Authors: George W. M. Reynolds,James Malcolm Rymer
she
described and that
I
felt. At length a light dawned in
upon my soul ;- then did I begin to comprehend the real nature of the
sentiments that filled my own soul ;- then could I read my own heart! I
perceived that I loved tenderly, deeply, unalterably! I heard no more of the
drama - I saw nothing more of its progress: I sate absorbed in deep reflection
upon the conviction that had so suddenly reached me. When I awoke from my
reverie, the tragedy —"
"A tragedy?" said Isabella, hastily.
"Yes - the tragedy was finished, and the author,
holding the hand of the heroine of his piece, stood before the public. Merciful
heavens! the great tragic writer who had thus suddenly burst upon the world,
was no other than the young tutor!"
"The tutor!" exclaimed Isabella, a strange
suspicion suddenly entering her mind.
"Yes - he whom I had just discovered that I
loved," answered Mary-Anne.
"May I inquire his name?" said Isabella, in a
tremulous tone, and with a palpitating heart.
"There can be no indiscretion in revealing it,"
returned Miss Gregory; "for it is not probable that you have ever heard of
Mr. Richard Markham."
"Unhappy girl!" exclaimed Isabella, in a tone of
deep sympathy - but without the least feeling of jealousy; "it is now my duty
to return your confidence with a reciprocal frankness. But, alas! what I am
about to say cannot tend to soothe your sorrows, since - as I fondly believe -
it will only confirm you in the impression that the affections of him whom you
love are fixed elsewhere."
"You speak mysteriously, Isabella," said
Mary-Anne: "pray, explain yourself."
"I will - and without reserve," continued the
signora, a blush mantling upon her beauteous countenance. "So far from Mr.
Richard Markham being a stranger to me, Mary-Anne, he is—"
"He is—" repeated Miss Gregory, mechanically.
"He is the hope of my happiness - the one to whom my
vow of constancy and love is pledged —"
"You the object of his attachment! " ejaculated
Mary-Anne, clinging to Isabella for support: "Oh! forgive me - forgive me,
that I have dared to love him also!"
"Alas! dear girl, I have nothing to forgive," said
Isabella, affectionately: "I deeply - deeply compassionate your lot. And,
oh! believe me," continued the generous Italian Princess,- "believe
me when I say that no feeling of petty jealousy - no sentiment unworthy the
honourable affection which I bear towards Richard Markham - can ever impair the
friendship that has commenced, and shall continue, between you and me!"
"Oh! how noble is your disposition, Isabella!"
exclaimed Mary-Anne. "But your generous assurance shall not meet with an
ungrateful return. So far from feeling jealous of you,- envious I must
be, to some extent, - I offer you the most sincere congratulations on your
engagement to one who in so well worthy of your love - in spite of what the
world may say against him ;- for that he could be guilty of the deed of which
that horrible man accused him —"
"He is not guilty," answered Isabella, firmly.
"The story is a long one; but I will tell thee all."
The signora then related to her companion the narrative of
the misfortunes and sufferings of Richard Markham.
Mary-Anne listened with profound attention, and, when
Isabella terminated her history, exclaimed, "Oh! I knew that he was all of
honourable, great, and generous, that human nature could be!"
A profound silence then ensued between the two young ladies,
and lasted for some minutes.
At length it was broken by Mary-Anne.
"Oh! well might he have said," she exclaimed. in a
sudden ebullition of feeling, as she gazed upon the countenance of the
Signora,- "well might he have said that his heart was devoted to a lady
who was very beautiful! And he might also have observed, as good as she was
lovely!"
"Nay - you must not flatter me," returned
Isabella.
"You need not hesitate to hear the truth from my
lips," said Mary-Anne. "God grant that I may live to see you happily
united: I shall then die in peace."
"It is wrong to talk of dying at your age,"
observed Isabella. "Time will mitigate that passion which has made you
unhappy —"
"Oh! Isabella, do
you
believe that true and sincere
love can ever succumb to time?" exclaimed Mary-Anne, almost reproachfully.
"Time cannot extinguish it; but time may soften its
pangs," said the Italian lady, desirous to console her unfortunate friend.
"But time will only ripen,
and not eradicate the canker which gnaws at the heart," persisted Miss
Gregory; "and
mine
," she added with a mournful
pathos of tone that showed how deeply she felt the truth of what she
said,- "
mine
has received a wound whose
effects may be comparatively slow, but which is not the less mortal. A few
years, perhaps, and my earthly career must end. I shall wither like the early
flowers, that peep forth prematurely to greet a deceptive gleam of sunshine
which they mistake for spring :-I shall pass away at that age when my
contemporaries are in the full enjoyment of life, vigour, and happiness!
Yes - I feel it here -
here
;" - and she pressed her
hand upon her heart.
"No, my dear friend," said Isabella, affected even
to tears; "your prospect is not so gloomy as you would depict it. There is
one star that burns in the same heaven which is above us all ;- and that star
is Hope."
"Hope!" ejaculated Mary-Anne, bitterly- "ah!
where does hope exist for me? Is not hope extinguished in my heart for
ever?"
"In the one sense, hope is dead," answered
Isabella, mildly; "but hope beams not only in one sphere. The attentions
of your friends - the kindness of your relations, will combine to cheer your
path; and surely this conviction must be allied to hopes of tranquillity,
peace, and even happiness! Consider, Mary-Anne - you have a father who is still
in the vigour of his years: you will live for him! You have brothers who must
soon enter upon their respective careers in the great world: you must live for
them! You have friends who are devoted to you: you will live for them also! Oh!
do not speak of death with levity : do not seem to invite its presence! We do
not live for ourselves only we live for others. To yield to those feelings
which facilitate the ravages of sorrow and encourage the in-roads of grief, is
to perpetrate a slow suicide. God and man alike require that we should war
against our misfortunes!"
"Alas! I have not that great moral courage which
characterises your soul, Isabella," answered Mary-Anne: "I am a weak
and fragile plant, that bends to the lightest gale. How, then, can I resist the
terrible tempest? "
"By exerting that fortitude with which every mind is
more or less endowed, but which cannot be developed without an effort,"
answered Isabella.
Mary-Anne sighed, but gave no answer. The two maidens now
felt wearied with the somewhat lengthy walk which they had taken; and they
accordingly retraced their steps to the mansion.
CHAPTER CXIX.
POOR ELLEN!
IT was evening; and a cheerful fire burned in the grate of the
drawing-room at Markham-Place.
Mr. Monroe and his daughter were seated in that apartment;
the former dozing in an arm-chair, the, latter reading a novel.
Richard was engaged in a literary pursuit in his library.
From time to time Miss Monroe laid aside her book, and fell
into meditation. Not that she had any particular subject for her reflections; but
the events of her life, when taken together, constituted a theme from which it
was impossible to avert her attention for any lengthened period.
There was also a topic upon which she pondered more
frequently as time passed on. She knew that in the course of nature - especially
after the rude shocks which his constitution had received from mental suffering
and bodily privation, - her father could not live much longer. Then, she was
well aware that she could not continue to dwell beneath the same roof with
Richard Markham ;- and her pride revolted against the idea of receiving a
direct eleemosynary assistance from him in the shape of a pecuniary allowance.
She had some few pound treasured up in a savings bank, and which she had saved
from her salary when engaged at the theatre; but this sum would not maintain
her long. She therefore looked, with occasional anxiety, to the necessity of
adopting some course that should obtain for her a livelihood. Of all the
avocations in which she had been engaged, she preferred that of the stage; and
there were times when she seriously thought of returning to the profession,
even during her father's life-time.
In sooth, it was a pity that one of the brightest ornaments
of female loveliness should have been lowered by circumstances from the
pedestal of virtue and modesty which she would have so eminently adorned.
Should her transcendent loveliness captivate the heart of any individual whose
proposals were alike honourable and eligible, how could she accept the hand thus
extended to her? She must either deceive him in respect to that wherein no man
likes to be deceived; or she must decline the chance of settling herself
advantageously for life. These were the alternatives ;- for in no case could
she reveal her shame!
Her fate was not, therefore, a happy one; and the reader
need not marvel if she now and then found reflections of a disagreeable nature
stealing into her soul.
She was now past twenty years of age: and in spite of the
severe trials which she had endured, the sweet freshness of her youthful charms
was totally unimpaired. Her faultless Grecian countenance,- her
classically-shaped head, - her swan-like neck,- her symmetrical form,- her
delicate hands and feet, - all those charms which had been perpetuated in the
works of so many artists - these elements of an almost superhuman beauty still
combined to render her passing lovely!
O Ellen! the soul of the philanthropist must mourn for
thee,- for thou wait not wrongly inclined by nature. On a purer being than thou
wast, ere misery drove thee in an evil moment to an evil course, the sun never
shone :- and now thou hast to rue the shame which thine imperious destiny, and
not thy faults, entailed upon thee!
But to our tale.
Old Mr. Monroe was dozing in the arm-chair; and Ellen had
once more turned her eyes upon her book, when Marian entered the room.
She perceived at a glance that Mr. Monroe was asleep; and,
placing her finger upon her lip to enjoin silence, she put a note into Ellen's
hand, saying at the same time in a low whisper, " Mr. Wentworth's servant
has just brought this, with a request that it should be immediately conveyed to
you, Miss."
Marian then withdrew.
Ellen tore open the note, and read as follows:-
"I grieve to state that your little
Richard has been attacked with a sudden and dangerous malady. Come to my house
for an hour - if you can possibly steal away, without exciting suspicion. My
servant will convey this to you through your faithful confidant.
DAVID WENTWORTH"
Ellen flung the note frantically upon the table, and rushed out
of the room.
She hurried up stairs, put on her bonnet and cloak, and,
having told Marian to sit up for her, hastened from the house - one sole idea
occupying her mind, - the danger of her well-beloved child!
When she arrived at Mr. Wentworth's abode, she was received
by that gentleman's wife, who immediately said, "The danger is over-the
crisis is past! Do not alarm yourself - my husband no longer fears for your
son's life. He, however, deemed it to be his duty to send for you."
"Oh! he did well - he acted kindly and
considerately," returned Ellen. "But let me assure myself that my boy
is no longer in danger."
Mrs. Wentworth led the way to the chamber where little
Richard was now sleeping tranquilly, the surgeon seated by the bed-side.
From his lips Ellen gathered hope that the perilous crisis
had passed: she nevertheless determined to remain for some time to assure
herself that any return of the spasms might not be fraught with increased
danger. All other considerations were banished from her mind; she thought not
of her father - she remembered not that her absence might alarm both him and
Richard Markham; and when Mr. Wentworth delicately alluded to that subject, as
time slipped by, she uttered some impatient remark intimating that she should
not be at a loss for an excuse to account for her protracted absence.
Thus the pure and holy maternal feeling was now uppermost in
the mind of that young lady: the danger of her child was the all-absorbing
subject of her thoughts.
Bent over the bed, she tenderly gazed upon the pale
countenance of her child.
Oh! where can the artist find a more charming subject for
his pencil, or the poet a more witching theme for his song, than the young
mother watching over her sleeping infant?
Hour after hour passed ; and when the babe awoke, Ellen
nursed him in her arms. In spite of its illness, the little sufferer smiled;
but when the pang of the malady seized upon him, it was Mrs. Wentworth - and
not Ellen - who could pacify him!
Alas! galling indeed to the young mother was this conviction
that her child clung to another rather than to herself.
Nevertheless Ellen watched the babe with the most heartfelt
tenderness; and it was not until near midnight, when the surgeon declared that
the malady had passed without the remotest fear of a relapse, that Ellen
thought of returning home.
She then took her departure, with an intimation that she
should call again in the morning.
She retraced her steps towards the Place, and, passing up
the garden, was admitted through the back entrance by the faithful Marian.
"My child is saved," whispered Ellen to the
servant. " Has my father inquired for me?"
"No, miss," was the reply. " He is still in
the drawing-room; and Mr. Markham is with him."
"They are up late to-night," remarked Ellen.
"But I," she continued, "am weary in mind and body, and shall at
once repair to my own room."
Marian gave the young lady a candle, and wished her a good
night's rest.
Ellen hastened cautiously up-stairs, and in a few minutes
retired to rest.
She was fatigued, as before intimated; and yet slumber
refused to visit her eyes Nevertheless, she dozed uneasily,-m that kind of semi-sleep
which weighs down the heavy lids, and yet does not completely shut out from the
mind the consciousness of what is passing around.
A quarter of an hour had probably elapsed since Ellen had
sought her couch, when the door slowly opened; and her father entered the room,
bearing a light in his hand.
The countenance of the old man was ghastly pale; but there
was a wildness in his eyes which bore testimony to the painful feelings that
agitated him within.
He advanced towards the bed, and contemplated the
countenance of his daughter for a few moments with an expression of profound
sorrow.
Ellen opened her eyes, and started up in the bed,
exclaiming, "My dear father, in the name of heaven, what is the
matter?"
"O God! Ellen," cried the old man, placing the
light upon a side-table, "tell me that it is not true - say but one word,
to assure me that you are the pure and spotless girl I have always deemed you
to be!"
"Father!" exclaimed the young lady, a horrible
feeling taking possession of her, "why do you ask me that question?"
"Because a fearful suspicion racks my brain,"
answered the old man; "and I could not retire to rest until I knew the
truth - be that truth what it may."
"My dear father - you alarm me cruelly!" said
Ellen, her cheeks at one moment suffused with blushes, and then varying to ashy
whiteness.
"In one word, Ellen," exclaimed the old man,
"what is the meaning of that letter?"
And the almost distracted father threw the surgeon's note
upon the bed
In an instant Ellen remembered that she had left it behind
her in the room where she was seated with her father when she received it.
Joining her hands in a paroxysm of the most acute mental
agony, she burst into tears, crying wildly, "Forgive me! forgive me - my
dear, dear father! Do not curse your wretched - wretched daughter!"
And then she bowed her head upon her bosom, and seemed to
await her parent's reply in a state of mind which no pen can describe.
For some moments Mr. Monroe maintained a profound silence:
but the quivering of his lip, and the working of the veins upon his forehead
betrayed the terrible nature of the conflict of feelings which was taking place
within his breast.
At length he also burst into tears, and covering his face with
his hands, exclaimed, " My God! that I had died ere I had experienced this
bitter - bitter hour!"
These words were uttered in a tone of such intense agony,
that a mortal dread for her father's reason and life suddenly sprang up in
Ellen's mind.
Throwing herself from the bed, she fell upon her knees,
crying, "Forgive me, my dear father. Oh! if my child were here, I would
hold it in my arms towards you; and, when its innocent countenance met your
eyes, you would pardon me!"
"Ellen! Ellen! thou hast broken thy father's
heart," murmured Mr. Monroe, averting his face from his suppliant
daughter. "Oh! heaven be thanked that thy mother has been snatched from
us! But tell me, unhappy girl, who is the villain that has dishonoured thee -
for, in the moment of my intense agony, when I read the fatal letter that
disclosed thy dishonour and marked the name of thy child, I vilely -
ungratefully accused our generous benefactor of thy ruin."
"What!
Richard?-oh! no, no!" ejaculated' Ellen, in a tone of Ineffable anguish;
then, as the thought of
who the father of her child
really was
flashed across her memory, she gave utterance to a terrible moan,
and sank backwards, senseless, upon the floor.
"Ellen! Ellen!" cried the old man: "Ellen -
my dearest daughter, Ellen - oh! I have killed' her!"
At that moment Marian, bearing a light, entered the room.
"Water! water!" exclaimed the agonised father:-
"she is insensible - she is dying!"
Then hastily filling a tumbler from a decanter of' water
which stood upon the toilet-table, he knelt down by the side of his daughter,
and bathed her temples.
In a few moments Ellen partially recovered, and gazed wildly
around her.
"My sweet child," murmured the old man, pressing
her hand to his lips, "live - live for me: all shall be forgiven - all
forgotten. I was harsh to thee, my Ellen - to thee who have always been so
fond, so tender, and so good to me."
"Leave her, sir, for the present," said Marian
"allow her to compose herself. This discovery has been almost too much for
her!"
"I will," returned Mr. Monroe. "You must stay
with her, good Marian; and in the morning I will come and see her."
The old man then withdrew.