He spoke in a low tone, yet, Ellis, excessively alarmed, pointed expressively to the chamber-door. In a tone, then, still softer, he continued: ‘I have been anxious to speak to you of Lord Melbury, and to say something of the indignation with which I heard, from him, of the atrocious behaviour of Ireton. Nothing less than the respect I feel for you, could have deterred me from shewing him the resentment I feel for myself. I should not, however, have been your only champion; Lord Melbury was equally incensed; but we both acknowledged that our interests and our feelings ought to be secondary to yours, and by yours to be regulated. The matter, therefore, is at an end. Ireton is convinced that he has done you wrong; and, as he never meant to be your enemy, and has no study but his own amusement, we must pity his want of taste, and hope that the disgrace necessarily hanging upon detected false assertion, may be a lesson not lost upon him. Yet he deserves one far more severe. He is a pitiful egotist, who seeks nothing but his own diversion; indifferent whose peace, comfort, or reputation pays its purchase.’
‘I am infinitely obliged,’ said Ellis, ‘that you will suffer the whole to drop; but I must not do the same by my commission! — You must let me, now, enter more particularly upon my charge, and tell you—’
‘Forgive, forgive me!’ cried he, eagerly: ‘I comprehend all that Miss Joddrel can have to say. But my impatience is irrepressible upon a far different subject; one that awakens the most lively interest, that occupies my thoughts, that nearly monopolizes my memory; and that exhausts — yet never wearies my conjectures. — That letter you were so good as to mention to me? — and the plan you may at length decide to pursue? — permit me to hope, that the communication you intend me, has some reference to those points?’
‘I should be truly glad of your counsel, Sir, in my helpless situation: but I am not at this moment at liberty to speak for myself; — Miss Joddrel—’
Her embarrassment now announced something extraordinary; but it was avowedly not personal; and Harleigh eagerly besought her to be expeditious.
‘You must make me so, then,’ cried she, ‘by divining what I have to reveal!’
‘Does Miss Joddrel relent? — Will she give me leave to summon my brother back?’
‘Oh no! no! no! — far otherwise. Your brother has been indifferent to her ... ever since she has known him as such!’
She thought she had now said enough; but Harleigh, whose faculties were otherwise engaged, waited for further explanation.
‘Can you not,’ said Ellis, ‘or will you not, divine the reason of the change?’
‘I have certainly,’ he answered, ‘long observed a growing insensibility; but still—’
‘And have you never,’ said Ellis, deeply blushing, ‘seen, also, — its reverse?’
This question, and yet more the manner in which it was made, was too intelligible to admit of any doubt. Harleigh, however, was far from elated as the truth opened in his view: he looked grave and disturbed, and remained for some minutes profoundly silent. Ellis, already ashamed of the indelicacy of her office, could not press for any reply.
‘I am hurt,’ he at length said, ‘beyond all measure, by what you intimate; but since Miss Joddrel has addressed you thus openly, there can be no impropriety in my claiming leave, also, to speak to you confidentially.’
‘Whatever you wish me to say to her, Sir,—’
‘And much that I do not wish you to say to her,’ cried he, half smiling, ‘I hope you will hear yourself! and that then, you will have the goodness, according to what you know of her intentions and desire, to palliate what you may deem necessary to repeat.’
‘Ah, poor Miss Joddrel!’ said Ellis, in a melancholy tone, ‘and is this the success of my embassy?’
‘Did you, then, wish—’ Harleigh began, with a quickness of which he instantly felt the impropriety, and changed his phrase into, ‘Did you then, suspect any other?’
‘I was truly sorry to be entrusted with the commission.’
‘I easily conceive, that it is not such a one as you would have given! but there is a dangerous singularity in the character of Miss Joddrel, that makes her prone to devote herself to whatever is new, wild, or uncommon. Even now, perhaps, she conceives that she is the champion of her sex, in shewing it the road, — a dangerous road! — to a new walk in life. Yet, — these eccentricities set apart, — how rare are her qualities! how powerful is her mind! how sportive her fancy! and how noble is her superiority to every species of art or artifice!’
‘Yet, with all this,’ said Ellis, looking at him expressively, ‘with all this....’ she knew not how to proceed; but he saw her meaning. ‘With all this,’ he said, ‘you are surprised, perhaps, that I should look for other qualities, other virtues in her whom I should aspire to make the companion of my life? I beseech you, however, to believe, that neither insolence nor ingratitude makes me insensible to her worth; but, though it often meets my admiration, sometimes my esteem, and always my good will and regard, it is not of a texture to create that sympathy without which even friendship is cold. I have, indeed ... till now....’
He paused.
‘Poor, poor, Miss Joddrel!’ exclaimed Ellis, ‘If you could but have heard, — or if I knew but how to repeat, even the millionenth part of what she thinks of you! — of the respect with which she is ready to yield to your opinions; of the enthusiasm with which she honours your character; of the devotion with which she nearly worships you—’
She stopt short, ashamed; and as fearful that she had been now too urgent, as before that she had been too cold.
Harleigh heard her with considerable emotion. ‘I hope,’ he said, ‘your feelings, like those of most minds gifted with strong sensibility, have taken the pencil, in this portrait, from your cooler judgment? I should be grieved, indeed, to suppose — but what can a man suppose, what say, upon a subject so delicate that may not appear offensive? Suffer me, therefore, to drop it; and have the goodness to let that same sensibility operate in terminating, in such a manner as may be least shocking to her, all view, and all thought, that I ever could, or ever can, entertain the most distant project of supplanting my brother.’
‘Will you not, at least, speak to her yourself?’
‘I had far rather speak to you! — Yet certainly yes, if she desire it.’
‘Give me leave, then, to say,’ cried Ellis, moving towards the bedroom door, ‘that you request an audience.’
‘By no means! I merely do not object to it. You may easily conceive what pain I shall be spared, if it may be evaded. All I request, is a few moments with you! Hastily, therefore, let me ask, is your plan decided?’
‘To the best of my power, — of my ideas, rather, — yes. But, indeed, I must not thus abandon my charge!’
‘And will you not let me enquire what it is?’
‘There is one thing, only, in which I have any hope that my exertions may turn to account; I wish to offer myself as a governess to some young lady, or ladies.’
‘I beseech you,’ cried he, with sudden fervour, ‘to confide to me the nature of your situation! I know well I have no claim; I seem to have even no pretext for such a request; yet there are sometimes circumstances that not only excuse, but imperiously demand extraordinary measures: perhaps mine, at this moment, are of that sort! perhaps I am at a loss what step to take, till I know to whom I address myself!’
‘O Sir!’ cried Ellis, holding up her hands in act of supplication, ‘you will be heard!’
Harleigh, conscious that he had been off all guard, silenced himself immediately, and walked hastily to the window.
Ellis knew not whether to retire, at once, to her own room; or to venture into that of Elinor; or to require any further answer. This last, however, Harleigh seemed in no state to give: he leant his forehead upon his hand, and remained wrapt in thought.
Ellis, struck by a manner which shewed that he felt, and apparently, repented the possible meaning that his last words might convey, was now as much ashamed for herself as for Elinor; and not wishing
to meet his eyes, glided softly back to her chamber.
Here, whatever might be the fulness of her mind, she was not allowed an instant for reflection: Elinor followed her immediately.
She shut the door, and walked closely up to her. Elinor feared to behold her; yet saw, by a glance, that her eyes were sparkling, and that her face was dressed in smiles. ‘This is a glorious day for me!’ she cried; ‘’tis the pride of my life to have brought such a one into the history of my existence!’
Ellis officiously got her a chair; arranged the fire; examined if the windows were well closed; and sought any occupation, to postpone the moment of speaking to, or looking at her.
She was not offended; she did not appear to be hurried; she seemed enchanted with her own ideas; yet she had a strangeness in her manner that Ellis thought extremely alarming.
‘Well,’ she cried, when she had taken her seat, and saw that Ellis could find no further pretext for employing herself in the little apartment; ‘what garb do you bring me? How am I to be arrayed?’
Ellis begged to know what she meant.
‘Is it a wedding-garment?’ replied she, gaily; ‘or ...’ abruptly changing her tone into a deep hoarse whisper, ‘a shroud?’
Ellis, shuddering, durst not answer. Elinor, catching her hand said, ‘Don’t be frightened! I am at this moment equal to whatever may be my destiny: I am at a point of elevation, that makes my fate nearly indifferent to me. Speak, therefore! but only to the fact. I have neither time nor humour for narratory delays. I tried to hear you; but you both talked so whisperingly, that I could not make out a sentence.’
‘Indeed, Miss Joddrel,’ said Ellis, trembling violently, ‘Mr Harleigh’s regard — his affection—’
‘Not a word of that trite class!’ cried Elinor, with sudden severity, ‘if you would not again work all my passions into inflammation involve me no more in doubt! Fear nothing else. I am no where else vulnerable. Set aside, then, all childish calculations, of giving me an inch or two more, or an inch or two less of pain, — and be brief and true!’
Ellis could not utter a word: every phrase she could suggest seemed to teem with danger; yet she felt that her silence could not but indicate the truth which it sought to hide; she hung her head, and sighed in disturbed perplexity. Elinor looked at her for some time with an examining eye, and then, hastily rising, emphatically exclaimed, ‘You are mute? — I see, then, my doom! And I shall meet it with glory!’
Smiles triumphant, but wild, now played about her face. ‘Ellis,’ she cried, ‘go to your work, or whatever you were about, and take no manner of heed of me. I have something of importance to arrange, and can brook no interruption.’
Ellis acquiesced, returning to the employment of her needle, for which Mrs Fenn took especial care that she should never lack materials.
Elinor spoke to her no more; but her ruminations, though undisturbed by her companion, were by no means quiet, or silent. She paced hastily up and down the room; sat, in turn, upon a chair, a window seat, and the bed; talked to herself, sometimes with a vehemence that made several detached words, though no sentences, intelligible; sometimes in softer accents, and with eyes and gestures of exultation; and, frequently, she went into a corner by the side of the window, where she looked, in secret, at something in a shagreen case that she held in her hand, and had brought out of her chamber; and to which she occasionally addressed herself, with a fervency that shook her whole frame, and with expressions which, though broken, and half pronounced, denoted that she considered it as something sacred.
At length, with an air of transport, she exclaimed, ‘Yes! that will produce the best effect! what an idiot have I been to hesitate!’ then, turning with quickness to Ellis: ‘Ellis,’ she cried, ‘I have withheld from any questions relative to yourself, because I abominate all subterfuge; but you will not suppose I am contented with my ignorance? You will not imagine it a matter of indifference to me, to know how I have failed?’
She reddened; passion took possession of every feature, and for a moment nearly choaked her voice: she again walked, with rapid motion, about the room, and then ejaculated, ‘Let me be patient! let me not take away all grandeur from my despair, and reduce it to mere common madness! — Let me wait the fated moment, and then — let the truth burst, blaze, and flame, till it devour me!
‘Ellis,’ she presently added, ‘find Harleigh; tell him I wish him a good journey from the summer-house in the garden. Not a soul ever enters it at this time of the year. Bid him go thither directly. I shall soon join him. I will wait in my room till you call me. Be quick!’
Ellis required not to have this order repeated: to place her under the care of Harleigh, and intimate to him the excess of her love, with the apprehensions which she now herself conceived of the dangerous state of her mind, was all that could be wished; and where so essential a service might be rendered, or a mischief be prevented, personal punctilio was out of the question.
He was not in the hall; but, from one of the windows, she perceived him walking near the house. A painful sensation, upon being obliged again, to force herself upon his notice, disturbed, though she would not suffer it to check her. He was speaking with his groom. She stopt at the hall-door, with a view to catch his eye, and succeeded; but he bowed without approaching her, and continued to discourse with his groom.
To seem bent upon pursuing him, when he appeared himself to think that he had gone too far, and even to mean to shun her, dyed her cheeks of the deepest vermilion; though she compelled herself, from a terrour of the danger of delay, to run across the gravel-walk before the house, to address him. He saw her advance, with extreme surprise, but by no means with the same air of pleasure, that he had manifested in the morning. His look was embarrassed, and he seemed unwilling to meet her eyes. Yet he awaited her with a respect that made his groom, unbidden, retire to some distance; though to await her at all, when he might have met her, struck her, even in this hurried and terrified moment, as offering the strongest confirmation which she had yet received, that it was not a man of pleasure or of gallantry, but of feeling and of truth, into whose way she was thus singularly and frequently cast: and the impression which she had made upon his mind, had never, to her hitherto nearly absorbed faculties, appeared to be so serious or so sincere, as now, when he first evidently struggled to disguise a partiality, which he seemed persuaded that he had, now, first betrayed. The sensations which this discovery might produce in herself were unexamined: the misery with which it teemed for Elinor, and a desire to relieve his own delicacy, by appearing unconscious of his secret, predominated: and she assumed sufficient self-command, to deliver the message of Elinor, with a look, and in a voice, that seemed insensible and unobservant of every other subject.
He soon, now, recovered his usual tone, and disengaged manner. ‘She must certainly,’ he said, ‘be obeyed; though I so little expected such a summons, that I was giving directions for my departure.’
‘Ah, no!’ cried Ellis, ‘rather again defer it.’
‘You would have me again defer it?’ he repeated, with a vivacity he tried still more, though vainly, to subdue than to disguise.
The word again did not make the cheeks of Ellis paler; but she answered, with eagerness, ‘Yes, for the same purpose and same person! — I am forced to speak explicitly — and abruptly. Indeed, Sir, you know not, you conceive not, the dreadfully alarming state of her nerves, nor the violence of her attachment. — You could scarcely else—’ she stopt, for he changed colour and looked hurt: she saw he comprehended that she meant to add, you could scarcely else resist her: she finished, therefore, her phrase, by ‘scarcely else plan leaving her, till you saw her more composed, and more reconciled to herself, and to the world.’
‘You may imagine,’ said he, pensively, ‘it is any thing rather than my inclination that carries me hence ... but I greatly fear ’tis the only prudent measure I can pursue.’
‘You can best judge by seeing her,’ said Ellis: ‘her situation is truly deplorable. Her facu
lties are all disordered; her very intellects, I fear, are shaken; and there is no misfortune, no horrour, which her desperation, if not softened, does not menace.’
Harleigh now seemed awakened to sudden alarm, and deep concern; and Ellis painfully, with encreasing embarrassment, from encreasing consciousness, added, ‘You will do, I am sure, what is possible to snatch her from despair!’ and then returned to the house: satisfied that her meaning was perfectly comprehended, by the excess of consternation into which it obviously cast Harleigh.
CHAPTER XVIII
Comforted, at least, for Elinor, whose situation in being known, seemed to lose its greatest danger, Ellis, with less oppression upon her spirits, returned to the dressing-room.
Elinor was writing, and too intently occupied to heed the opening of the door. The motion of her hand was so rapid, that her pen seemed rather to skim over, than to touch her paper. Ellis gently approached her; but, finding that she did not raise her head, ventured not even to announce that her orders had been executed.
At length, her paper being filled, she looked up, and said, ‘Well! is he there?’
‘I have delivered to him, Madam, your commands.’
‘Then,’ cried she, rising with an exulting air, ‘the moment of my triumph is come! Yes, Harleigh! if meanly I have offered you my person, nobly, at least, I will consecrate to you my soul!’
Hastily rolling up what she had been writing, and putting it into a desk, ‘Ellis!’ she added, ‘Mark me well! should any accident betide me, here will be found the last and unalterable codicil to my will. It is signed, but not witnessed: it is not, however, of a nature to be disputed; it is to desire only that Harleigh will take care that my bones shall be buried in the same charnel-house, in which he orders the interment of his own. All that remains, finally, of either of us, there, at least, may meet!’
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