"Therefore, if any man can show any just cause why they may not lawfully be joined together, let him now speak or else hereafter for ever hold his peace."

She slowly rose, drew back her veil, and fixed her eyes upon me; her thin lips moved as I had seen them move in my dream, and she seemed about to speak. I gave a hurried glance of despair at Henry; our eyes met, and then mine were rivetted to the ground, and my limbs and my heart seemed turned to stone.

I _felt_ that woman's gaze upon me. I knew that at the close of the exhortation she sat down, and that she rose again when the clergyman said--

"Who gives this woman to be married to this man?"

When Mr. Middleton took my hand and placed it in Edward's, the sound of a groan reached my ears; and when I raised my eyes, and, for the second time, fixed them by a kind of fascination on those malignant features and gla.s.sy eyes, they glared upon me with an expression which I cannot describe, and hardly dare to recall. The service went on, and when we knelt down to pray, while my face was buried in my hands, I heard the sound of receding footsteps; I looked up; she was gone, but I felt that she had cursed me as she went.

The ceremony was concluded. I was Edward's wife. I rose from my knees and looked about me. Henry was gone. Alice was pale, and her eyes were full of tears; she, too, was like what I had seen in my dream. We went into the vestry and signed some papers. As I was stepping into Edward's chariot to drive home again, a paper was thrust into my hand; I took it mechanically, and held it unconsciously in my clenched hand. I smiled when Edward spoke tome, and looked at him with inexpressible affection when he drew me to him, and called me his wife--his own beloved wife!

We arrived in Brook-street, and I went to dress for the journey. They brought me some biscuits and wine and water. I drank some hastily, but could not eat. Mrs. Middleton gave me her last kiss, and my uncle took me down to the carriage. I stepped into it, and Edward after me. The door was closed. I opened mechanically the paper in my hand; it contained these words--"Your sin shall find you out." I crumpled it again, and flung it out of window. I talked fast and eagerly to Edward.

After an hour or two I fell into a heavy sleep. When we reached Dashminster, I awoke in a burning fever. Edward carried me upstairs, and laid me on a bed. I grew delirious, and raved all night. They bled me, I believe, and in two days I was better, and able to proceed to Hills...o...b...

CHAPTER XIX.

"We take fair days in winter for the spring."

YOUNG'S NIGHT THOUGHTS.

"O how this spring of love resembleth The uncertain glory of an April day, Which now shows all the beauty of the scene, And by and by a cloud takes all away."

SHAKESPEARE.

Edward, I kneel to you in spirit while I write this record of our married life. By all the trembling hope I feel that a day may come, not of mercy, but of justice--a day when, though you will not forgive me, yet you will believe in me--when, though you will not open your arms to me, yet you will say, "She was false, but not false to me." By this hope I gather strength to write. But as I pace up and down my narrow room, or lay my head on the marble slab, the only cold place it can find, dare I think of what has been, of what is not? Shall I not go mad, and in my madness shall I not accuse you, Edward? Shall I not tell G.o.d and man, that you have shut your heart against me, and broken mine? And on the day of judgment, will not G.o.d ask you what you have done with her, who, however guilty, was guiltless to you? Oh, deeply loved and deeply mourned, ever absent from my sight, ever present to my thoughts! lord of my bosom's love, object of its idolatry, I do not accuse you. If a fallen spirit banished from Heaven ever mourned over his fall, without a murmur for the past or a hope for the future, his feelings are like mine, when in my solitude I think that once you loved me and called me yours.

Can it be that such things are and pa.s.s away, and leave no traces behind them, save broken hearts and mental agonies?

Does Nature, while it rejoices with those who rejoice, never weep with those who weep? Does the sun shine as brightly on the forest glades of Hills...o...b.. as when I wandered through them with Edward? Does the stream dash through them with the same reckless joy as when he helped me over its mossy stones?

Is the thyme as sweet, is the heather as purple, as when by his side I scrambled over its wild moors? And thyself, Edward, thyself--art thou as strong, as beautiful, as stern as ever?

Hast thou driven me from thy side, and when the first anguish of that hour was gone by, hast thou said, "The bitterness of death is past," and raised again thy stately head in its beauty and its pride?

Is joy more sacred than grief, or is it so strange to the human heart that, when present, we dare not scan its fleeting form, nor recall its image when it is past. One short dream of bliss was mine; it stands alone in a life, which, though not long in years, has been long in sorrow. Once the cup has been raised to my lips; one draught I took of that for which my soul longs with a burning and quenchless thirst. Happiness!

yes, happiness; one hour of which reveals to us what an eternity of bliss can be; for time and s.p.a.ce, beginning and end, are as though they were not, in that intense life of the soul.

For seven days the sun rose in cloudless majesty; for seven days he sunk to rest "in one unclouded blaze of living light."

Sunshine streamed on the gra.s.sy hills; it gilded the fields of ripening corn; it pierced into the depths of the forest; it bathed the world in light, and gladdened the heart of man. And I too, for a while, was glad; in the fierce fever which for some hours had robbed me of my senses, the anguish of my soul seemed to have pa.s.sed away. Nothing was changed in my fate, but I felt weak, and there is something in weakness which resembles peace; and in the love which we give to man, when it is entire and undivided, there is a power which is strong for good or for evil, as the hand of the master wields it.

We were alone; no familiar faces--no accustomed objects reminded me of myself--of that self which had so straggled, so sinned, and so suffered. I gazed on the beautiful works of G.o.d; I raised my eyes from the green sward on which we trod, to the soft blue sky, and my soul was melted within me. I listened to Edward's words, and in that blessed solitude nothing disturbed the silent echo which his voice of music left upon my ear. As I closed my eyes in sleep, I blessed him; as I opened them again I beheld him; and when he knelt in prayer, I knelt too, and said, "G.o.d be merciful to me a sinner!"

"Ellen, my love, shall you be ready to set off at nine to-morrow? We must be at Elmsley by six.--In tears, Ellen?

What is the matter, my love? Now, really, this is childish."

"I cannot bear to go--I cannot bear to leave this place. I shall never return to it if I leave it now. In the murmur of the river--in the songs of the birds, in the rustling of the leaves, there has been all day a voice of lamentation which has haunted me; something mournful which has sounded to me like an eternal adieu. I have tried to exclude these thoughts, but they return in spite of me; and when you spoke of going, your words--"

"My dearest Ellen, I really cannot listen to such absurd nonsense. You know how much I admire your love of the beauties of nature--how much I appreciate your eloquence in describing them; but when all this degenerates into sentimentality, I own I cannot stand it."

"Dearest Edward, for you everything in nature wears a smile, and I thank G.o.d that it is so. You have never had cause to shrink from what is pure and bright and beautiful, with an aching heart and a self-accusing spirit."

As I raised my eyes to Edward's face, I was startled at its expression. There was a sternness in it which made me tremble.

"Ellen," he said, "listen to me, and mark my words. Either a morbid sensibility, which I despise, or a mawkish affectation, which I detest, injures the tone of your mind, and the truth of your character. Never let me hear again of wounded spirits, and self-reproaches, and poetic sufferings. When you were a girl you almost frightened away my love for you by these mysterious exclamations, and I hate the very sound of them. Do not let me hear that my wife cannot look upon the face of nature with a calm and hopeful eye, or on her past life with a self-approving conscience. I know there is no reality in such language, G.o.d knows, I should not speak so calmly if I could suppose there was; but as you value my love, or dread my anger, never use expressions again which in your mouth are senseless."

"You are severe," I said, with an attempt at a smile, which made my mouth quiver; "your wife should indeed be perfect, for it is evident that her faults would meet with no mercy from you."

"You think me harsh, Ellen? Perhaps I am. But look here; there are four lines in this book (and he took up a volume of Metastasio's plays which was lying on the table), which makeup, in my opinion, for all the sentimental non-sense it contains." He pointed to these lines:

"La gloria nostra E geloso cristallo, e debil canna Ogni aura ch'inchina, ogni respiro ch'appanna."

"My feelings are, perhaps, exaggerated, but I own it fairly to you. I can conceive that, as a woman's reputation might suffer from trifles light as air, so a man's love might vanish from what would appear but a slight cause for such an effect. You were about to speak, Ellen, and you have checked the words that were rising to your lips, but I read them in your eyes, and I will answer them. It is not because my love is weak, that a fault in you would seem to me as a crime in another. It is because, to discover that you were not pure and good and true, beyond any other woman in the world, would be so dreadful to me, that I doubt if in that overthrow of all my pride and my happiness, my love could survive. My pride, I say, as well as my happiness, for I _am_ proud of you, my beloved wife, when I look at your dark eyes--at your clear brow--at your curling lip, and feel that no word has ever pa.s.sed those lips which an angel might not have uttered, nor any eye has ever been raised to yours but with respect and affection. They are glorious gifts, Ellen, precious treasures which you possess--an innocent mind and a spotless reputation.

Beware how you accustom yourself to talk, for effect, of remorse and self-reproach. They _are_ too dark and too bitter things to be trifled with."

"True," I answered, "they are too dark and too bitter subjects for us to discuss. You are right. Forgive me my folly. I shall not fall again into the same error."

And back into the deepest recesses of a swelling heart were thrust regrets, fears, hopes, which were thus commanded never again to trouble the smooth surface of married life.

Henceforward I was ordered to stand like a painted sepulchre, in all the outward form and show of virtue, nor ever dare to utter in Edward's hearing that life was not always fair, its memories sweet, and its prospects bright. The dream was over, and its danger too, for in its happiness my soul had grown weak; it had pouted forth its love, and in the rushing tide of feeling the secret of its misery was escaping it. Now the barrier was raised again--now the mental separation was begun; for as we drove out of sight of Hills...o...b.. on the following day, with that self-command which, while the heart is aching, teaches the tongue to utter some common-place remark in an indifferent voice and careless manner, I turned to Edward and asked him some trifling question, while at that very moment burning tears stood in my eyes, and a pa.s.sionate farewell was uttered in my soul.

One of the strangest feelings in life, is that of gliding into a new state of things with a kind of matter-of-course facility which we do not beforehand imagine to be possible. This struck me much, when, on the day of our arrival at Elmsley, I found myself once more seated at dinner in that well-known dining-room, in which every bit of furniture, from the picture of a certain Admiral Middleton, which stood over the chimney-piece with a heap of blue cannon-b.a.l.l.s by his side, to the heavy, sweeping, red curtains in which I had often hid myself in a game of hide-and-seek, was as familiar to me as the face of a friend. Here, in the house where in despair I had once refused Edward, I was sitting as his bride, and bowing in return for the healths which were drunk in honour of my marriage; and Henry--Henry, who had so often threatened, upbraided, once almost cursed me--greeted me now with a smile, and the bridal nosegay of white camellias and jessamine which I held in my hand was gathered and given by him. Alice, also, the child of Bridman cottage, the tradesman's daughter, was sitting by Mr.

Middleton in all the quiet dignity of her natural manner. For the first time she was dressed in an evening gown of white muslin, and a wreath of shining holly was in her hair. Mr.

Middleton seemed particularly happy; he had obtained the great object of all his wishes; he had married me to Edward.

Edward's return for the county was next to certain; and such was the softening influence of this state of things that he asked Henry to drink wine with him, and nodded to him good-humouredly as he did so. Mrs. Middleton, on the contrary, looked anxious and careworn, and once or twice I saw her eyes filled with tears, as she turned them alternately upon Alice and me.

In the evening Henry spoke to me but little, and nothing could be more amiable and gentle than his manner. He carefully avoided every subject that could have been painful to me, and whatever he said was soothing. He was out of spirits, but there was no bitterness in his depression. In trifles which will not bear recital, by some scarcely perceptible change of tone, by an answer given in the right place, by a look of a.s.sent when no word was uttered, he gave what at that moment I wanted--sympathy, and that silent, constant, un.o.btrusive sympathy, fell like oil on troubled waters.

"Does she like Elmsley?" I asked, as Alice sat opposite to us, earnestly reading a book which she had just taken out of the bookcase.

"I hardly know. The kind of life she leads here, quiet as it seems to us, is so new to her that I fancy it almost oppresses her. She has not been quite like herself since she came here.

I cannot call it a cloud, but a shade has sometimes pa.s.sed over her face whose expression formerly never used to vary. Do you remember the first day you ever saw her?"

"Don't I--the old fountain and the blooming children: what a picture that was! But look at her _now;_ is she not like what our fancy, aided by the loveliest conceptions of genius, presents to our thoughts, when we think of _her_ whom all generations call blessed?"

I murmured in a low tone, more to myself than to him, the beautiful appellations of the blessed Virgin--"Lily of Eden--mystic rose--star of the morning!"

Henry added, in as low a voice, and without looking at me, "Notre Dame de bon secours."

I understood him, and acknowledged to myself the truth of his prediction, that there was one share in my soul which nothing could ever rob him of, and that was that undefinable communion of thought and feeling, which an extraordinary fatality of circ.u.mstances, and a natural congeniality of mind, had created between us.

The next day there was nothing but bustle and excitement in the house, and in the neighbourhood. The polling was to begin at twelve o'clock that morning; and, at an early hour, we all drove to the town of--, to take up our quarters for the day in the drawing-room of the inn which belonged to my uncle, and the landlord of which was one of Edward's staunch supporters.

The loud cries of "Middleton for ever!" the enthusiastic cheering as we drove along; the occasional groans and hisses, which were too feeble to depress our spirits; the flags; the music; the bustle; Edward's heightened colour and animated countenance; the interest felt and expressed by all those about us; the eagerness of contest; the anxiety for success; the antic.i.p.ated triumph over the enemy--all this together worked me up into such a state of excitement, that I could hardly sit still in the carriage, or at the window, or forbear to shout with the shouting mob.

Henry seemed as much interested as any of us; he was continually going backwards and forwards from the poll to the inn: he won even my uncle's heart, by the look of dismay with which he brought, at one moment, the news that our antagonists were unexpectedly getting ahead of us, and the burst of joy with which, towards one o'clock on the second day, he dashed into the room with the account of Edward's triumphant return by a considerable majority. His face had worn a look of zealous anxiety during the hours when the result had been doubtful; and, not my uncle, in all the gratification of party spirit, and of successful influence; nor myself, when I saw Edward chaired and cheered, and extolled to the skies; were more intensely pleased, or more wildly gay, than Henry.