"And thou, oh! Hope, with eyes so fair,What was thy delighted measure?Still it whispered promised pleasure,And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail."
"And thou, oh! Hope, with eyes so fair,What was thy delighted measure?Still it whispered promised pleasure,And bade the lovely scenes at distance hail."
After several days travelling, stopping occasionally to rest, and to view such remarkable objects as they thought worthy of observation, they arrived at the Passage, and, crossing it, soon after entered the city of Bristol. To paint Ellen's surprise at all the wonders of the new world which surrounded her would be impossible; so strange indeed did every thing appear to her, that scarcely the influence which Mordaunt possessed over her mind could prevent her from exclamations of astonishment, which, to those around, would have betrayed the perfect seclusion in which she had hitherto lived. After shewing her all that was worth notice in Bristol and its interesting environs, Mordaunt took his fair bride to Bath, with the elegance of which she was particularly delighted. The streets, the shops, were a constant source of amusement to one so new to every thing; here, however, they remained but three days, during which Mordaunt procured for Ellen such a variety of dresses as appeared to her quite extraordinary; and she began to think her husband was either very rich or very extravagant, though in truth all he purchased would hardly satisfy the "indispensable necessities" of mostyoung ladies, of no pretensions really higher than those of Ellen Powis had been; and were far from appearing to Mordaunt more than barely sufficient for her present occasions. An elegant new riding habit and hat were amongst them; and Ellen's delicate figure appeared to such advantage in that dress, that no one could have supposed her so lately removed from so remote a situation: her natural gracefulness prevented her appearing in the slightest degree awkward; and her new dress gave her an air of fashion, with which Mordaunt was delighted.
From Bath they went to London, where Mordaunt engaged very handsome lodgings, though not in the most fashionable part of the town, yet in a handsome street, for a fortnight, where they rested after the fatigues of so long a journey. Mordaunt told his wife he wished not to take her to any of the public amusements till the next spring, when he hoped to revisit London with her, and when some ladies of his acquaintance would be there also, and would accompany her. Ellen, who desired no greater pleasure than his society, was well contented with this arrangement: during their stay in London, therefore, they seldom went out; but Mordaunt trusted her two or three times under the care of the person at whose house they lodged, (who was a very respectable woman) to go to different shops, furnishing her liberally with money, and insisting on her providing a very complete and elegant wardrobe. Several times Ellen wished to check his liberality, assuring him she had already as much of every thing as she wished for; but he replied she was no judge of what she would want when she went into the country, and that she must oblige him by buying every thing in abundance, and of the best and most fashionable materials; nor did he ever go from home without bringing back with him some elegant trinket or set of ornaments for her; so that little as she was a judge of the value of money, she was surprized and somewhat uneasy to see Mordaunt so profuse of his, for in addition to the large expences he would incur in her dress, he had requested Mrs. Birtley (the person at whose house they lodged) to hire a young woman to wait upon his wife; and Ellen really thought her new servant so much more like a lady than till very lately she had thought herself, that she hardly knew how to give her any orders. Mordaunt had also hired a job chariot and horses for the time they staid in town.
Their landlady observing the extreme youth and simplicity of Ellen, contrasted by that air of the world and of fashion so conspicuous in Mordaunt, as well as that though he hardly appeared to endure her being out of his sight, he seldom went abroad with her, and that they seemed to have no friends or connections in London, began to form conjectures not very much to the advantage of her guests; and as she was a woman of good character, though of somewhat a suspicious turn, she was not sorry when they left her apartments.
Mordaunt chose not to take Jane, Ellen's new maid, with them, but left directions for her to travel by the stage to the town which was nearest to his residence in Northamptonshire, where she should be met by a servant, who would conduct her to his house.
For the first day of their journey Mordaunt appeared at times in deep reflection, and as if revolving in his mind a variety of considerations, frequently catching Ellen's hand in his own, he would express the rapture he felt in the certainty of possessing her affection, and that she was securely his; then he would add, "Remember, Ellen, you have promised to take mefor better for worse: tell me, do you think any change in my situation could impair your love for me?" To these questions she returned such tender and affectionate answers, as seemed for the time to dispel from his mind every uneasy sensation; yet still at intervals his thoughtfulness returned, and began at last to inspire Ellen with a sort of anxiety she could not wholly overcome.
The next day Mordaunt proposed resting a few hours at a pleasant village, which he told her was only about twenty miles from his own house, but that he thought it would be more agreeable to her not to arrive at home till towards the evening: to this she readily consented; it was indeed very agreeable to her, but had it been less so, she knew no will but his.
After breakfast, the landlady of the inn where they had taken that meal, coming in, Mordaunt asked her how far it was from thence to St. Aubyn Castle; she answered about nineteen miles: after asking her some more questions respecting the length of the stages, &c. he inquired if she knew Lord St. Aubyn; she replied she had seen his Lordship once before he went abroad, but she heard he was now soon expected home again; a gentleman who stopped at her house not many days before, told her his Lordship was lately returned from Spain, and was coming very shortly to the Castle. On being asked if she knew who that gentleman was, she said it was the Reverend Doctor Montague, his Lordship's domestic Chaplain. Mordaunt then asked her if Lord St. Aubyn was much liked in his neighbourhood, and she gave him a very high character for his charity to the poor, and kindness to his servants and dependants.
Ellen here whispered to her husband that she would inquire what sort of a characterone Mr. Mordaunt, his Lordship's steward, bore. Mordaunt laughed, and said she was very malicious, and only hoped to hear some evil of him. She then repeated her question, looking playfully at him, to which the landlady replied, that she did not know Mr. Mordaunt except by name, but she heard he was a very worthy old gentleman. The idea of Mordaunt's being called anold gentlemandiverted Ellen so much, that she burst into a laugh she could not repress, in which Mordaunt joined so heartily, as half offended the good woman, who, supposing she had committed some blunder, left the room immediately.
"Come, my dear Ellen," said Mordaunt, when he had composed his features, "let us take a walk through this pleasant village: it is long since you enjoyed the pure air of the country." "Indeed, my dearold gentleman," Ellen gaily replied, "I shall be very glad to find myself once more at liberty to walk a little, for I began to feel tired of the restraint of a carriage, which, when we left Llanwyllan, I thought so delightful, I could never be weary of it."
You see me, Lord Bassanio, where I stand,Such as I am; though for myself aloneI would not be ambitious in my wish,To wish myself much better, yet for youI would be trebled twenty times myself,A thousand times more fair, ten thousand timesMore rich————but the full sum of meIs an unlessoned girl, unschooled, unpractised;Happy in this, she is not yet so oldBut she may learn; and happier than this,She is not bred so dull but she can learn;Happiest of all, is that her gentle spiritCommits herself to your's to be directed.Merchant of Venice.
You see me, Lord Bassanio, where I stand,Such as I am; though for myself aloneI would not be ambitious in my wish,To wish myself much better, yet for youI would be trebled twenty times myself,A thousand times more fair, ten thousand timesMore rich————but the full sum of meIs an unlessoned girl, unschooled, unpractised;Happy in this, she is not yet so oldBut she may learn; and happier than this,She is not bred so dull but she can learn;Happiest of all, is that her gentle spiritCommits herself to your's to be directed.
Merchant of Venice.
After strolling through some very pleasant fields, they came to a sequestered spot, where tall trees shaded a little murmuring rivulet, near whose banks a very neat farm-house attracted their attention.
"Ah, this reminds me of dear Llanwyllan!" said Ellen: "how much I should like to sit down here awhile!" "That," answered Mordaunt, "may be easily effected." He then went to the door, where he met a nice looking elderly woman, the farmer's wife, and saying he was thirsty, asked her to spare him a draught of milk or whey, with which she very civilly complied, and requested them to walk in. Ellen, delighted with the sight of the farm-yard and smell of the dairy, readily consented, and at Mordaunt's desire, the good woman said she would give them some cream, bread, &c. With great civility therefore, she shewed them into a neat parlour, and having placed before them brown bread, cream, and some bunches of well-ripened grapes, left them to themselves.
Ellen said:—"Now, my dear Mordaunt, I really feel as if I were at home again, and cando the honours(as you term it) of this little table very tolerably; but if, as I suspect, you are much visited by high people near you, will you not often have to blush for your awkward little rustic?" "If I had feared that," answered Mordaunt, "I would not have ventured it; but, as I have often told you, the natural propriety of your manner will very well supply the place of artificial graces; and as to the mere forms of society, they are so easily acquired, you will speedily attain them: but tell me, Ellen, after the cursory view you have had of something more refined, could you now be contented to sit down here for the rest of your life?" "With you," replied the tender Ellen, "I could be not only contented but happy any where yet I ownyouseem to me formed for something so superior, that I should forever regret your being confined to a sphere so limited."
Mordaunt, delighted with the sweetness of her words and manners, scarcely knew how to express how greatly he was pleased with all she said. After a few minutes he opened the little casement, for the day was mild and clear, more like spring than the beginning of November; and gathering some late blossoms of a white jassamine, which grew round it, and in that sheltered spot, so soft had been the season, still retained their beauty: he twisted them with some very small vine leaves across her brow, amongst her fine hair, in a very particular style, and making her look in the little glass which hung in the room where they sat, he said:—
"There, Ellen,thatis very like a countess's coronet; the jasmine may pass for pearls, and the little branch of the vine for strawberry leaves: how should you like one in pearls or diamonds? I think it becomes you inimitably well." "This simple wreath may," she said, smiling as she surveyed herself; "but I believe that this little rustic person would not assort very well with the splendid ornament you describe." He smiled, and said—"Do not take it off, but sit down, and I will tell you a story." "A story!—delightful! I hope it is entertaining." "Very, and perfectly true.Once upon a time: do you like that beginning?" "Not much; it is too childish: try again." "Well then, once in the days of King Arthur——" "Oh! do not go quite so far back—your story will last all day." "What! a Welsh girl and not like to hear a tale of King Arthur. Oh! most degenerate damsel." Ellen still laughing, said—"Come, dear Mordaunt, make haste, I long to hear this interesting story."
He placed himself at her side, and with some agitation, said:—
"Ellen, the time is come to clear up some of the mysterious words you have heard me utter at Llanwyllan: what will you say to me when I tell you—yet be not alarmed—when I tell you that, though mynameis reallyMordaunt, yet I havedeceivedyou—for that is not myonlydesignation: do not look so surprised and bewildered, my love; I am notinferiorto the man you suppose me: he is indeed my relation, being the natural son of my father's brother: he is many years older than I am. Tell me, Ellen, are you afraid to hear the rest?" "No," she replied firmly, though with marks of the most impatient curiosity in her countenance. "I am so convinced of your integrity, that be who or what you will, I am happy in being your wife, and ready to share your station, be it ever so lowly." "Enchanting creature!" he exclaimed, and clasped her to his bosom: "know then, that were the coronet which binds your brow of the most costly materials instead of a simple flower, it is your's by right, for I am the Earl, and you are the Countess of St. Aubyn."
A moment Ellen struggled with the overwhelming surprize: then said: "How could you condescend to one so much beneath you?" "Beneath me!" he replied—"oh, in every thing but the mere accident of birth how greatly my superior! But the surprize, my gentle love, has made you a little pale; recover yourself, and let me see you again gay and playful as when you supposed yourself only Mrs. Mordaunt." He fixed his penetrating eyes upon her: even in that tender moment he sought to discover if any undue pride or vanity elated her; but there was no trace of any such ignoble passion: surprized, astonished as she was, and feeling some diminution of the ease and equality with which she had but lately learned to regard him, Ellen more than half regretted to find him so greatly her superior, and to see herself raised so very much beyond the station her humility led her to believe the only one she could fill with propriety; yet she must have been more or less than woman, had she not felt charmed with the disinterested love St. Aubyn had evinced in making her his wife.
Having a little recovered the emotion this interesting discovery had caused in both, Ellen entreated him, whom yet she hardly knew how to name, to explain the reason of his having appeared at Llanwyllan in a character so inferior to his own; which he did in these words:
"I cannot, my love, nor would I wish at present to tell you all my story, though some day you shall know every circumstance of my life: may they come to your knowledge without lessening your felicity!" He sighed, and thus continued:—"Some domestic misfortunes induced me, at different times, to make several excursions under the name I bore when first I met you, which is, indeed, that of my family: since my last return from the Continent, about six months ago, I did not let my friends or servants know I was come to England, but set out to travel through Wales, sometimes by one mode of conveyance, sometimes another, and not unfrequently as a mere pedestrian. I was always a good walker, and had been accustomed to pass whole days on foot amongst the mountains of Spain; frequently, therefore, I preferred walking, as giving me better opportunities of exploring the most romantic scenes. In one of these excursions I found myself at Llanwyllan; there I merely intended to stay a day or two, till accident, and your father's hospitality, introduced you to my knowledge—need I relate to you the progress of that passion which soon took possession of my heart, and left me powerless to quit you. A very few days determined me, if your affections were disengaged, to do all in my power to secure your love; yet I delayed the declaration of my own, in hopes of bringing some untoward circumstances to a favourable conclusion; but when I found our good friend Ross began to be alarmed for you, and fancied I saw in my Ellen's sweet face that she was not happy, I thought it necessary to come to some decision, and to Ross I fully explained mywholesituation: he was so perfectly convinced of my honour and integrity, that he consented to give his lovely pupil to me, even under all the unpleasant circumstances which at present embarrass and torment me; and even though we both doubted whether a marriage contracted by me under the name of Mordaunt only would be completely binding: to obviate this objection, I bound myself to him, not only to make upon you such settlements as my large income rendered proper, and my heart prompted, but to remarry you as soon as I could do so without absolute impropriety; and that I will do if I live before I sleep again; though I believe the precautions we took render it unnecessary, for after you left the vestry, the day we were married, Ross and myself, as perhaps you observed, returned, and in his presence I added the title of Earl of St. Aubyn to the names of Constantine Frederick Mordaunt, which, I have no doubt, would substantiate our marriage in any court in England: to avoid, however, all possible doubt, now or in future, on this important point, I have at this instant a special licence in my possession, and this evening, at Castle St. Aubyn, Montague shall read the marriage service to us again.—Are you satisfied with this arrangement, my love?"
"I am so ignorant in every thing, that I can only rely on you; which I do implicitly, and with full confidence."
Ellen then asked St. Aubyn if Doctor Montague knew who he was in reality recommending to her father, or whether he supposed it to be indeed Mr. Mordaunt? Lord St. Aubyn laughed at this question, and said Montague would have had reason to be surprized at hearing Mordaunt was going to be married, as he was a very stiff old Bachelor of at least sixty; but the fact was, he had written himself to Montague from Llanwyllan, informing him who the person really was respecting whom Powis's inquiries would be made, and desiring him to give such a character ofthat personas he thought was deserved, only not to betray his real title, as he was anxious to avoid theeclatsuch a discovery would produce, if made while they remained at Llanwyllan.
After a little more conversation on this interesting subject, St. Aubyn and his Ellen took leave of their hospitable entertainer, after remunerating her in the most liberal way for the trouble they had given her; and as by the time they reached the village the day was far advanced, they ordered a chaise directly, and proceeded to the end of the next stage, where they dined, and where St. Aubyn told Ellen his own carriage was to meet them, and convey them to the Castle, where his household were instructed to expect their lady.
Before they had quite dined, an elegant new travelling carriage and four, with coronets on the pannels, and out-riders in rich liveries, drove to the door, and the host, who had no idea of the rank of his guests, from their arriving in a hack carriage, unattended, was in the act of denying to the servants that Lord and Lady St. Aubyn were there, when the Earl, throwing up the sash, told the men to move about, but not put up the horses, as he should go in half an hour. While he was speaking, the stage-coach from London stopt at the door, and Ellen's maid stepping out, inquired whether any servant from one Mr. Mordaunt's, in that neighbourhood, was waiting for her. St. Aubyn, calling to one of his men, desired him to send that young woman to Lady St. Aubyn. The man obeyed, and told the astonished Jane she must go and speak to his lady. "What for, pray?" answered Jane, pertly. "Indeed I shall do no such thing; I am going on directly, and don't want such fellows as you to be joking with me." "Jane!" said Ellen, approaching the window, anxious to put a stop to a dialogue she feared might disclose more than she wished the servants should know. "Oh, dear Ma'am, are you there!" answered Jane. "Oh! I am so glad; I will come to you, Ma'am, directly." One of the men, wishing for an opportunity of seeing his new lady, said, "Come, young woman, I will shew you the way to her Ladyship."
The poor girl was so much confused, by these different directions, that fortunately she had no power to refuse, or indeed to speak at all, but followed the servant into the room, where St. Aubyn and Ellen were sitting. "There," said the footman, in a low voice, and giving her a little push: "go in, child—that is my lady." "Grant me patience," said Jane, turning sharply to him: "why I tell you that ismymistress. I suppose you want to persuade me I don't know my own——." "Softly, Jane," said St. Aubyn: "there, go in, and speak to your lady, and you, Thomas, may go; we shall soon be ready to start."
He left Jane with her lady, not wishing to be present at the explanation. Ellen explained to the astonished girl, that she had, for particular reasons, concealed her title while in London, and did not wish her to say to the other servants that she had ever known her under any other name. Jane very willingly promised obedience, and was not a little elated to find herself own woman to Lady St. Aubyn, instead of waiting-maid to plain Mrs. Mordaunt. Indeed, Mrs. Birtley had had some scruples about suffering her to follow the mysterious couple at all, and charged her, if she did not find all right, to leave her place, and return to London immediately, all which her unguarded hints betrayed to Ellen, who felt a little confused at hearing her situation had been so misconstrued. "And there, Ma'am—beg pardon—my lady—there your Ladyship;" (for Jane was willing to make amends for her former ignorance, by using Ellen's title as often as possible)—"there your Ladyship left a book at Mrs. Birtley's—I forget the name of it; some poetry book it was, and in it was written, in one place, 'C. F. M. to Ellen P.' and I was to have brought it with me, but Mrs. Birtley was not at home when I came away, so I could not have it, and it was a great pity, for it is very handsome, in a fine binding, and with beautiful pictures: one of them was a man jumping off a rock, like into the sea, and with a sort of a clergyman's gown on, and with a musical instrument in his hand, something like a guitar, but not quite." "I know the book you mean," said Ellen; "it was Gray's Poems. I am sorry I left it behind." "Yes, Ma'am—my lady I mean, that was the very book; but I dare say your Ladyship can have it by sending to Mrs. Birtley; and in one part, my lady, there was a print of a church-yard, and over the print was put, 'Dear Landwilliam,' or some such name." "Yes, Jane, yes; that's the book—that will do: now give me my hat, and step down and inquire if Lord St. Aubyn is waiting for me."
It was the first time Ellen had framed her lips to say Lord St. Aubyn, and she wondered whether she should ever become accustomed to the sound. Jane was met at the door by one of the men servants, who came to know if her lady was ready, as his lord bade him say the carriage was come round. Jane, astonished at her own greatness, in being called Ma'am, and so respectfully addressed by such a fine gentleman, returned to Ellen with redoubled respect, and a new reinforcement of "my ladies." Ellen said she was ready, and ran down. "Come, my love," said St. Aubyn, "we shall be late at home."
Ellen's heart throbbed, as she thought of a home so far above her utmost ideas of splendour, and of being called to a situation to which she feared herself unequal; yet she composed her spirits as well as she could; for she saw, that to please her lord she must assert herself, and behave with a degree of dignity and self possession: she gave him her hand, therefore, with tenderness, but with a certain air of calmness, as if not too much elated with her new honours, or childishly delighted with her new carriage: he saw, and was charmed with her just discrimination, and encouraged her by saying, "Ever, my Ellen, all I wish." He then placed her in the carriage, and leaving Jane to follow with the luggage in a hack chaise, they were speedily on the road to Castle St. Aubyn. As they drew near it, they passed a neat little mansion, standing on a small lawn, surrounded by flowering shrubs, which St. Aubyn told Ellen was the house of therealMr. Mordaunt. "Exactly such a place," said she, "had I figured to myself as your habitation, not indeed in Wales, for there my imagination did not soar to a pitch so high; but since we have been in England, and I saw what the smaller houses of genteel people were, such I fancied your's." "In a few minutes, my love," he replied, "we shall approach my real home, and most happy am I to say, my Ellen's home also; though in a different style, it will, I hope, be as much to your taste as this pretty place appears to be."
As he spoke, one of the out-riders passed the carriage, and ringing at a porter's lodge, the large and elegant iron gates were thrown open, and they turned into a noble park of no common dimensions. Here the hand of art had followed, not impeded that of nature: large trees, disposed in clumps, or singly, as the purest taste directed, shaded and ornamented the verdant lawn. A fine piece of water, almost bearing the aspect of a fine lake, with an elegant pleasure barge at anchor on its bank, skirted one side of the road which led to the house. Its pure waters were enlivened by various aquatic fowls, and on the shelving edges were light and tasteful cages for gold and silver pheasants and other foreign birds; while in picturesque groups under the trees, or bounding away at the approach of the carriage, herds of the finest deer gave new animation to the scene.
Ellen, enchanted, enraptured, though the closing twilight hardly afforded her light sufficient to see half the beauties round her, was every moment uttering exclamations of delight, with which St. Aubyn was highly gratified: but as they approached the immense pile of building which he told her was the house, she gradually assumed a more composed demeanor, determined not to betray to the servants that such things were totally new to her.
A happy rural seat of various view,Groves whose rich trees wept od'rous gums and balm.———Betwixt them lawns, or level downs and flocksGrazing the tender herb, were interspersed;Or palmy hillock, or the flow'ry lap,Of some irriguous valley spread her store,Flow'rs of all hue.——Meanwhile murmuring waters fallDown the slope hills, dispersed; or in a lake——Unite their streams—The birds their choirs apply, airs, vernal airs,Breathing the smell of field and grove attune,The trembling leaves——Paradise Lost.
A happy rural seat of various view,Groves whose rich trees wept od'rous gums and balm.———Betwixt them lawns, or level downs and flocksGrazing the tender herb, were interspersed;Or palmy hillock, or the flow'ry lap,Of some irriguous valley spread her store,Flow'rs of all hue.——Meanwhile murmuring waters fallDown the slope hills, dispersed; or in a lake——Unite their streams—The birds their choirs apply, airs, vernal airs,Breathing the smell of field and grove attune,The trembling leaves——
Paradise Lost.
A train of servants in the spacious hall stood ready to receive their Lord and Lady. Amongst them was a respectable middle-aged woman, who, with deep respect, mingled with tears of joy and affection, addressed the Earl: he kindly and condescendingly took her hand, and said, "My good Mrs. Bayfield, I hope you are quite well: I am rejoiced to see you look so. See, my worthy friend, I have brought you a new Lady. Ellen, my love, I am sure I need not tell you to esteem my good housekeeper and nurse, for such she has been to me in much of illness and affliction." Ellen, with some kind words, offered her hand to Mrs. Bayfield, who, courtesying, received it with an air of the most profound respect. St. Aubyn also spoke with great kindness to the other servants, and then led Ellen into a magnificent library, which he told her was his usual sitting-room when at St. Aubyn's. Ellen, fatigued with her journey and the surprizing occurrences of the day, was not then able to do more than take a cursory survey of it; but she saw that here was entertainment and instruction enough to fill a long life, if even wholly devoted to literary pursuits.
In a few minutes a man of a venerable appearance, dressed in the cassock of a dignified clergyman, entered the library, whom St. Aubyn announced to Ellen as his friend and chaplain the Rev. Doctor Montague. "See, my dear Montague," said he, "this lovely creature, who has generously forgiven my appearing to her in an assumed character, and before she knew how much my real station was superior to that in which she first saw me, most kindly assured me of her perfect willingness to share my fate, be it what it might." He gave her hand to the good old man, who, clasping it between both his, said, "Pardon, Madam, this freedom in a man who has for many years felt the affection of a father for your excellent Lord." Ellen bent her knee to him as to a second Ross, whose blessing she had been accustomed to ask in that posture with Joanna. The venerable man understood the graceful appeal, although fashion has so long proscribed it to her votaries; and raising his hands and eyes, said, "God bless you, lovely lady, and you, my dear Lord, with her!"
St. Aubyn then said a few words in a low voice to the Doctor, to which he replied, "Certainly, my Lord: if you have the least doubt of the entire legality of your marriage, it will be far the best way: have you the licence?" "Yes, here," said the Earl: "examine it, if you please. Ellen, my love," he added, turning towards her, "are your spirits too much fatigued, or will you oblige me, by allowing Montague to read the marriage-ceremony to us: I have a special licence from the Archbishop, and it will not take many minutes?" Ellen bowed a silent assent; and Montague, saying it would be proper to have witnesses, proposed speaking to Mrs. Bayfield, and Thornton, Lord St. Aubyn's gentleman, on whose secrecy they might rely, as of course it was desirable not to have the transaction made public. He went therefore to them, and having told them all that was necessary, they immediately attended; and the marriage-ceremony being read, Montague prepared a certificate, which was signed by all present, and deposited in Ellen's care.
All parties seemed rejoiced when this embarrassing business was concluded, which though it gratified Ellen as shewing her Lord's extreme anxiety to satisfy any doubt she might feel, yet could not be agreeable to either. A Sandwich tray was soon after brought in, filled with refreshments: after partaking of which, Ellen and the wondering Jane were shewn to an elegant dressing-room, which communicated with a still more splendid bed-chamber, both fitted up with the most peculiar attention, not only to costliness and effect, but to convenience and comfort, as the contrivances for hot and cold baths, and every luxurious accommodation both here and in a gentleman's dressing-room on the other side the bed-room, sufficiently evinced. All Jane's profound respect for her Lady could not keep her entirely silent, nor repress the exclamations of wonder and delight with which she greeted every elegant article of furniture: above all, a rich service of dressing-plate on the toilette attracted her attention. "How beautiful, how costly! And here again, what fine glasses! Dear, my Lady, you may see yourself from head to foot; and so clear, they make you look, if possible, more beautiful than you really are!"
Ellen, nearly as little acquainted with such objects as her maid, was not sorry to have only this simple girl witness to her actions, which would have betrayed to a more practised observer that she herself hardly knew the use of half the splendid articles before her. She endeavoured, however, to assume a graver manner, and to keep Jane at a greater distance; but the good-natured creature mixed so much affectionate respect with her somewhat too familiar prattle, Ellen could not be angry with her: she dismissed her, however, as soon as possible, with a reiterated caution not to betray to the servants that she had ever known her under any other name than that she bore at present.
The next day Ellen took a nearer survey of her noble habitation: the height and size of the rooms, the splendid furniture, and rich decorations, absolutely bewildered her senses; and when in an immense mirror, which hung at one end of a superb drawing-room, she saw herself reflected from head to foot, she, like the innocent Zilia[2], actually fancied for a moment it was some elegant female coming to meet her.
Passing through this room, she entered one smaller, indeed, but fitted up with such exquisite taste, as quite enchanted her: the furniture and hangings were of pale green silk, lightly ornamented with gold; the ground of the carpet, pale green, worked with the needle in bunches of the most beautiful natural flowers, which really appeared to be growing there. The tables, chairs, candelabras, and every article of furniture, were formed after the antique, and caught the eye of Ellen by the perfection of their figures and disposition; so true it is, that what is really beautiful and in perfect taste will please the unpractised as well as the critical observer, provided the natural taste has not been vitiated by any false ideas of proportion and ornament.
On the Countess's expressing herself particularly pleased with this room, Mrs. Bayfield (who had undertaken to shew her the house, for St. Aubyn had been interrupted in his intention of doing so by Mr. Mordaunt, who brought him some papers of consequence to inspect), looking cautiously round, said, "If your Ladyship pleases, it will be better not to tell my Lord that you like this room in particular." "Why so, Mrs. Bayfield?" asked Ellen, struck with surprize at this request, and the manner it was made in. "Why, Madam," replied Mrs. Bayfield, "this room and the small one within were fitted up by my late Lady according to her own fancy, and were always called her drawing-room and boudoir; and since her death, my Lord has never liked the rooms." "Lady St. Aubyn then has not been dead long, I suppose," said Ellen; "for the furniture of these rooms appears almost new." "About seven years, Madam; but the rooms have scarcely ever been used: they were furnished not long before she went abroad with my Lord." "Was this beautiful carpet her own work?" asked Ellen. "Oh dear, no, Madam! my late Lady was of too gay a turn to do such a piece of work: it was my Lord'smotherworked this."
"I thought you had meant your Lord's mother, Mrs. Bayfield: who then do you call your late Lady?" "My Lord's first wife, Madam, the late Countess of St. Aubyn."
"ThelateCountess—my Lord'sfirst wife!" repeated Ellen, gazing at her with the utmost surprize: "I did not know; I never heard that my Lord had been married before." "Indeed, then," said Mrs. Bayfield, colouring, and looking vexed, "I am sure, my Lady, if I had known, or had the least idea my Lord had not mentioned it, I would never have breathed a word of the matter; but I know my Lord does not like to speak of the late Countess, for her death was so—so—sudden, and shocked my Lord so much, he has hardly ever spoken of her since; and I dare say that was the reason he never told your Ladyship he had been married before."
Ellen, not altogether satisfied with this explanation, still felt somewhat hurt at St. Aubyn's extraordinary reserve: she asked Mrs. Bayfield several questions; such as whether the late Countess was handsome; who she was before her marriage; how long she had lived after it; where she died—and to all which Mrs. Bayfield answered with some appearance of reserve, and as if she felt impatient to dismiss the subject; that she was very handsome and very young when my Lord married her; that she was a distant relation of his own; and that all the family were anxious for the match; that they were married about three years; had only one child, a son, who had died at a few months old, and that the Lady had died abroad. "And what was the cause of her death, Mrs. Bayfield?" "Indeed, Madam, I do not exactly know," answered Mrs. Bayfield, looking a little confused: "she died, as I have told your Ladyship, abroad, and suddenly."
Ellen said no more, for she was above the meanness of attempting to learn from a servant what her Lord apparently meant to conceal from her knowledge; yet she felt even a painful degree of curiosity to learn some farther particulars of her predecessor, whose early death she thought must have caused that gloom of countenance and manner which sometimes even yet appeared in St. Aubyn.
The boudoir within was fitted up in the same style as the drawing-room, but with rather more simplicity, and contained a light bookcase, with gilded wires, and some elegant stands for flowers, &c. Mrs. Bayfield seemed so anxious for Ellen to hasten from these apartments, that she took only a cursory survey of them, determined to take a more accurate view of the paintings and ornaments some other time, when she should have learned to go about her own house without a guide. The boudoir being the last of the suite of apartments on that floor, they next ascended the noble staircase, and visited the bed-chambers, &c. and a large saloon filled with specimens of the fine arts: capital pictures, busts, models, &c. here met the eye in every direction, and here St. Aubyn joined them, and dismissing Mrs. Bayfield, took Ellen's arm within his own, and pointed out those objects most worthy of her notice. Charmed with all around her, and delighted with his attention and the perspicuity of his explanations, Ellen felt as if she had gained a new sense within the last few hours, so little idea had she before of the wonders of art, selected by the hand of taste. From this room they went to the library, where they had supped the night before, at the other end of which was a green-house, divided from the library by folding doors, filled with the choicest plants and flowering shrubs, and round the walls of which a gilded net-work served as an aviary for some beautiful canary and other birds. This green-house, kept constantly warm by concealed stoves, in the midst of winter gave an enchanting prospect of perpetual spring. Beyond the green-house noble hot-houses and conservatories ensured a constant succession of the finest fruits and more tender flowers.
In the library St. Aubyn and his grateful Ellen sat down together, and there he explained to her his wishes as to their manner of living for the next half year: he told her, that undoubtedly she would, for a time, be somewhat engaged with the few neighbouring families who remained in the country for the winter, and whom he expected, of course, to visit her: "But that once over, my love," said he, "let us propose to ourselves some rational mode of happiness, which shall not be dependent on the whim of others; you are so young, and have powers of mind so extensive, that it will be easy to supply those defects in your education which the retired situation in which you lived rendered unavoidable; and this may be done without any parade oreclatof any kind, as it is by no means unusual for ladies to take lessons by way of finishing, even at a more advanced age than your's; drawing and music-masters shall therefore be engaged to attend you, if you do not object to this disposition of a part of your time. In French, I will myself be your instructor, and we will mutually improve each other, my love, by reading together those authors you have so long desired to be acquainted with. If you wish to take a few lessons in dancing, that may be done in the spring, when we are in London, and they may perhaps be desirable to give you a little more confidence in yourself; for, in my eye, no acquired action, or fashionable attitude whatever, could compensate for the loss of one simple natural grace, already so conspicuous in my sweet Ellen: and as to dancing, I am so strange a being, that I cannot bear the idea of a married woman's ever exhibiting herself in public, and being exposed to the impertinent whispers and hateful familiarity of a set of coxcombs." "I wonder," thought Ellen, "whether the former Lady St. Aubyn was fond of dancing." "In the spring, then," continued St. Aubyn, "we will go to London for a month or two, just to see a few of its gaieties, and if I can prevail on Lady Juliana Mordaunt, a very stiff, haughty old aunt of mine, to forgive the dereliction she fancies I have made from my consequence, by marrying, as she supposes, below me, she will be your best guide and most respectable chaperon." "Ah," sighed Ellen to herself, "what shall I do with these stiff proud people: I wish I had remained what I supposed myself, plain Mrs. Mordaunt."
A slight trace of anxiety passed over her countenance, which St. Aubyn perceiving, for in quickness of apprehension and ready penetration no one ever exceeded him, he said:—
"Fear nothing, my love; I am by far too happy, and too proud of my choice, to pay the least attention to the suggestions of either Lady Juliana or any other person: if they come forward handsomely, and as they ought to do, they shall be indulged in the happiness of visiting you; if not, never will I, or shall you, make the slightest concession to them. I will have you support your dignity, even your pride, if pride be necessary, and look down with contempt on such insignificant beings. There is one family near us, Sir William Cecil's, where I hope we shall be very intimate: he is a widower, and has three daughters: the eldest, Laura, from a disappointment in the early part of her life, has remained single, and is now I suppose nearly thirty: the second, Agatha, is married to Lord Delamore, and is gone to live in Scotland: the youngest, Juliet, is still a child, and has bad health: she is a most amiable creature, and has extraordinary talents, but is so unfortunately delicate that she scarcely passes a day in tolerable health. Laura Cecil devotes herself to her entirely, scarcely ever leaving her: she has superintended the whole of her education, as she did that of Lady Delamore, who is some years younger than herself, and to whom Laura was most tenderly attached. Agatha was eminently beautiful, and Laura is a handsome woman, with a great deal of dignity in her air; yet without hauteur of affectation. I hope you will be on very friendly terms with her." "Indeed, my Lord, from your account of Miss Cecil," replied Ellen, "I most sincerely wish it. Next summer, I hope, we shall go into Wales, and then perhaps you will permit Joanna to return with me." "Of that we will talk hereafter," said St. Aubyn, rising hastily. "Let but the spring pass over and all be well, and my Ellen's wishes shall be my law; but beyond the spring, at present,I dare not look." "And may I not yet inquire——"
"Ask not, inquire not," interrupted St. Aubyn: "let me, if possible, forget the dreadful, the hateful subject.—And lives that being!" he exclaimed, in an agitation which mocked restraint—"lives that being who has the power to shake the soul of St. Aubyn; whose vindictive pursuit may yet deprive me of——"
He stopt: his pale countenance was instantly flushed to scarlet, and he hastily left the room; while Ellen, amazed, confounded, seemed as if every faculty were suspended; yet in ten minutes this mysterious man returned to her, composed, and even cheerful, neither his countenance nor manner bearing any traces of the emotion which had so lately shaken his frame: he solicited Ellen, as if nothing extraordinary had passed, to ring for her hat and pelesse, and to go with him into the pleasure-grounds. She readily complied, and was, if possible, more surprized and delighted by the grandeur and beauty of the shrubberies, gardens, &c. than she had been with the interior of her magnificent abode.
[1]It is probable most of my readers have heard the little pathetic tale here alluded to, and which Mr. Spencer has told very sweetly in his little poem, entitled Beth-gelert. For the advantage of those who have not met with it, we insert the following account:The tradition says, that Llewelyn the Great had a house at the place now called Beth-gelert, and that being once from home, a wolf entered it. On Llewelyn's return, his favourite greyhound, Gelert, came to meet him, wagging his tail, but covered with blood. The prince was much alarmed, and on entering the house, found the cradle of his infant overturned, and the floor stained with blood. Imagining the dog had killed the child, he instantly drew his sword, and killed the greyhound; but turning up the cradle, found the babe asleep, and the wolf dead by its side. Llewelyn deeply repented his rage, and built a tomb over his ill-fated greyhound. Mr. Spencer has thus beautifully described the event:The hound all o'er was smear'd with gore,His lips, his fangs, ran blood!Llewelyn gazed with fierce surprize,Unused such looks to meet:His fav'rite check'd his joyful guise,And crouch'd and lick'd his feet.Onward in haste Llewelyn pass'd—O'erturn'd his infant's bed he found,With blood-stained covert rent!And all around the walls and groundWith recent blood besprent!He called his child, no voice replied;He search'd with terror wild;Blood, blood, he found on every side,But no where found his child.Llewelyn then passionately accuses and kills the greyhound.Aroused by Gelert's dying yell,Some slumbers waken'd nigh;What words the parent's joy could tell,To hear his infant's cry!Conceal'd beneath a tumbled heap,His hurried search had miss'd;All glowing from his rosy sleep,The cherub boy he kiss'd.No scratch had he, nor harm, nor dread;But the same couch beneath,Lay a gaunt wolf, all torn and dead,Tremendous still in death.Ah! what was then Llewelyn's pain?For then the truth was clear,His gallant hound the wolf had slain,To save Llewelyn's heir.Vain, vain, was all Llewelyn's woe:"Best of thy kind, adieu!The frantic blow which laid the low,This heart shall ever rue."
[1]It is probable most of my readers have heard the little pathetic tale here alluded to, and which Mr. Spencer has told very sweetly in his little poem, entitled Beth-gelert. For the advantage of those who have not met with it, we insert the following account:
The tradition says, that Llewelyn the Great had a house at the place now called Beth-gelert, and that being once from home, a wolf entered it. On Llewelyn's return, his favourite greyhound, Gelert, came to meet him, wagging his tail, but covered with blood. The prince was much alarmed, and on entering the house, found the cradle of his infant overturned, and the floor stained with blood. Imagining the dog had killed the child, he instantly drew his sword, and killed the greyhound; but turning up the cradle, found the babe asleep, and the wolf dead by its side. Llewelyn deeply repented his rage, and built a tomb over his ill-fated greyhound. Mr. Spencer has thus beautifully described the event:
The hound all o'er was smear'd with gore,His lips, his fangs, ran blood!Llewelyn gazed with fierce surprize,Unused such looks to meet:His fav'rite check'd his joyful guise,And crouch'd and lick'd his feet.Onward in haste Llewelyn pass'd—O'erturn'd his infant's bed he found,With blood-stained covert rent!And all around the walls and groundWith recent blood besprent!He called his child, no voice replied;He search'd with terror wild;Blood, blood, he found on every side,But no where found his child.
The hound all o'er was smear'd with gore,His lips, his fangs, ran blood!Llewelyn gazed with fierce surprize,Unused such looks to meet:His fav'rite check'd his joyful guise,And crouch'd and lick'd his feet.Onward in haste Llewelyn pass'd—
O'erturn'd his infant's bed he found,With blood-stained covert rent!And all around the walls and groundWith recent blood besprent!He called his child, no voice replied;He search'd with terror wild;Blood, blood, he found on every side,But no where found his child.
Llewelyn then passionately accuses and kills the greyhound.
Aroused by Gelert's dying yell,Some slumbers waken'd nigh;What words the parent's joy could tell,To hear his infant's cry!Conceal'd beneath a tumbled heap,His hurried search had miss'd;All glowing from his rosy sleep,The cherub boy he kiss'd.No scratch had he, nor harm, nor dread;But the same couch beneath,Lay a gaunt wolf, all torn and dead,Tremendous still in death.Ah! what was then Llewelyn's pain?For then the truth was clear,His gallant hound the wolf had slain,To save Llewelyn's heir.Vain, vain, was all Llewelyn's woe:"Best of thy kind, adieu!The frantic blow which laid the low,This heart shall ever rue."
Aroused by Gelert's dying yell,Some slumbers waken'd nigh;What words the parent's joy could tell,To hear his infant's cry!
Conceal'd beneath a tumbled heap,His hurried search had miss'd;All glowing from his rosy sleep,The cherub boy he kiss'd.
No scratch had he, nor harm, nor dread;But the same couch beneath,Lay a gaunt wolf, all torn and dead,Tremendous still in death.
Ah! what was then Llewelyn's pain?For then the truth was clear,His gallant hound the wolf had slain,To save Llewelyn's heir.
Vain, vain, was all Llewelyn's woe:"Best of thy kind, adieu!The frantic blow which laid the low,This heart shall ever rue."