"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, God 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 circumstances, 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, Northamptonshire—his Lordship 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, passionate 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 passed, 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 prone 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 pronouncing her a Christian upon principle, and as such entitled 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 assist 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 assured 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 shaggy 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 passages 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 pass 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.