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 assistance, you may find out the meaning of some of these extraordinary things." Ellen half laughed, and blushing, 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 pass!—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 shore along the ocean's lighter line.
Southey's Mador.
Pass 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 assumed that inexplicable gloom, with which reflexions on the past, or anticipations 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 circumstances 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 assail, 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 circumstances 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."