was marked in different places; _he_ had never marked a book in his life; it was a thing that never occurred to him to do; and then he gave it back to me; and it felt to me as if the air had grown lighter, and the sky bluer, and as if my feet sprang as by magic from the ground they trod on.

When, that evening, I was with Edward again, I looked up into his face, and talked to him as I had not talked to him for nearly two years; I laughed gaily, as in days of old; I saw with exultation that he laughed too, and that he asked Mrs.

Middleton to play at chess with my uncle, instead of him, and that he did not leave my side till the last moment that I remained in the drawing-room; and I was foolishly, wickedly happy, till I went up to my room, and laid my head on my pillow; _then_ came, in all its bitterness, the remembrance, that, although _he_ might not know my secret, _another_ did; that if, indeed, he loved me, as I now thought he did (for I remembered that letter to Henry, which I had so long misunderstood, and now recognised its true meaning),--if indeed he loved me, I must, I ought, to tell him the truth; and then he would despise me, he would hate me, not only for the deed itself, but for my long silence,--for my cowardly concealment. No; I had suffered too dreadfully during those minutes when I had felt myself on the brink of unavoidable confession;--that happen what might, I would not, I could not, disclose to him the _truth_. But should I, then, marry him?

Should I inherit my uncle's fortune? Should I become one day the mistress of Elmsley; and, from the midst of all that this world can give of joy, look, as Belshazzar looked on the hand-writing on the wall, on the torrent where my own hand had hurled Mrs. Middleton's child, Edward's cousin; and one day, perhaps, be denounced, betrayed, exposed, by Henry Lovell, whose words began that night to be realised:--"With every throb of love for another, there will be in your heart a pang of fear, a shudder of terror, a thought of me!"

Hour after hour I tossed about my bed, unable to close my eyes in sleep; at times, in spite of everything, feeling wildly happy; at others, forming the most solemn resolutions, that neither the weakness of my own heart, or the persecutions of others, should induce me to think even of marrying Edward, and yet unable to conceal from myself, that the next time I saw him, the next time my eyes met his, they would betray to him all that long-subdued and unconfessed love which had now grown into a pa.s.sion astonishing to myself, and ruled my undisciplined mind beyond all power of restraint and control.

In the morning I fell into a short and uneasy slumber, in which, twenty times over, I was confessing my history to Edward, or standing by him at the altar, or else being dragged from his side by Henry, or by my uncle. The visions of sleep, and the thoughts of the night, were strangely mixed up in my mind when I woke: tired and jaded with all I had gone through, I went down-stairs on the morning of the 28th of February, which was the eve of the day of our departure for London.

In the breakfast-room, I found Edward, who asked me with some surprise, how I came to be so late, and if I did not mean to go to church?

"To-day, why to church to-day?" I inquired.

"It is Ash Wednesday," he replied, "the most solemn fast-day in the year."

"Oh, in that case, I will go at once, and do without breakfast; no great self-denial, for I am not in the least hungry." I put on my bonnet and shawl, and we set off on foot together, "Mr. and Mrs. Middleton having previously gone on in the carriage. I was very feverish, and from want of sleep and absence of food together, I felt in an unnaturally excited state. Whenever Edward spoke to me, I gave a start, and when I spoke myself, it was with a sort of nervous irritation, which I could not command; at last he seemed displeased, and when he stood still, to give me his hand, in crossing the stile, at the entrance of the churchyard, I saw in his face that stern expression which I had begun to know and to dread. We went into church; the service was already begun; it is, as it should be on such a day, a solemn and an awful service. The Epistle for the day, that mournful and merciful appeal to the conscience, the Penitential Psalms, which seem to embody the very cry of a bruised and overwhelmed heart, everything struck the same chord, spoke the same language; to my excited imagination, every word that was uttered seemed as if it was addressed to me alone, of all that a.s.sembled congregation.

Every moment my head was getting more confused, and my soul grew faint within me. And then, when I was not in the least expecting it, (for I had never before paid any attention to the service for Ash Wednesday,) all at once there rose a voice which said, in what sounded to my overwrought nerves, an unnaturally loud tone:

"Brethren, in the Primitive Church there was a G.o.dly discipline, that, at the beginning of Lent, such persons as stood convicted of notorious sin were put to open penance, and punished in this world, that their souls might be saved in the Day of the Lord; and that others, admonished by their example, might be the more afraid to offend."

I believe that at that moment I fell on my knees, but nothing remains very distinctly in my recollection, except that soon the solemn curse of G.o.d was p.r.o.nounced on unrepenting sinners, and as each awful denunciation was slowly uttered, there rose from the aisles, from the galleries, from each nook and each comer of the house of prayer, the loud cry of self-condemning acknowledgment.

Again, again, and again it sounded, and died away. Once more it rose and fell; and then the voice from the pulpit proclaimed, "Cursed is he that smiteth his neighbour secretly;" and that time I did not hear the voice of the mult.i.tude respond. I heard a low deep _amen_ uttered at my side; and that amen was to me as a sentence of eternal condemnation. I fainted, and when I recovered my senses, I was in the vestry with my aunt, and the doctor of the village.

Soon I was able to walk to the carriage, and to drive home with Mrs. Middleton.

When I saw Edward again, his manner was gentle and affectionate; and I was myself so wearied with emotion, so exhausted with hopes and fears, that I had grown calm from mere fatigue. I was more determined than ever not to marry Edward, and this resolution gave me a kind of melancholy tranquillity, which allowed me to speak to him with more self-possession than before. I had also a vague idea that, by making this one great sacrifice, I should ent.i.tle myself to seek the consolations of religion, after which my soul yearned, especially since the terror which that day's service had struck into my heart; but still I shrunk from the one act which would have given me real peace; as I put into words the account I could give of Julia's death; I fancied I saw before me Edward's countenance, stern in condemnation; or over-coming with difficulty its expression of horror and dismay; or, worse still, incredulous, perhaps, and unable to believe that where there was not crime, there could have been such concealment; as I pictured to myself all this, and foresaw the nameless sufferings of such an hour, the cry of my soul still was, "Never, never, will I marry him! but _never_, also, will I own to him the secret which would make him turn from me with disgust and horror."

We were to set out for London at an early hour the next morning, and before we parted for the night, Edward followed me to the music-room, where I was putting by some books to take with us for the journey.

He stood by me in silence for some time, and then said, "Ellen, it is better, before we part, even for a short time, to understand each other. I have long been attached to you. I gave you up and went abroad, when I thought you were in love with Henry. I tried in vain to forget you. _Now_, Ellen, is there hope for me? Will you be to me, what you alone can be--the blessing that I would prize beyond all earthly blessings--will you be my wife?"

I looked at him; he was pale, and his eyes were full of tears.

As mine were raised to his, I knew, I felt that they spoke such unutterable, such pa.s.sionate love, that when, with a voice hardly articulate, I said in the slow accents of despair, "No, I cannot be your wife;" it seemed to me that he must have read into my heart.

He took my hand, and only said in a low voice, "Why?"

"Because," I exclaimed, with a burst of tears, "because I am utterly unworthy of you."

He let go my hand, and seemed to be struggling with himself: at last he said, "Ellen, if you mean that you feel now that you cared more for Henry Lovell than at one time you fancied, if there is still some affection for him in your heart, it is no doubt a painful trial for me to hear it; but if you tell me so frankly, and at once, I shall not cease to respect you, nor to love you." (His voice trembled as he said these last words.) "I shall leave you for a time; you must soon, you will soon, conquer these feelings; and then--perhaps--only tell me the truth, Ellen--the only thing that could destroy my love would be, if you ever had, if you ever could, deceive me."

"You cannot love me; it is vain to talk of love to _me!_" I exclaimed, "I have told you so; I cannot be your wife; why do you ask me anything else? Leave me! for G.o.d's sake leave me! I am miserable enough as it is."

"Ellen! Ellen! with such feelings as these, how could you speak to me of Henry and of his marriage as you did?"

"Henry! I am not thinking of Henry; I am not talking of Henry; I do not care for him; I do not love him, I never did: I should not be so wretched, perhaps, if I had."

Edward remained silent for a moment, and then said, with a deep sigh--

"Would to G.o.d, Ellen, that there was _truth_ in you! It is equally difficult to believe and to disbelieve you."

"Think not of me; leave me, Edward, leave me. I _have_ told you the truth. I do not care for Henry; I solemnly protest to you that I do not; but I cannot be your wife--_that_ is the truth, too."

"Then why these tears?" said Edward, sternly. "Why all this _acting?_ Why cannot you tell me calmly, and at once, that you care not for me, instead of deluding me into the belief that you do, at the very moment when you refuse me."

Suffocated with grief, I hid my face in my hands while he spoke; and said to myself, "_Acting_ he calls it! Oh, G.o.d! he calls me an _actress!_ He says there is no truth in me! How then would he listen to my tale of guilt and of sorrow? How then could he read truth in my broken accents? How could he discern the workings of a proud and wounded spirit?"