"What have you heard? What have you found out?"

"In the first place, tell me, have you had a scene with Edward since you came home? Has he questioned you about anything?"

"How do you mean? About what?"

"Perhaps he will take no notice; but you must be prepared with an answer if he should; and we had better talk it over together. It makes me miserable to give you pain; but you must not be taken by surprise: a letter has been sent to him, and is in his hands now, whether he has read it or not as yet."

"Who sent it? Who spoke in the gallery?"

"I believe it was Robert Harding; but I cannot be sure of it.

The moment after we brought you home, I tried to find out. All I could gather was that one of the servants struck the speaker, whoever he was; that he returned the blow, and that a scuffle ensued; the police interfered, and the man slipped away. I returned to the inn; and as I was standing by the window half an hour afterwards, I saw Harding walking down the street; I went down-stairs and asked your servant at the door if he knew that man, or had ever seen him before. He told me that he had just given him a letter for Edward, which he had requested should be delivered to him immediately. It must have been Harding who spoke in the gallery, and whom I saw in the street. Mrs. Tracy denied the other day all knowledge of his being in England; but I can swear to him. I asked your servant for the letter, which he must have thought strange enough, and I do not know what I could have done had he produced it; but as it was, he had given it an instant before to your maid to take up-stairs, and I have been in cruel anxiety ever since."

"That letter is destroyed."

"How? What do you mean?"

"I s.n.a.t.c.hed it out of Edward's hand and burnt it. It is almost a relief to find from what this has saved me, for it was at a dreadful cost, as Edward was fearfully incensed. But, for Heaven's sake, Henry, tell me what are we to do now? Harding will write again; there is no security, no hope. This cannot last."

"Something must certainly be done, and I must find out this Harding. I am enraged with old Tracy, for having betrayed it all to him; but money, perhaps... Have you much at your disposal, Ellen?"

"Some, not a great deal; but I can get more, perhaps. Oh, Heavens! is it come to this: must I buy the silence of a set of wretches, as if I had indeed been a vile criminal? And what have I done after all? Good G.o.d! what have I done? Nothing that I might not proclaim to the world, with regret and sorrow indeed, but without shame or remorse."

"You should in that case have proclaimed it sooner. It is too late now."

"So you say, and so you have made me act. If it had not been for you, if I had never known you, if you had never crossed my path, I should not be the miserable creature I am now. But I am driven to extremities; sorrow and shame compa.s.s me about on every side. I can never look Edward, you, or the world in the face again, |till you release me from the fatal oath which you extorted from me in an hour of weakness and of despair."

"It is from your own weakness, from your rash and foolish despair, that in spite of yourself I will guard you."

"Oh, Heaven, deliver me from such guardianship as yours! G.o.d save me from your counsels, and rescue me from your power!"

"Go, then, go, and tell your husband that you killed your cousin by mistake. Tell him that you were on the point of marrying me by mistake; that you married him by mistake; and have deceived him and me, and every one you have had to do with, all by mistake. Go and break the most solemn engagement, which you called upon G.o.d to witness; heap fresh guilt and fresh remorse on your head; but, if Edward should not give credit to your story, and should hint at separation, remember that there is a man in the world who loves you in spite of all your scorn and your violence, and who would kneel at your feet if the rest of the world contemned and deserted you."

"Another word of this kind, Henry, and I never speak to you again."

"You forget yourself, Ellen. Poor weak woman, what could you do without me? Look at this letter, which in your difficulties you once wrote to me, when you dared not marry Edward without my consent. It never leaves me; there, in my bosom, I keep it as a charm to recall softer thoughts and better feelings when an evil spirit takes possession of me, and urges me to drive you to desperation. Have mercy on yourself, and on me, Ellen.

Your present position is far more awful than it then was; but if you will be patient and trust in me, all may yet be well. I will find this Harding out, and take some means to stop his mouth. Think of all you would forego, if in one rash moment I suffered you to disclose the truth to Edward. I solemnly swear to you, that I speak the truth, when I a.s.sert that from what I know of him and of his character, and something of his past history too, I am certain that he would part from you if these circ.u.mstances were to come to his knowledge. And do you know, Ellen, what I save you from? No, you do not know what it is to part. You do not know what it is to give up love, and hope, and joy; never to see the face which to see is in itself happiness; not to hear the voice which to hear is to be blest; and to feel that there is life before us, life to be gone through, and no light to gild it, no music in our souls, no hopes nor even fears; and oh, how wretched is that state where even fear would seem a blessing! No, no, do not part from him you love; never feel what I have felt; but feel for me sometimes: and when you wake to-morrow, and remember that but for me your eyes would not be gladdened by the sight of your husband, treasure up that thought against the next time that harsh words and cutting reproaches are rising to your lips against one who seeks to save you from the anguish he himself endures."

I returned the pressure of Henry's hand, and we drove on in silence for some time. He had as usual subdued and reconciled me to a return to the ordinary state of things between us. He went on to advise me strongly, and apparently with great good sense, not to oppose a speedy return to London, and to promote, instead of discouraging, the interest which Edward took in politics. "Your spirits are naturally unequal," he said; "and you have often causes for worry and anxiety. It is easy enough to command one's self for an hour or two in the course of the day; and the very joy which you will feel in Edward's society during those intervals which he will devote to you, will enable you to keep from him those alternations which must affect him in a disagreeable manner. It is impossible to say what stories this Harding may have spread in the neighbourhood, and till they have died away you will feel much more comfortable in London, where Edward will have constant occupation, and you yourself resources of all sorts for interest and amus.e.m.e.nt. A quiet life may be a good thing for those who have no cares or troubles; but when, to use a common expression, one has anything on one's mind, it is the worst possible plan of existence: it is equally difficult to shake it off one's self, or to conceal it from others, without the aid of external excitements."

In this manner Henry talked on till we reached Elmsley.

Late that evening Edward returned. He had made another excellent speech; and in order to prevent any allusion to my conduct in the morning, I questioned him about politics, and listened with apparent interest to explanations about divers party questions, and details relative to the measures expected during the next session.

During a pause, however, he said to me in a low voice, "I have made inquiries about the letter which you destroyed in so rash a manner this morning. Your groundless jealousy entirely misled you. It was left for me by a man whom n.o.body knew, and must have been some pet.i.tion I suppose. I ought not to have forgiven you so easily, for it was unjustifiable to destroy a letter in that way from some absurd suspicion; but you owned your folly so frankly that it disarmed me."

I sighed deeply, but made no answer.

The next morning, at breakfast, Edward asked Henry if he knew how the row had begun, which took place in the gallery during the conclusion of his speech.

"Some one called you names, I believe," Henry carelessly answered; "and one of our people resented it. That was all."

"Do you know who it was that took up my cause in that way?"

said Edward.

"Old James, the coachman, I believe," answered Henry.

Old James had known me from a baby--had taught me to ride; he had always been much attached to me, and I could easily understand his anger at the horrible imputation cast upon me; but I trembled from head to foot at the idea that in his very indignation he would spread the report, and, above all, that if Edward spoke to him he would repeat it. I did not feel courage to speak to him myself on the subject, and, therefore, as usual, I turned to Henry for a.s.sistance. I whispered to him a few words, and he immediately left the room.

"What have you sent Henry about?" my uncle asked.

The question was a simple one, but at the moment I could not find an answer to it; and as Alice fixed her large calm eyes upon me, I coloured and stammered out something unintelligible about ordering the horses. She looked at me steadily for an instant, and then taking up her knitting she worked on in silence. I was copying out some music, and for a quarter of an hour there was no other sound in the room but the scratching of my pen and the rustling of Mr. Middleton's and Edward's newspapers. When Henry returned I felt to colour again, and breathed more freely when he took up a third newspaper and sat down by the fire. After a few minutes were elapsed I went to the pianoforte and began playing. Henry got up and joined me.

"All is right," he said, "about James, but the sooner you leave this place the better. There are all sorts of stories about. They will soon die a natural death; but your absence would be very desirable."

"Heaven knows I do not wish to stay here. But how can I make Edward and my uncle go?"

"I will try to persuade my sister, what is, in fact, true, that, if they are going abroad for this winter, they ought to be setting out now. You will naturally accompany them to London; indeed, you can make a point of it with Edward; and then, once in London, you can easily contrive to stay there.

As Parliament meets at the beginning of November, your coming back here would probably be out of the question."

"Edward will wish to shoot next month."

"Then go to Hills...o...b..;--anywhere but here."

"Have you seen that man?"

"Not yet; I shall ride to Bridman this afternoon and find him out."

"What is he doing there?"

"I don't know; but James tells me he has been staying at the inn there for the last three weeks."

"Oh, that I were gone from hence! That I had the wings of a dove to flee away and be at rest! Henry, shall I ever know again what it is to be at rest?"

"Rest would not do for you. You have too keen a spirit, too strong a will, and too much genius to know what rest is. A good thing in its way I grant; but neither for you nor me was it ever decreed. We can be intensely happy, we can be intensely miserable. We tremble in the midst of joy, for we feel that it is too exquisite to last. In anguish we hope on, for we cannot conceive life without something to brighten its dull course; and we would rather die than live without a fear, a hope, an emotion of any sort."

As he said these words he fixed his eyes on his wife, who was still apparently absorbed in her work at some distance from us.

She got up at this moment and came towards us. She had a letter in her hand, which she held out to Henry, and at the same time she said distinctly and slowly, "This letter was found at the bottom of _our_ carriage. It was brought to _me_, and I return it to _you_."

The delicate colour of her cheek was slightly heightened, but her voice was perfectly calm, and she walked slowly out of the room. It was my letter to Henry, the only one I had ever written to him. He had shown it to me the day before, and now she had seen it, at least, she must have recognised the handwriting. Henry bit his lip, tore up the paper into fragments, and threw them into the fire.

He returned to me, and said in a low voice, "Would that my love, my guilty love for you, could die away like those fragments in the flame. But, Ellen, it is too late; we have sown the whirlwind, and we must reap the storm."

When I came down to luncheon, I hardly dared to look towards Alice. Never had I feared anything so much as to meet those calm and gentle eyes. She came up to me as we were leaving the dining-room, and with her sweet voice asked me if I would drive with her. I gave a hasty a.s.sent, although I dreaded beyond expression to find myself alone with her, and I was much relieved when my uncle volunteered to accompany us.

It was a fine October afternoon, and as we were driving out of the gates of the park, Mr. Middleton turned to Alice and asked her if she knew the drive by Shirley Common, and back by the Woods of Bridman.

"No," she said; "I have often walked through Bridman Woods; but I do not know the drive you mention."