Ellen Middleton—A Tale

by Georgiana Fullerton

Alarmed at the excess of my emotion, which I could no longer command, Mrs. Hatton's distress was so great, that she almost groaned at finding that, instead of soothing me, every word that she uttered increased my agitation. At last, recovering myself, I abruptly changed the subject, and a few minutes after she took her leave.

Later that day I had a long conversation with my aunt; she explained to me, that the doctors had assured her, that it was of the greatest importance that my uncle should spend the following winter in a southern climate; that he was himself extremely opposed to this plan, chiefly on account of his inveterate dislike to leaving Elmsley for such a length of time; and that, she was afraid that if he returned there at all that year, she should never be able to persuade him to leave it again. She seemed very much out of spirits; and she, who seldom gave way to her feelings, although their secret workings were evident enough to me, who knew every turn of her countenance, at this moment seemed unable to struggle with her deep depression.

After a few efforts to overcome it, she threw her arms round me, and hid her face on my neck.

"Dearest child," she said, "never let me suffer through you; anything else I can bear. I see things through a dark mist to-day, and there is a gloom about me which I cannot shake off. I do not often talk to you of myself, Ellen, at least not lately—not since the days when we lived but for each other, and I would not do so now, if an irresistible impulse did not urge me to it. In a few days you will be married, and then will come a separation, which I shall bear with courage; but which will require courage, my Ellen, for I have loved you too much as an idol, too much as a treasure, which nothing could rob me of, and to which I have clung with all the tenacity of a crushed but ardent spirit. All my life I have had to meet indifference, and to struggle with disappointment in various forms. Self-devotion was the dream of my youth; I conceived no other happiness, and wished to live for no other purpose. My father was one of those men who can so little understand this sort of feeling in others, that, with perfect kindness and perfect candour, I am sure he would have said, if his daughter had done for him what the Russian girl, Elizabeth, did for her father, 'I suppose she was tired of Siberia, and liked the journey.' When I married, I found in your uncle a character exactly opposed to my father's, but not perhaps more suited to mine. The invincible reserve, the minute despotism, or rather absolutism, of his nature, raised between us the same barrier, which worldliness of mind and absence of warm feelings had caused to exist between my father and myself. You have seen and observed this drawback to our happiness, Ellen, or I should not have pointed out to you this single imperfection in as amiable and excellent a character as ever existed. Your uncle's favourite maxim is, 'Deeds, not words;' and well has he acted up to it himself; but his mistake is, in not perceiving that there are characters in which, without words, there can scarcely be deeds; for which sympathy and encouragement are as necessary as air is to life, or sunshine to vegetation. For some time after I was married, I struggled to supply the want of responsiveness in his nature, by the expansive enthusiasm of mine; but, worn out at last, by the fruitless and fatiguing exertion of heart and mind, which this kind of continual drawing upon one's own feelings entails, bruised and jarred by the unflinching positiveness which met them at every turn, I gave up the attempt in despair. I did my duty; I performed the deeds required of me; but the words, the unsubstantial, but not unreal, part of our daily lives, of our busy minds,—which must assert itself in some shape or other,—which must find vent in some form, or recoil upon ourselves in moral or physical suffering,—that half of my being remained closed to him, whom I loved and respected, but between whose mind and my own the point of contact was wanting. Of Henry, for many reasons, I had rather not talk to you. You know that I have never hesitated to tell myself the truth, or to destroy an illusion, which in the secrecy of my heart I have felt to be such; but it requires a courage and a strength which, to-day especially, I do not find in myself, to trace the progress of estrangement in an affection once as intense as a mother's; and which still asserts its own existence by the sufferings it inflicts. Do not look inquiringly at me, Ellen; I have nothing to tell, nothing to explain, nothing to complain of; I only know that there was a time when my whole soul was wrapped up in Henry, as it has since been in you;—a time when his eyes would seek mine in the hour of joy or of sorrow,—a time when his thoughts were mine, and mine were his;—till something, I know not what,—a mysterious influence, a nameless cloud, passed between him and me, and threw a cold shade over the spirit of our affection; each succeeding year has widened the chasm, has seared the wound, without healing it, and loosened without breaking the links which bound us together. Hush, dear Ellen I do not attempt to speak to me on the subject; there has been a secret sympathy between us lately, which has supplied the place of those unreserved communications, which once were our habit and our joy. Where we have not spoken, we have felt together; and, without the utterance of a word, we have shared each other's sorrows, and each other's fears. And now, child of my heart, be happy if you can. Let nothing of gloom, of suffering, or of bitterness, be connected with my thoughts of you; let no cloud ever obscure your spotless character; let your name never be pronounced but with blessings; your presence never be hailed but with joy. Then, when in absence, I call to mind your loved features, your proud smile, and the light of your dark eyes, I shall need no other vision for my waking hours, no other dream for my nights."

With fervently murmured blessings, my aunt dismissed me; and I went to prepare for a ride with Edward. Before I set out, I wrote a note to Alice, in which I announced to her my approaching marriage; and, by Mrs. Middleton's desire, begged that she and Henry would come to us in the evening.

During our ride Edward was very silent; and when he spoke it was to find some trifling fault with my way of sitting on my horse, and holding my bridle. My heart was still thrilling with emotions awakened by my conversation with my aunt; her expressions of enthusiastic tenderness were still sounding in my ears, and the words of reproof, however slight, which fell from Edward's lips, contrasted with them, grated on my feelings, and irritated my susceptibility. Unlike as they were in many respects, there was one resemblance between Mrs. Middleton and Henry Lovell, which never failed to strike me. Without affectation or exaggeration, by the peculiar qualities of their minds, by the union of a powerful understanding with a lively imagination, joined to a kind of spontaneous eloquence, and a ready command of language, they made every subject which they handled more or less picturesque and exciting. I remembered at that moment that Henry had once said to me, that his sister had done me harm; and I almost trembled as I asked myself, if I should not painfully miss (in spite of my devoted attachment to Edward) that ready sympathy which I had been so long used to, which it was in my nature to require, and not in his to yield.

We were just then passing through some fields near Fulham, and came to a deep ditch with a fence beyond it. Edward crossed it; but strictly charged me not to attempt to follow him, while he examined the next field, and found out another exit; but piqued at his previous observations on my horsemanship, I pushed Selim on, and with a flying leap arrived on the other side. Edward joined me; and when I looked at him triumphantly, he was quite pale.

We rode on without speaking for a few minutes; and when to break this silence, I said to him, "I hope you admire my courage?" he answered drily, "I dislike unnecessary emotions, as much as you appear to delight in them."

After a pause, he added, "Such an instance of disobedience in a wife would be inexcusable; and though submission may be only a duty after marriage, I own I think it a charm before."

I held out my hand to Edward, with an imploring countenance. He took it; and kissing it tenderly, said with a smile, "I am like the mothers, Ellen, who scold their children when they have been frightened about them; but still remember, my love, that I would rather see you afraid of displeasing me, than displaying a courage which never captivated me in a woman. It is a dangerous way of working upon my feelings; and would, I assure you, never answer."