"'Tis all very well, neighbour Powis, all very well, if you like it: I hope you will have no reason to repent it; but I am afraid, when your shirts and stockings want mending, you will not like these new-fangled ways quite so well." "Why, to be sure, if Ellen neglects her business, that won't do at all; but I assure you she is very industrious, and tells me she rises an hour the earlier every morning, to get through her work, and have time to attend to her books." "Well, neighbour, as long as you are satisfied, I do not wish to make mischief; but certainly Mr. Ross never approved of her or Joanna's learning such things; if he had, he could have instructed them, at least as well as Mr. Mordaunt." "Very true; I did not think of that—well, we will talk to Ellen about it: you will find her at home; I left her busy at work: do speak your mind to her a little; I shall be guided by you and Mr. Ross in all things, seeing you understand such matters better than I do." They then parted, and Mrs. Ross a few minutes after arrived at the Farm; and on walking into the usual sitting-room, instead of finding Ellen at work, she found her surrounded with books and maps, and Mordaunt seated by her side, one arm rested on the back of her chair, while the other was engaged in tracing with the end of his pencil some lines on the map on which Ellen was looking: she was too intently engaged to observe Mrs. Ross's entrance, who stood suspended a moment, while she heard Mordaunt say, "And here, Ellen, here is Northampton—this is the road to Aubyn Castle; and just here——" "What here?" said Ellen, eagerly placing her finger on the spot she supposed to be that on which Mordaunt's habitation stood. "Is it here your house stands?" "Very near that precise spot," replied Mordaunt, drawing her hand gently away, and retaining it in his own, while his expressive eyes were fixed on her face: "very near it is my residence; but it is so far from Llanwyllan, that I begin to detest it, and to dread the thoughts of returning to it.—But what am I doing?" said he, with a deep sigh: "Oh, Ellen, I dare not tell you all my thoughts!" Ellen blushed, sighed, withdrew her hand, and accidentally glancing her eyes upwards, saw Mrs. Ross standing in the door-way, with astonishment, anger, and vexation, painted on her countenance. Ellen started, half screamed, and rose so hastily, she almost overset the table before her. "Bless me, Ma'am," she exclaimed, "I did not see you—I did not know—" "No, I dare say not, Miss Ellen; you were a great deal too much engaged to see or think of me: your servant, Sir. I beg I may not keep you standing; at least I shall sit down, for I am not going yet."
This gentle hint was intended to tell Mordaunt that she meant to outstay him; but she looked at Ellen with "eyes so full of anger," and Ellen turned so pale, and looked so alarmed, that Mordaunt thought he would at least give Mrs. Ross time to cool a little, before he left them together. Ellen began, in much confusion, to gather the books and maps together. "I am sorry to disturb you, but I did not expect," said Mrs. Ross, "to find you engaged in this manner, at this time of day, whatever you might chuse to do in an evening. I met your father, and he told me you were busy at work, or in the dairy: but," added she, in a low voice, "those things are not thought of now." "Indeed, Ma'am," said Ellen, blushing, while the tears started in her eyes, at being so lectured before Mordaunt, "indeed, I had just finished what I had to do in the dairy to-day, and had begun the work you desired me to do, when Mr. Mordaunt accidentally came in, and the maps we had been looking at last night lying in the window, he was just shewing me—" "Oh, it is all mighty well," interrupted Mrs. Ross; "I have no authority to interfere, I am sure, and do not wish to be impertinent. Pray, Sir," added she, turning to Mordaunt, "do you stay much longer at Llanwyllan?" "So," thought Mordaunt, "my turn is coming next. I hope, Madam," added he, smiling, "I shall not stay long enough to tire my friends." "Oh, I dare say not, Sir; I dare say you are pretty sure of that." This coarse and cruel hint covered Ellen with the deepest crimson; and Mordaunt, while his face was scarlet, and his eyes sparkled with an indignation he with difficulty repressed, said, in a lofty tone, "I have not, at least, Madam, been accustomed to incur such a misfortune, and therefore flatter myself I have now done nothing to deserve it." He rose with dignity, and approaching Ellen, who sat almost motionless, he took her trembling hand, bowed respectfully upon it, and said, "I shall do myself the honour of attending your father and yourself, Miss Powis, in the evening." Then slightly bowing to Mrs. Ross, he departed. "Good lack, good lack," said Mrs. Ross, who, awed by his manner, had been silent a moment, "what a dainty speech! The honour of attending Miss Powis! well, what will this world come to! Why, Ellen, child, you are spoilt for a farmer's wife, and will soon begin to fancy yourself a lady indeed." Ellen, whose spirits were now totally subdued, wept bitterly, and said, "I am sure, Madam, I do not know how I have deserved to be treated thus."
Softened by her distress, for with all her sharpness, Mrs. Ross loved Ellen, and really had her welfare at heart, she began to relent, and said more softly, "Why now, Ellen, child, hear me. Do you think it is right or creditable for a young girl like you to be constantly receiving the visits of such a man as Mr. Mordaunt? Tell me, Ellen, will he make you his wife?"
This was a question Ellen had never dared to ask herself. In the beautiful language of Shakespeare, which Mordaunt had lately given her, and with which she was so enchanted, she often allowed herself only three hours sleep in a night, that she might find time to read, she had often repeated to herself—
—— It were all one,
That I should love a bright particular star,
And think to wed it: he is so above me;
In his bright radiance, and collateral light
Must I be comforted, not in his sphere.
This question from Mrs. Ross, therefore, struck her heart with a pang of unutterable anguish, and she felt almost dying, while she owned, that so far from offering her his hand, Mordaunt had never spoken one word of love to her. Mrs. Ross, however, was rather pleased at the latter part of this confession, for she began to fear worse for the innocent and guileless Ellen than the capture of her heart; that, she had no doubt, might soon be retrieved when Mordaunt quitted the country, and Ellen could have no farther acquaintance with him; but she had begun to fear that his views were such as might involve Ellen in infamy, as well as misfortune: these fears, however, she had feeling enough to conceal from their object, and only dwelt upon the trouble she was preparing for herself, by giving so much of her time and regard to a man who, it evidently appeared, had no thoughts of her. In vain did Ellen murmur the word "Friendship," and faintly protest neither Mordaunt nor herself had the least idea of any thing beyond. Mrs. Ross, though her knowledge of the world was not extensive, knew enough to be convinced of the fallacy of such pretensions, and she ceased not till she drew from the dejected Ellen a promise to see less of Mordaunt, and to regain, as speedily as possible, her former mode of life. "And let me, Ellen, also, see you looking blooming and merry again," said she. "I wish, with all my heart, this man had never found his way to Llanwyllan: you used to be active, industrious, and happy; not a care to distress you, not a trouble to take away your colour; but now Charles would not know you again." "Charles!" thought Ellen, while a strange feeling, not unmingled with indignant comparison, swelled her heart, and gave a transient colour to her cheek. "What is Charles to me? Why am I always to be teased about him? They will teach me to hate, instead of loving him." "Well, Ellen, may I suppose you will take my advice?" "Certainly, Ma'am," said Ellen, with a deep sigh; "but," added she, hesitating, "you know, Ma'am, Mr. Mordaunt said he would be here this evening. You would not wish me—it would look very particular, very rude." "Never mind that. Come, you say you have done all you had to do in the dairy, so put on your hat, take your work, and come and dine with us like a good girl, as you used to be; you can leave word you were obliged to go out, and the sooner you let him see you are determined to avoid him the better." Ellen dared not refuse; she hesitated some excuse about her father's dining alone, which Mrs. Ross obviated by saying he would only run home, and take his dinner, and out again, and would not want her. Waiting, therefore, while poor Ellen put on her hat, and bathed her eyes, she dragged her away with her, and kept her all day at the Parsonage. Nay, under pretence of finishing their work, she would not suffer either Ellen or Joanna to stir out, though the weather was beautiful. Late in the evening Mr. Ross came in; he spoke with such particular kindness, and in so soothing a tone to Ellen, that the tears, which she had with difficulty restrained all day, ran down her cheeks, and she hastily rose, under pretence of looking at the moon, and went to the open window: there leaning her head over the window-seat, into which the jasmine crept, she hoped the torrents of tears she was shedding might fall unobserved; but the good Ross, who had followed her, and now stood at a small distance from her, perceived, by her air and action, that she was weeping, though no one else noticed it; for Ellen's was
"Mute, silent sorrow, free from female noise,
Such as the majesty of grief destroys."
He was distressed to see her sorrow, and gently approaching, he took her hand, (while she, half starting, turned her head aside) and said, "My dear Ellen, I lament to see you so dejected; assure yourself, we love you as our own child, and would in all things consult your happiness. But reflect, my dear, on the change a few short weeks have produced: this man, this Mordaunt; nay, blush not, Ellen; for who can doubt it is on his account you weep—I own him elegant in person, polished in manners,
"Complete in person and in mind,
With all good grace to grace a gentleman!"
"But what has he been to you? A friend! No, Ellen; he found you cheerful, contented with your lot, and happily engaged in the active duties of your station. What has he done for you? He has inspired you with views above the state where Providence has placed you. He has made your former useful occupations, your former simple friends, insipid to you; he has sought to give a degree of refinement to your taste, of delicacy to your sentiments, of which I well know nature has made you fully capable; but unless he means to transplant you to a soil where these flowers may flourish, believe me, Ellen, he has done you no kindness. He has only prepared for you years of anguish, of vain regret, of useless discontent, which will for ever destroy not only the glow upon your cheek, but the spring and elasticity of your mind. I will not ask you what are his professions; I will only suppose, that if they are serious, your father and your friends would not be strangers to them."