The peculiar circumstances of Ellen's life tended much to develop her character. Left at an early age without a mother, and thrown almost entirely on her own resources, and afterwards taken much into her father's confidence—young as she was, she already knew more of the world than many whose years doubled hers. The management of Mr. Ravensworth's house, and the bringing up of Johnny and Maude were left almost entirely to her control, and we must do her the justice to say that the manner in which she conducted herself at the head of her father's table, and the strict and excellent bringing up of her brother and sister, were past all praise. During the long hours she was left alone whilst the children were at school and her father at his duties, she was naturally thrown much on herself, and we believe these hours of loneliness were her best taskmasters.
When Israel required to be trained as a peculiar race, the desert was chosen as their abode, and some of the most lofty minds are those which are longest schooled in solitude. But it has also its disadvantages and dangers, this solitary bringing up. The mind forced to look inwards—to recall the past too much—becomes sad, and is inclined to brood over its miseries, fancied or real; and Ellen, young as she was when the smile of fortune ceased to fling its radiance, was not too young to remember that times had once been better, happier than now; that there was a day when wealth had made them many friends; a day when they had lived in splendour, with carriages and horses, manservants and maidens; and when she contrasted it with their present life it was apt to make her discontented. She had been too well brought up by her father, who was a truly excellent man, not to know how wrong this was—and she often tried to banish the thoughts from her mind: but they would recur, and every time she encouraged them they became deeper rooted and more difficult to eradicate. Poetry and romance were Ellen's favourite subjects, and neither tended much to fill the aching void. They fed, without satisfying her craving, and like water to a thirsty soul only increased her thirst.
The poems of Lord Byron, and the novels of Sir Walter Scott, and other stars of the Georgian era, were her constant companions; she felt how much harm they were doing, yet had not the moral strength to resist their fascination. She began to live in a world of fiction—real life was tame and insipid, and she soon created in her mind some prince in disguise, some knight of romance, destined to lift her from the low estate she then groaned in, to the scenes she was born to grace. Ellen knew—how could she help knowing?—that she was very beautiful. Proud, but not vain, of her beauty, she felt that, living in a position beneath her due, this beauty might yet raise her to her dreamland heights. It was to no purpose that day after day declined without bringing the realization of her hopes—she still hoped on, without considering that the hours most precious were stealing silently away, and yet she was tracing nothing worthy of remembrance on her sands of life. These day dreams "when nearest and most inviting" were often rudely broken by the stern realities of life, and left her more and more discontented, harder and harder to be pleased; and the proud beauty felt as feels the eagle when, with ruffled wing, he beholds through the bars of his cage that heaven he has so often soared to, but to which he can return no more.
Such were Ellen's feelings as she was roused by the voice of L'Estrange asking her to take a walk in the country, as the day had broken off fine. She felt vexed at the interruption, and hastily answered she could not—she had a headache, and wished to remain quiet. Her heart smote her as she heard him turn away with mournful step, and the word quivered on her lips which recalled him—but pride smothered the unborn sound; the old weakness returned, and she allowed her dream to run on instead of awaking herself—shaking off the fatal habit—and rising a real woman to combat the trials of life. The conversation during breakfast had awakened an old train of thought. Often had she been told she was only fit for a peeress—and now within ten miles of her was one who could raise her to the height of her ambition—young, rich, handsome. Could she catch his eye? could she make a conquest of the young Earl's heart? She looked at herself in the mirror, Pride whispered she could! But then came a chilling thought—L'Estrange. For nearly a year had he paid her the most untiring homage. Pleased at first, flattered by her powers, she had led him on—led him on till he had proposed for her hand—been accepted too—ha! dreadful truth, accepted! She had loved him once—but now—did she love him? no, no, he had her friendship—he had her affection—but not her love! And who was her love? The phantom of her mind's creation, the unreal knight of her dreams. And now the phantom of her imagination was near, she had never seen him even—but L'Estrange said he was splendidly handsome! He knew him too—why should not she? Would he come up to her model? Could she make the conquest? Something whispered "Yes." But she was engaged—again that voice said, "Never mind." Was this her evil genius? Then were sown the seeds of that blight doomed to destroy a plant bards have called "too frail to bloom below." Ellen was a well-brought-up girl, and her better thoughts recoiled from the very idea of thus jilting her first love. She was a sensible girl, and her better senses told her how foolish were her thoughts. Perhaps the Earl might not even look at her, if she saw him; perhaps, and still more likely, she might never see him; perhaps he might have some other mistress of his heart.
On the other hand L'Estrange loved her as his own soul; she knew and felt that: he had no other lady of his affections, she knew that; and here, in spite of all, she was going to chance the reality for the shadow—chance all on a wild throw, and perhaps—most probably—lose both. So spoke the still, small voice within; but pride, false pride choked its utterances, drowned its whispers, and in her heart she resolved to make the trial, and as if to aid her in her thoughts came the lines into her memory—
"He either rates his life too high,
Or his deserts too small,
Who fears to cast in on the die
To win, or lose, it all."
She would hazard all on a blind toss! she had passed the Rubicon! however foolish the step it was now too late! Such were Ellen's thoughts as she lounged on the sofa, while poor L'Estrange plodded his solitary way to Arthur's Seat through the snow, thinking on Ellen, and wondering at her changed behaviour of late.
CHAPTER III.
"The Earl was a wrathful man to see."
Lay of the Last Minstrel.