Mystery and Confidence Volume I Part 3

Bewildered--perplexed--hardly knowing or understanding what she heard, or believing that Mordaunt could be in earnest in what she could not but suppose a declaration of his love, Ellen gasped, trembled, and half fainted in his supporting arms.

At this moment Ross entered, and seeing this extraordinary scene, gazed with surprize, almost with dismay, upon them. "I was told," said he, gravely advancing, "that Mr. Mordaunt wished to speak to _me_. What is the matter Ellen? are you ill?" "Forgive my vehemence, dear Ellen," said Mordaunt. "I have startled your tender spirits by my impatience: permit me to conduct you to your friends; or shall Mr. Ross and I retire together?"

The particular tenderness of this address, and this almost open avowal of the interest he took in her, still more and more surprized Ross.

Ellen rose, and with difficulty supporting herself, murmured she would go to Mrs. Ross--"Do so," said Ross; "but let _me_ a.s.sist you.--Mr.

Mordaunt, be seated; I will return to you immediately."--Without speaking more to her, he took her arm in his, and having seated her in the parlour, (where fortunately Joanna was alone), he told her to compose herself, and returned to a visitor whom every hour made him think more perplexing and extraordinary. Mordaunt extended his hand, and grasping Ross's within it, said, with n.o.ble frankness, "You have been, my dear Sir,--perhaps still are displeased with me: but the time is come when the mysteries which surround me shall be cleared away. If you will grant me your attention for an hour I will relate to you some circ.u.mstances upon which I must at present beg you to be silent; but to the truth of all which I pledge myself by every a.s.severation which can bind the man of principle and honour."

They were seated, and Mordaunt related to Ross many events, and disclosed many secrets, which we shall for the present take leave to pa.s.s over. Having finished the astonis.h.i.+ng recital, he said, "And now, my dear Sir, having heard all I know of myself, and all I may hereafter fear, will you candidly tell me whether I may hope not only for your consent, but for your good wishes that I may marry Ellen Powis? May I, do you think, venture to make her mine, when perhaps a few months may involve me in so much vexation if not disgrace? And do you think I may hope such a share of affection from her as will reconcile her to future events, of whatever nature they may be?"--"I see," said Ross, "that my cautious fears for her peace have a little precipitated your measures.

It might have been better, perhaps, to let things go on quietly till the return of that young man you have mentioned to me from abroad might have explained his future intentions: perhaps his opinions may have altered during his absence: be that as it may, if you were now to leave Llanwyllan without coming to a farther explanation with Ellen, I fear her peace would be too deeply endangered; for though I would scrupulously guard her delicacy, and leave the declaration of her sentiments to her own lips, yet it would be idle to deny my conviction that she has seen her _friend Mordaunt_ with what I believe I must call _preference_. Is not that the proper word, think you, Sir?" He smiled, and added such kind professions of regard for Mordaunt, and expressed so much delight at his truly disinterested love for Ellen, as left our traveller nothing to wish from him.

It was determined that not even Ellen should know at present the circ.u.mstances Mordaunt had revealed to Ross. "If she knows them," said Mordaunt, "she will think duty calls upon her to impart at least some of them to her father, and we are sure our worthy friend Powis will make no secret of them; you cannot doubt, Mr. Ross, how greatly it would annoy me to have them known while we remain at Llanwyllan; when we are gone, the leading circ.u.mstances will not remain a secret long, for I hope for your kind interest with Ellen and her father, that I may take her with me ere long, before winter has rendered travelling over your 'staircase roads,' as some one expresses it, unpleasant, if not unsafe. I am perhaps presuming too far, but I think, I hope, from Ellen's gentle tremor and not repugnant looks, when just now I was hurried into something very like a declaration of my love, though I came purposely to consult you before I made it, that she will not be inexorable." "I think," replied Ross, "I may venture to a.s.sure you she will not even affect a hesitation which her heart disclaims. Ellen has been brought up in the most perfect modesty, but at the same time in the most perfect sincerity, and it is really out of her power to conceal her sentiments; and to me, who have known her from her infancy, they are as obvious as if her heart was open to my view; but I will not say more," said he, with a benevolent smile.--"I ought not to betray my darling little pupil: by the bye," added he, turning to the books, &c. "my office of schoolmaster will, I suppose, soon be taken from me; I might as well not have attempted to take it out of your hands." Mordaunt laughed, and asked Ross if he might not request to see Ellen then. "You may easily imagine my anxiety," added he. "Why," said Ross, "there is something so formidable in sending for the poor little girl, and seating her formally to hear what you undoubtedly are impatient to say, that if you can allow her a little time to compose herself, after the flurry she has had this morning already, I really think it will be better. Will you partake of our humble dinner to-day--can you eat at our unfas.h.i.+onable early hour?

for the good people here, amongst other things, are amazed at your usual hours; if you can, pray favour me; and after dinner I will so far relax my late vigilance, as to permit you to speak to Ellen apart for ten minutes: will that be long enough?" "Not quite," said Mordaunt, half laughing; "but how shall we manage with Mrs. Ross, who, I believe, holds me in very serious aversion, and with Joanna, who will, I know, have her mother's commands not to stir from Ellen?" "How well you have read us all," said Ross, laughing in his turn: "but trust to me: I will remove all these formidable obstacles--yet do not fancy my good woman has any dislike to you; whatever displeasure she has shewn originated in her vexation at seeing your influence had deranged the plans she thought best for Ellen to pursue, and endangered, as we feared, her happiness; for though she may not shew it exactly according to the manner a more enlightened mind might chuse, a.s.sure yourself Mrs. Ross loves Ellen with the affection of a mother." "I doubt it not," replied Mordaunt with vivacity: "who can see and not love that exquisite creature?--what a person--what a mind she has! You may believe, after all I have told you, that 'for several virtues have I liked several women.' I may go on and add, that 'she, so perfectly and so peerless, was created of every creature's best.'"

"Indeed," said Ross, "I have ever highly appreciated Ellen, but I believe not highly enough, for I never thought of her making a conquest so important: the little gipsy is not aware of the power of her charms."

"Ah," said Mordaunt, shrinking, "do not lead my thoughts that way, do not let me suppose, if she knew them better, my success with her might be less to be hoped; that when the world shall have taught her to estimate them more highly--" "Ah, beware of jealousy," said Ross. "Name not the horrid word," cried Mordaunt, with some emotion; "too much reason have I to know its misery; but with your virtuous, with your pious Ellen, I shall surely be secure." "Doubt it not," replied Ross, gravely; "if ever human being might be relied on for truth, for sincerity, for singleness of heart, that being is Ellen Powis; yet the world is a dangerous school, and you, I hope, will watch with unceasing care over your inexperienced pupil, whose very virtues may betray her, if not into error, into the appearance of it."

A few more words pa.s.sed between them, and then Mordaunt retired to dress for dinner, a custom from which he never departed even in this retired spot.

During this long conference, poor Mrs. Ross had been in a complete fidget (to use her own word) to know its subject: her curiosity had long since reached its highest point, and she repeated almost incessantly to Ellen and Joanna, who sat at work beside her,--"Well, what in the whole world can Mr. Mordaunt have to say to Mr. Ross--well, what can they be talking of all this time? Dear, I hope they won't quarrel." "Quarrel!"

repeated Joanna, while Ellen's work dropt from her fingers, and she looked amazed and terrified: "quarrel! my dear mother, what should they quarrel about? Besides, did you ever know my father quarrel with anybody?" "No: true enough, he has a very fine temper; but then, _that_ Mr. Mordaunt seems so hasty, and sometimes looks so strangely, that--besides, I thought he seemed quite angry when we went away last night." She then opened the parlour door, which was exactly opposite to that of the study, and stood a minute as if to catch the sound of their voices.

"Well, I declare they are talking still, but not loud: bless me! I actually heard one of them laugh." "So much the better, mamma," said Joanna; "I always like to hear people laugh; it shews there is no mischief going on." "Not at all, not at all, Joanna," said Mrs. Ross, whose irritated curiosity disposed her to contradiction. "I am sure I have often thought, when I have heard you two girls chattering and laughing, that you were planning some mischief." "Well, mamma, I am sure we never executed it, for you know we were always the best girls in the world." "Pretty well, pretty well sometimes," replied Mrs. Ross, half smiling in the midst of her bustle.

At length the study door opened, and Mordaunt was seen to pa.s.s through the little garden before the house, to which Ross attended him: they shook hands at parting. "You see, mamma, they have not quarrelled," said Joanna; "so far from it, I have a great notion they are better pleased with each other than they have been lately;" and she glanced slily at Ellen, for Joanna had little doubt what subject had employed, at least, part of the time they had been together.

As soon as Mordaunt was gone, Ross came into the parlour, and said,--"What have we for dinner to-day, my dear?" "Well, Mr. Ross, I don't think I ever heard you ask before in all my life." "Possibly not, my dear; but I wish to know, because Mr. Mordaunt dines with us." "Mr.

Mordaunt!" repeated Mrs. Ross: "well, of all things, that is the last I should have expected. Why, _now_ I am surprized indeed:--then we have such an odd dinner to-day;--nothing but----" "Never mind, my dear, never mind, you can easily make a little alteration: come with me, and I will tell you more; in the meantime, girls, go and make yourselves very smart. Mr. Mordaunt is only gone home to dress, and will be here again soon; of course, as he is so nice in his own appearance, he will expect to find you la.s.ses dressed to receive him." "Dear Mr. Ross," said the good woman, staring at him, "I do not know you to-day! What in the world is come to you? First you inquire about dinner, and then you tell the girls to go and dress themselves; two things which I never knew you take the slightest concern in before."

Ross laughed and took her away, and Joanna, looking smilingly at Ellen, said--"Are you quite as much at a loss to understand all this as my mother, Ellen? Come, do exert yourself a little, and perhaps by and bye, with Mordaunt's a.s.sistance, you may find out the meaning of some of these extraordinary things." Ellen half laughed, and blus.h.i.+ng, told her she was very teasing; but the pleasure which shone in her eyes evinced she was tolerably sure the cause of these new appearances, when explained, would not be disagreeable. Mrs. Ross came in again with a face of wonder, and saying only--"Lord bless me! well,--what strange things have come to pa.s.s!--come, Ellen, child, make haste and dress yourself as nicely as possible--come, Joanna, I want you--there are fifty things to do," took Joanna away. Ross joined Ellen, who was hastily putting up her work, impatient to escape to her own room, and reflect in quiet; and taking her hand with paternal tenderness, while his fine countenance was radiant with benevolent joy, said:--

"Compose yourself, my dear child; abate as much as possible this evident emotion; for though with pleasure I tell you every wish of your heart is likely to be fulfilled, nay in some respects perhaps exceeded, yet I would have you receive Mr. Mordaunt's declaration, of what I believe to be the sincerest regard, with something of composure, nay, even of dignity: for though, my dear girl, your station in life may, and does render you his inferior, yet, with your mind and person, he ought to think the affection of a heart so guileless no mean acquisition. Go, my dear, to your room, and tranquillize the too visible agitation of your spirits."

Ellen affectionately kissed the kind hand which held her own, and silently retired.

CHAP. IX.

----The sun goes down; Far off his light is on the naked crags Of Penmanmawr and Arvon's ancient hills; And the last glory lingers yet awhile, Crowning old Snowdon's venerable head, That rose amid his mountains---- ----Where Mona the dark island stretch'd Her sh.o.r.e along the ocean's lighter line.

SOUTHEY'S MADOR.

Pa.s.s we over the succeeding interview between Mordaunt and Ellen--its general style may be easily imagined; and the particulars of scenes like that seldom give pleasure, unless to those whom they immediately concern. It will be needless to specify that Ellen modestly, though frankly, confessed the influence he had obtained over her affections, and consented to be his wife: one, only one, painful objection arose in her mind--the probable distance she must be removed from her father, and the doubtfulness of her seeing him again, at least for years. These objections Mordaunt did his best to obviate, by reminding her that Powis was yet in a green old age, and would be well able to visit them; and that he would engage to revisit Llanwyllan with her, in the course of a year or two. Here, however, Mordaunt sighed deeply, and his countenance a.s.sumed that inexplicable gloom, with which reflexions on the past, or antic.i.p.ations of the future, seemed always to inspire him: recovering himself a little, he added, "Remember, however, Ellen, this promise must be in some measure conditional. There are circ.u.mstances in my situation, which I have explained to Mr. Ross, which may affect my honour--almost strike at my life. Say, Ellen, can you willingly encounter those storms of adverse fate, which may a.s.sail, and, perhaps, make me an exile from my native country for ever? Can you give me so much of your confidence as to believe, whatever appearances may be, I am innocent?"

"Your words are full of mystery," said Ellen, in a faltering tone; "yet my heart is so fully convinced of your honour and veracity, that I can venture to promise no appearances shall ever shake my confidence in either--and if Mr. Ross knows those circ.u.mstances to which you allude, and yet is willing to join our hands, I have the best security that my heart has not misled my judgment."

"Admirable creature!" exclaimed Mordaunt: "how, in this sequestered situation, have you learnt so to temper the warmth of that innocent heart by the nicest rules of modesty and discrimination? How good you are, not to insist on my explaining all these mysteries!--Believe me, Ellen, I only postpone it in order to avoid as much as possible giving you pain. Perhaps, before any explanation becomes necessary, the clouds which have so long hovered over me may be dispersed. There is a clue, which (if the united efforts of myself and of the best of friends can attain it) will yet be found, that will unravel all that makes against me; and all will then be well." Here, for the present, the matter rested; and though to suppose Ellen void of curiosity would be to suppose her stupid, yet so entire was the confidence which she felt in Mordaunt's affection, and Ross's judgment, that she was perfectly satisfied to rest implicitly on them.

Mordaunt the next day made his application for Powis's consent to his marrying Ellen. His surprize at the proposal was such as evidently shewed it had never entered his imagination. After expressing his astonishment, he hesitated, and then replied: "Why, look ye, Mr.

Mordaunt, you appear to be a gentleman, and I dare say have a good income. I can give Ellen a few hundreds now, and a few at my death; and I only want to be sure that you can maintain her in some sort of comfort.--You must tell me a little more of your situation in life; and though I like you very well, I should be glad to know from somebody who knows you what sort of a character you bear. Now don't be angry--I am a plain spoken man, and no more suspicious than another: but when you come and ask me for my only child, and to take her away, G.o.d knows where, into strange parts, I had need know whether you are likely to be kind to her."

Mordaunt seemed a little confused at this harangue; but replied: "You are very right, my good friend; I have already explained myself, my situation in life, and all circ.u.mstances, to Mr. Ross, who is of opinion I may marry your daughter, without doing her any injury in point of fortune--for your farther satisfaction, however, I refer you to the Rev.

Doctor Montague, domestic chaplain to the Earl of St. Aubyn, at St.

Aubyn Castle, Northamptons.h.i.+re--his Lords.h.i.+p is at present not in England. That gentleman will give you every necessary detail respecting me; and should his account be satisfactory, I may then hope all obstacles are removed."

"You speak very handsomely, and like a gentleman, as I doubt not you are: but you will excuse my being a little anxious about my child--truth, to say, I do not like the notion of her going so far from me; but if she likes you (and I suppose you are pretty well agreed, or you would not come to me), I will never let my own comfort hinder her happiness; yet I tell you honestly, I had rather she had married Charles Ross, as I thought likely." At these words Mordaunt's countenance was overcast: he feared there had been some attachment between the young people; and such was the delicacy of his sentiments, that had he been certain of it, all his love for Ellen, pa.s.sionate as it certainly was, would not have induced him to marry her; on this head, therefore, he was determined to be satisfied. He wrote Doctor Montague's address for Powis, and then went directly to the Parsonage, where Ellen still remained. He found her alone; and though he looked delighted to see her, she yet fancied she saw a little alteration in his manner, which disturbed her. He told her he had seen her father, and a part of what pa.s.sed, omitting the mention of money concerns, which he thought would distress her.

When he was silent, she said: "Tell me, Mr. Mordaunt, am I mistaken in supposing you out of spirits to-day? I fear my father's rough manner has vexed you."--"No, Ellen, not that." "Then there is something, I am sure." "And do you already know me so well?" said Mordaunt. "I am ashamed to confess how unreasonable I am when you are so good and so confiding: but it is true--your father dropt a hint which alarmed me. He spoke of Charles Ross in terms that--forgive me, Ellen--that led me to fear, whatever might now be the case, he had not always been indifferent to you."

Ellen blushed a little, and said, with a calm smile, "It is certainly true, that Charles Ross professed a great attachment to me; and I believe his friends and my father earnestly wished we should at some time or other be married. Joanna, in particular, was very anxious, and has within a few months been quite uneasy on this subject, and indeed made me so too--for it was impossible----" She paused: then added, "I certainly felt the regard of a sister for Charles, but never more. If I had not--if you had never----" She hesitated, blushed, and said, with some warmth, "I never could have loved him enough to marry him."

Charmed, and with every suspicion laid at rest by this frank avowal, Mordaunt now was truly happy--for, till now, though hardly known to himself, a lurking doubt of Charles had at times hung about him.

Mordaunt's former knowledge of the world had had the effect upon his heart, which it too often has, of repressing its confidence, and making it distrustful and suspicious. Great indeed had been his reasons for hardly believing the existence of real virtue, till he knew Ellen: her perfect innocence, her sweet simplicity, blended with the tenderest sensibility and acutest discernment, had once more restored his faith, and he now hoped and believed no future jealousies would cross his path.

Yet surely he was venturing on doubtful ground. Great indeed must have been his risk in transplanting so fair a flower from the wildest part of Wales into the polished interior of England, and, probably, into a situation widely different from that she had hitherto filled! What could have implanted in the mind of a man so p.r.o.ne to jealousy as Mordaunt certainly was, so perfect a confidence in Ellen's veracity and virtue?

It was, that he had observed in her an exalted, though not enthusiastic _piety_. Mordaunt, though a man of the world, was also a religious man; and in conversing, as he had done, frequently with Ellen on the subject of religion, he found her principles so fixed, and her mind so decidedly made up, and on such reasonable grounds, that he hesitated not in p.r.o.nouncing her a Christian upon principle, and as such ent.i.tled to the firm confidence he felt in her sincerity and virtue.

Mordaunt now told her he should be absent all the next day, for it was necessary to write to one or two of his friends of the intended change in his prospects; and that, as he did not like to trust his letters to any common messenger, and indeed expected there were some of consequence lying for him at Carnarvon, he should go thither himself to fetch them; that as the distance was rather beyond what he liked to walk, especially now the days were so much shortened, he should borrow Ross's pony, and hoped to return in the evening. This scheme he executed accordingly; and Ross, understanding from Powis the mode proposed for his gaining farther intelligence of Mordaunt, thought, as Ellen was now returned to the Farm, it would be as well if Mordaunt absented himself in those little excursions he used so much to delight in, and restrained his visits to her in some degree, till her father's scruples were finally removed. To this, however, reluctantly they agreed; and Mordaunt accordingly spent the greatest part of the next week in viewing the face of the country, returning to his lodgings in the evening. Impatient of this vexatious restraint, Mordaunt, after three or four days, proposed to Ross and the girls an excursion to Snowdon, which, though he had seen, they had not, though living within ten or twelve miles of it. Mrs. Ross, who had of late greatly relaxed her vigilance respecting Ellen's industry, gave her consent; and mounted on their little Welsh ponies, the happy party set out with the day-break, a full moon promising to a.s.sist them on their return.

Leaving their horses at Dolbaden Castle, and taking guides with refreshments, each being armed with a spiked stick, they began the toilsome ascent. Ross, being fatigued, remained half way seated on an immense stone, till they should return. As they ascended the mountain, they perceived that its summit was covered with clouds, though, when they set out, it was perfectly clear, and the guides had a.s.sured them the day would be favourable. They now, however, began to apprehend that the thick clouds would prevent them from enjoying the reward of their labours, by depriving them of the view from the top of the mountain. The guides, notwithstanding, had still hopes that the day would ultimately clear up, and the event justified their expectations; for when within about half a mile of the summit, a fine breeze arose, and rolled the clouds like a curtain "down the steep of Snowdon's s.h.a.ggy side,"

gradually disclosing its hollow apertures and broken precipices, with every variety of mountain, valley, lake, and stream; and below them, in every direction, a map of exquisite beauty, containing Carnarvon, the county of Chester, part of the North of England and Ireland, the Isle of Anglesea, and the Irish coast.

Here Mordaunt, sitting down with his fair companions, one on each side, on a low wall, which was probably built by shepherds for the safety of their flocks, but which now serves as a resting-place to travellers, expatiated with rapture on this amazingly sublime prospect. The "Bard"

of Gray, and many of the beautiful pa.s.sages of Mason's Elfrida and Caractacus were familiar to him; and these, with every grace of voice and action, he repeated, till the charmed and enthusiastic Ellen almost fancied she saw the white-robed druids with their crowns of mistletoe and golden harps pa.s.s in review before her. After having sufficiently rested, and taken some refreshment, they cautiously descended; and joining Ross, pursued the downward course of a mountain-stream of great beauty, which was frequently hurried over low rocks, forming numerous small but elegant cascades, till they reached the Castle, where they had left their ponies, and then returned by moonlight to Llanwyllan.

The next four or five days were employed in similar excursions. Not having been able on the day of their visit to Snowdon to extend their ride to Beth-gelert, their next object was to see the grave of the greyhound, and the romantic pa.s.s between Merioneth and Carnarvons.h.i.+re, called Pont Aberglaslyn. At the grave of the greyhound Mordaunt repeated to his fair companions the interesting legend connected with it, and Spencer's elegant poem on the subject:--that little tale is so affecting, that, even at this remote period of time, no tender heart can hear it without lamenting the fate of the faithful and ill-requited Gelert. Ellen was not ashamed to drop a tear at the recital[1]. "Alas!"

cried Mordaunt: "such is too frequently the fatal consequence of trusting to _appearances_! This excellent and unfortunate animal fell a sacrifice to circ.u.mstances, which, however apparently conclusive, were fallacious." He sighed, and fell for a few minutes into a gloomy silence, from which the soft voice of Ellen alone had power to rouse him.

[Footnote 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, ent.i.tled 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 pa.s.s'd--

O'erturn'd his infant's bed he found, With blood-stained covert rent!

And all around the walls and ground With 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 pa.s.sionately 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.