Be it remembered that Roderick, in speaking to me on the Mount of Heidelberg Castle, said—“Her father was an Englishman.” It was true. He was the younger son of a noble English house, though Ella lived until her twentieth year unconscious of the fact. She knew he was an Englishman, she knew he had been a soldier, but of his family she knew nothing. Better far had it been for her had she remained forever in ignorance of every circumstance of her ancestral distinction, or had she had some other instructor than he who craftily sowed the seeds of pride and discontent, that he might reap a glowing harvest of the charms of a lovely woman, to her soul’s utter desolation. By night and by stealth, like the Evil One, did he sow tares among the richest grain, among a perfect luxuriance of womanly virtues; by day, too, like the husbandman when the time of the harvest comes, did he pluck up weed and fruit, did he trample on pride and virtue, and cast them forth together to wither under the scorching solstice of remorse and shame. He tore away the flower and left the stem to die. Poor, poor Ella! the only jewel of both soul’s and body’s inheritance was charmed away—what wonder then that both should droop in poverty, or that, making common friendship from common desolation, these mutual foes, the only ones religion ever made, should compromise to each other the loss of both health and principle, in fatal reconciliation and despair!
The father of Ella Corbyn, an officer in the British army, was disabled in action during the Peninsular war, and after the peace of 1815, retired to the continent, where he married the beautiful Katrina Klaus, supported himself and Katrina many years on his half-pay, until about the period of Ella’s birth, when he and the half-pay departed together. His daughter, of course, had no recollection of him, and never possessed more than the one single article of his property, a miniature on ivory, of a lady, young, but by no means beautiful. She never knew who it was; her mother could not tell her when she first gave it into little Ella’s tiny hands, but supposed it was some one of Mr. Corbyn’s family, probably a sister—and so the matter rested for the while. The neighbors could tell her scarcely any thing of her father; they had seen him when he first came into the neighborhood, but his marriage with his beautiful wife, and subsequent removal to a neighboring village, followed so quickly, that they could give no account of him, nor further description than that of his personal appearance. Of the circumstances attending his death all they knew was, that two strangers stopped one afternoon at the public-house, that Mr. Corbyn spent part of the evening with them and went home early; the next morning he was shot in a duel, but the old captain who stood his friend in the affair, thought it no business of his to inquire what the difficulty was about. He left no property of any value, and his widow supported herself and Ella on her little patrimony four years longer, when she, too, died and left the child a helpless orphan. This was the time for her uncle, the priest, to come to her assistance. He took her into his care and provided for her early education by consigning her to the Sisters of Charity in Cologne. Here she remained five years; and when her good uncle, deeming that he could, with better justice to his finances, superintend her further progress at home, took her back, she displayed so much ability and judgment that she soon reigned, a little queen, over his modest household.
Ella was in truth a lovely child. In her earlier days, when she played alone by the road-side, before the priest’s lawn, not a stranger passed but stopped to take a second look at that bright, spiritual little face, gazing half-smilingly, half-pensively, half-hidden beneath dark ribbons of straying locks. Her complexion was exceedingly fair, not blonde; her features, not classical, were petits and regular; her face sufficiently full, but playful every where—a pretty child: but from almost infancy the striking characteristic of her face was soul; never did it appear inanimate, never did it lack character—even in her sleep the marked corners of the softly-closed lips and little, dimpled brow, betokened self-possession; but when she smiled, a perfect sunshine of thought and feeling overspread her countenance, and she was irresistibly beautiful. As might be expected, the five years’ tuition she had enjoyed had developed the intellectuality of her beauty apace with the cultivation of her mind, and wherever and whenever a childish passion lay suppressed by growing religious principle, its disappearance gave place upon her countenance to the sublime, triumphant sentiment that crushed it. Mr. Klaus, or as he was termed by his parishioners, Father Klaus, was passably skilled in music; and under his systematic instruction Ella soon became the most accomplished vocalist in his country-choir. The old Count Reisach had, in church, frequently heard and appreciated the superior qualities of her voice, and after a few Sundays, called at the parsonage to pay his compliments in person to the young singer whom fame had already made so conspicuous. Little Ella, when summoned into the presence of the count, made her courtesy modestly but not diffidently, and he, charmed with the graces of her person and behavior, took pains immediately to win upon her confidence, so that she soon sang to him all her prettiest songs; whilst Father Klaus sat smiling by, perfectly happy in the joy of his triumph. When the old nobleman arose to depart, he stood with his hand upon the child’s glossy head, and declared he never saw such a singer; then, as he turned up to his gaze that little face so beaming with beauty and intelligence, he promised by the faith of his knighthood that next Sunday should see her talent well rewarded. Next Sunday afternoon arrived a large case for Ella. How she danced to see it opened! and when it was opened, how she danced and clapped her hands around one of the prettiest harps that ever was seen! This was an era in her life. Every day would see her and her uncle before the parlor window blundering over the harp-strings, often in vain attempts to puzzle out an accompaniment. It was a new instrument to him as well as to her. Time, however, and perseverance can conquer all things, and ere two months were past, Ella might be seen every evening seated beneath a linden that shaded the cottage door, gracefully sweeping her harp in accompaniment of the wildest songs of her Fatherland; anon would she lift her melting eyes to heaven as she touched the trembling chords to the softer melody of a Virgin’s evening hymn. The old priest would be absorbed in his breviary, as he paced the graveled walk; he had long since given up the race, and the little scholar had left him immeasurably behind. It was not wonderful that Ella became the admired of all the country around even at that early age: but she bore her honors so becomingly, with so much modesty and simplicity, that—wonderful to say—there was not one among her companions who did not love her. She was so gentle and so good.
In the Bower of Castle Mount, I said that Roderick told me that Father Klaus was aware of the growing attachment between him and Ella, almost as soon as themselves. In this, two circumstances may seem strange—first, that she, educated, accomplished, admired, courted, should fancy a poor, plain, hardy country-lad like Roderick; and secondly, that her uncle should approve and encourage her in such a fancy. Roderick’s family was very humble, scarcely above a peasant’s condition; but in this regard she placed herself upon a perfect equality with him, and never gave the matter much consideration. The truth is, she had loved him with a childish love before she knew that there existed any other. The first summer after she returned from Cologne, regularly every Saturday afternoon or festival eve, would he come to help her gather flowers for the altar. This office of decking the altar is only performed by the hands of virgins, and when one enters into the state of matrimony she no longer takes her place among the servants of the sanctuary. Our young pair (he was but four years older than she) would wander off to the woods together, and Roderick would climb the highest rocks for moss, or some stray flower blooming alone; and carry the heavy basket. At times he would strip off his shoes, and, Paul and Virginia-like, stagger with his beloved burden across the streams. When evening approached, he would mock the squirrels, the partridges, the wood-robins and the katy-dids, and put the whole forest in tune before its time, to Ella’s ineffable delight. Often, when he had doffed his jacket and thrown it down for her to sit upon, would he recline upon his arm, his hat drawn over his brow, pensive and melancholy; and sometimes a tear would trickle down, as the truth forced itself upon him, that, despite their intimacy, fortune, and fortune only, had placed an insurmountable barrier between him and the idol of his thoughts and dreams. He would beg her to love him, and she would readily answer that she did love him.
“Better than all the other boys?”
“Yes, better than all the other boys.”
Still he was not satisfied. He felt that she did not mean the same kind of love that he did; he was doubtful even if she knew any thing about it. How should he ascertain? He could not ask her if she would marry him: no, that would be breaking the ice of a new and unfathomable current, and he might lose the tenure of the ground he then possessed; besides, he felt a secret, indefinable shame, and could not proffer the words. He looked very wo-begone. Ah! he had it at last.
He did not mean like, he meant, did she love him better than all the other boys?
Yes, she loved him better; she said so before.
The secret of his new discovery was burning; he blushed. At last it came.