Why Paul Ferroll Killed his Wife.
by The Author of “Paul Ferroll.”
“A man does not murder his wife gratuitously.”—
Froude’s Henry VIII.
Third Edition.
London: Saunders, Otley, and Co., Conduit Street
1860.
A LONG gallery opening on each side to small rooms gave the inhabitants of St.
Cécile’s Monastery access both to them and to the larger apartment which was inhabited by the
Reverend Mother herself. This latter room was of an oblong shape, very bare of furniture, and
of all kinds of decoration. The windows were without curtains; there was but one table, and on
it stood a crucifix. Two benches by the wall were all the accommodation for sitting down. The
one figure which occupied the chamber required not even so
“She is praying,” said a nun, looking into the room, “you had better wait;” and these words she addressed to a young girl who accompanied her, in the ordinary tone of conversation, such as befitted the occupations of the place.
The young girl advanced into the room, and herself went down on her knees at a little
distance from the Superior, running over her beads while she waited till she might speak. She
was very simply dressed in white, with parted hair, like a child, but abundant and beautiful,
falling low on low shoulders and delicately rounded waist. Her face was fair, with very little
colour, and the eyes, which she raised often, while she slid her beads through her fingers, had
a simplicity of religious expression, such as fades even in those happy enough once to possess
it, when the habits of a pious child‐
When the Superior rose from her knees, so did Elinor, and advanced towards the elder lady, who kissed her on the forehead, and gave a blessing. The conversation was in French, though the girl was English, for it was in a Convent of Brittany that the scene took place. It did not begin in the tone supposed to be exclusively that of Lady Abbesses.
“Has Louisa finished the marking of all your shifts, my dear? Are they ready?”
“Yes, dear Mother, and packed up,” said Elinor.
“And have you heard whether Madame Néotte is come.”
“Yes, that is what I came here to tell you, as you desired.”
“Then to‐morrow you leave us,” said the Superior, in a melancholy voice.
“It is you who have determined it,” said Elinor.
“Ah, my child! your guardian believes it best; it is his doing.”
“And I shall come back,” said the girl.
“No, dear, you will never do that. I know your feelings better than you do. It will be a hard parting with us all, but when you are away you will be glad. You will enjoy the world, you will choose it, and you will be welcome in it. No; you will never wish to come back here. I have known many gentle girls like you, who could not find what they wanted here. They require to be carried along—not to walk alone, as in a convent.”
“Am I one of those,” said Elinor, catching hold of the Abbess’s hand and passionately kissing it; “I who have been so happy?”
“And have made us all happy—but you must go. Sit down a little while, let us talk for the last time. The world is full of snares, my dear.”
“What are they?” said Elinor. “What will they tempt me to do?”
“Vanity, the pride of life, the lusts of the devil,” answered the Superior. “You must be
prepared for all. Some will pretend that you have beauty; some will praise your
“What are those ends?” asked Elinor, again.
The Abbess, was a little puzzled. “Man,” said she, solemnly, “is a creature going about to devour. Listen not to him, go not near him, keep him far from you. He will hurt you, he will destroy you; you have already learned this; now is your time to practise. Keep your eyes from his face, keep your speech from his commerce. One day it may come to pass that your guardian may select one who is to be your husband. Then submit yourself to the will of your superiors, and adopt the state of life which shall be allotted you; but till such a fate is brought to your door, remember that a maiden must keep her finger on her lips and her heart full of thoughts holy and virtuous, avoiding the very shadow of sin.”
Elinor was set thinking what these sins could be; but she resolved, at all events, to do right, and to keep the precepts of her early friend in her memory.
She continued talking with the Reverend Mother as long as convent duties permitted; then, for the last time, partook the Evening Service and assisted to make the vesper beautiful by her exquisite voice, against the world’s estimation of which the Superior thought she had successfully warned her.
She rose that night for Vigils; and next morning was up at Matins—the last time of doing
these duties making them seem to her as if she would fain never cease to do them; and when the
hour for her journey arrived, the wrench of the first roots she had ever struck in hearts and
places, overwhelmed her with a girlish sorrow, which, fortunately, was not put to such proof as
an offer to remove it would have been; for there is no saying how her wish to remain in the
Convent would have been modified, if the chaise into which she so sobbingly stepped had been
ordered back into its old
ON the English side of the Channel, which our heroine was about to cross, a different scene was passing in the early life of one of the opposite sex.
A young man, four years older than Elinor (who was just seventeen), had passed that summer a triumphant Examination at Oxford, and heaped on himself every honour which it was possible for its young members to obtain. He had been accustomed to success ever since he became a school‐boy; and he was so far from satiated by it, that he already looked upon all his achievements as mere marks of past progress, and on himself as now about to begin the career which contained objects really worthy of his ambition.
He was an orphan, never acquainted with father or mother; wholly unconscious of tender influences on his boyhood, and of domestic sympathy with his successes and desires. He had come not to want them; disappointment he had not had, and the hard measure of public applause suited him better than the fond exaggerations of home, to which he had not grown up, nor been bettered by them. Life was a fine, hard reality to him; he knew it, for evil and good, and while he destroyed every illusion as fast as they courted him, he looked keenly to its enjoyments and rated them by the vast power of pleasure within him which he shared with most healthy and active human beings.
He was passing some weeks at a country house, where his late very hard work gave zest to the
summer repose in which the old place lay buried. Long, solitary, morning walks in the heavenly
beauty of a hot July did his thinking faculties good, after their late stretch upon other men’s
thoughts. The society of well educated women, their music,
He had everything to recommend him to the world. A fine person, full of health and strength, a fortune and a place which were competent to ordinary wishes, and had been augmented by all the savings of a well managed minority; a high reputation for ability; and natural claims on certain great names for assistance in entering on his career. His manner was more taking than winning, he took hold on society as if it were his due place, and his admirable tact made him hold it gracefully, and to the delight of his companions.
These qualities and advantages had made a strong impression on the fancy of the
“Let us ride this afternoon,” she said, one hot but cloudy day; “the air of the house burns one.”
“With all my heart,” said Leslie; “but we shall have a storm.”
“I am not afraid,” said Laura.
“Would I were quite sure that, in fact, you have no fears!”
“Oh! I would tell them. I am very frank, I hate concealment. It is very hard on women that they are required to be liars and deceivers.”
“But that’s not the case,” said Leslie, “what is so delightful to a man as a frank, open nature which prints its thoughts as fast as they come into the mind.”
“So you say, but you know it is not so—at least, not unless a woman has no thought whatever, except the price of a dress or the hope of a ball.”
“Oh, that would not pay the expense of printing or reading either,” said Leslie; “but what has this to do with your first plan of riding? Shall we go?”
“Yes; Mrs. Axross, you will ride? and Captain Bertham—ring; the horses are ready in case we should want them. Come and put on your habit.”
When they got on horseback, Leslie perversely kept with Mrs. Axross, a timid horsewoman, and in consequence of being occupied with genuine fear, a rather dull companion. They fell behind the others, whose horses stepped out freely under lightly held bits, nor did Miss Chanson know how to alter the order of their progress. When she contrived, under pretence of pointing out a view, or a remarkable tree, to get back to the loiterers, she still found that Leslie adhered to his first companion, and suffered her again to get before him.
“How I hate a horse that can’t walk,” she said, at last, impatiently striking her own, which bounded at the unjust assault and tossed his head angrily.
“Well, then let us gallop,” said Leslie, laughing, for he read her heart exactly. “My companion,” he added, as they went off, “thinks only of keeping her seat. When she gets home safe, she will have fulfilled the sole purpose of riding out.”
“Well, I’m better than that,” said Laura, her spirits rising instantly, “I can enjoy all
Leslie laughed again, for he knew that Captain Bertham did not deserve a reproach of which he felt himself to be the indirect cause.
“How can anyone be dull with you for a companion,” said he, again, as they increased their pace and went gaily along. Laura was pleased, she did not consider that she had provoked the compliment, and that it is only voluntary attentions from a man that tell.
“Here come the great raindrops,” said Leslie, as the first of the storm fell one by one.
“Oh, no! it is only the last of a shower. See, it is blowing over.”
“I don’t see it at all, but if you order me to see it, I will.”
“I do, then,” said Laura, gaily; “so let us go on.”
“Was that lightning or not?” said Leslie, as a flash startled their horses, and thunder rolled at a distance.
“It was not,” said Laura; “come on.”
“On, on, to the end of the world under your guidance.”
But now the rain at once arrived and poured upon them.
“What will Mrs. Axross do,” said Laura, laughing; “she will walk her horse all the way home, for fear he should jump at the storm. We must turn back and look for them.”
Leslie rather wondered she should do so, instead of profiting by her present
“They will get lost in the wood,” she said; “and what will Mr. Axross say, if we go home without his wife? Let us canter up here and set them right. We shall overtake them in a minute.”
“You will be wet through,” said Leslie. “No, no, canter home!”
“I don’t care; go home if you like.”
“No, I am yours, to the very skin” said Leslie, venturing on a brutality.
Miss Chanson did not look angry, and on they went, away from home. Presently a little farmhouse appeared in sight.
“They have taken shelter there,” said the lady, “no doubt. Come, let us see if they are to be found;” and arriving at the door, she jumped from her horse, saying to the farmer, who came out at the sound of horses, “My friends are here, are not they? Come, Mr. Leslie.”
He followed, after first putting the horses into the stable, and giving them over to the care of the farmer’s boy, and found, his companion standing before the kitchen fire, her hat off, her hair let down to dry, and her habit open.
“The weather is too bad to stay in, is not it?” she said, as he came in. “Let us wait till the storm goes by;” and she pulled her dress together.
“A lucky storm for me,” said Leslie, glancing at her disarranged toilette. “Why
Laura affected embarrassment, and hastily twisted them in her hands, but yielded to slight impulse from Leslie to release them. Finally she placed herself in a very picturesque attitude on what is called the settle, by the fire, and Leslie carried on briskly the conversation she affected.
“All this time,” said he, at last, when the flirtation became a little wearisome, “what is become of Mrs. Axross?”
“I had almost forgotten her,” said Laura, softly, with a smothered sigh.
“I had quite done so,” said Leslie, sighing also.
“Only you recollected her,” said Laura, a little reproachfully.
“Nay, the storm is over. It is getting late. I would not have you catch cold for the world—I would not be responsible for the anxiety your absence will create—I would not have you exposed to further rain—I would ......”
“Get home in time for dinner,” interrupted Laura, very impatiently. Then checking herself, she added, as gaily as she could, “which would be an excellent thing, for I am very hungry.”
“Then heaven forbid you should wait!” said Leslie. “I’ll fetch the horses in a moment.”
Accordingly he went himself to the stable, and forgot to lament the loss of the beautiful curls, which were twisted under the hat when he came back; and placing Laura on her horse, they rode home together, the lady feeling in herself that hollowness in her satisfaction which comes when the foundation of a very gay and promising structure wants perfect solidity.
“How very handsome he is,” she said to herself, as she ran up the house‐steps; “how agreeable—and I don’t feel sure he will make himself agreeable next time—that makes one curious to be with him again.”
The butler stopped her in the hall, and said, “Miss Elinor Ladylift was arrived.”
“Ha! our little nun,” said she, turning
He followed her into the room, and saw standing by the table a young figure, perfectly enveloped in a gray cloak, while a veil concealed her features from any one at a little distance. The only characteristic which he could observe was, that the flowers on the table trembled, as if the hand which rested on it gave them that motion.
“Oh! my dear, I did not know you would be here to‐day. I beg your pardon for not being here to receive you. You forgive me, don’t you?”
“Yes!” said a low, timid voice.
Miss Chanson laughed. “That’s all right! Then come along with me, for I am wet through: you would not have me die of cold, would you?”
“No!” said the voice.
“Right, again! I’ll show you your room —but first I’ll present Mr. Leslie to you. This is Mr. Leslie, my dear.”
“Is it?” said the voice again.
“Yes, indeed!” and again Laura laughed,
That perfect security at first sight generally ends in a total contradiction. I have remarked it as often as the case of security has taken place.
“She is tired and frightened, and won’t come to dinner,” said Miss Chanson, as she entered the drawing‐room after dressing. “No wonder! the inside of a convent is all she knows of life.”
“What does she look like?” asked her brother, a man five‐and‐twenty years older than the bright Laura, and an indifferent, idle bachelor, who disregarded his appearance, and looked yet ten years older than he was, in consequence.
“She is a pale, slight girl,” said Laura, “and expects to be devoured by all of us. She has the least possible French accent, and moves about like a mouse.”
THE next day, Elinor appeared at breakfast, coming into the room close at the side of her hostess, to whom she clung, and sat down in the next chair, which vexed Laura, for it was Mr. Leslie’s habitual place. He took the one below Elinor, and endeavoured to engage her in conversation, but was received like an enemy, and did not seek to avoid Miss Chanson’s looks of intelligence, who remarked silently on the repulses he suffered.
The impression on him, however, was not exactly what he allowed Laura to believe. He remarked
the delicate shape of the pale face, the ease of the slight figure, the fine form of the hands,
which, if not very white as yet, were formed in the noblest feminine
“My dear child, if you like that place, keep it,” said she; “the lamp suits your work, and I must go to talk to that stupid old lady, whom it is my duty to amuse.”
“Shall I go,” said Elinor. “They always
“Did you succeed?” said Laura, laughing sarcastically.
“Yes, sometimes.”
“But you don’t know this lady—shall you have the courage?”
“Why not?”
“Nay, you will not speak one syllable to Mr. Leslie.”
“No!”
“And why?” said Laura. “I talk to him—we all talk.”
“The Reverend Mother said I must not.”
“Did she say you might speak to none but women?” said Leslie, very gently.
“Yes!”
“Oh! that’s excellent!” cried Laura. “My dear nun, you must get rid of some of those maxims; you are in a very different place from your nunnery. Don’t make yourself ridiculous.”
The young girl coloured excessively; she was too young to bear being ridiculous, too, fond of
her habitual teachers to fancy
“What a quaint little creature!” said Miss Chanson, “But now I’ll do my part to amuse the other stupid people, by giving you all some music.”
“Do,” said Mr. Leslie; “though you know I am so lost in dulness as to talk most when music is best.”
“I know that; but at all events I entertain you even in that case.”
She said this rather sentimentally; and Mr. Leslie opened the piano‐forte, and talked a
little nonsense while she arranged her books. When fairly embarked, and when other people
collected round her, and they were all interested with her performance and their own, he drew
gradually to the side of Elinor, and watched his chance of speaking to her. She listened to the
music, which was very good, with great interest; but she drew away from
At last, when there was a pause in the performance, he took up his courage, and said boldly to Elinor, “You perceive, Miss Ladylift, that they are all tired, and can play and sing no more. You ought to assist them—you ought to help in amusing us all.”
She rose in a moment, as if bound to obey whoever commanded her, and walked towards the piano‐forte.
“Mr. Leslie told me I ought to sing,” she said. “Ought I?”
“To be sure, if you can. But what—not psalm tunes?”
“Very well, I will not. I know a great many airs which Frère du Lap taught all the
“I should like to hear Frère du Lap’s scholar very much,” said Laura.
“Should you?” said Elinor, looking up at her, unconscious of the sarcasm; and she placed herself before the piano‐forte.
Now nature had made her a present of a voice, such as she gives very rarely:
“It were the bul‐bul, but his throat, Tho’ sweet, ne’er uttered such a note.”
It was no merit of Elinor’s; there seemed no object in bestowing it upon her; but she was
lucky in being the one to get it, for its effect was to dispose the hearers to love her. It was
as pure as the song of the angels heard by Handel, and set down by him as sung to the
Shepherds; it had been well taught, also, so that it was a delight to the ear, a charm to the
heart. Leslie, who was moving away, stopped as she began to sing, and turned to fasten his eyes
upon her, as upon a new sense of delight, a pleasure revealed for the first time. She rose up
when it was done; indeed, she had not actually sat down, but had bent one knee towards the
level of the piano‐forte, and played an accompaniment varying with the words. She was plainly a
perfect mistress of her art; and, according to the fashion of drawing‐rooms, her performance
was greeted with clapping of hands, and a few bravas. She looked round, astonished; and if any
one had desired another song, would have obeyed;
Mr. Leslie contrived to elude them all, and very quietly coming up beside Elinor, he said to her,
“That song is one I shall never forget. I shall hear many more, I hope, but the first time one listens to a perfect thing it is remembered for ever.”
Elinor shook her head. “My Mother told me you would say so.”
“That
“Not of you, but of all.”
“She could, only say that all of us should be aware you have one of the finest voices in the world.”
“Yes, she did say so—that you would try to persuade me of it.”
“I don’t wish it to be thought of me that I would persuade any one to believe an untrue
thing. Let us consider for a moment,” and
“Yes!”
“It was very good, was it not?”
“Very good, very strong; I never heard such before.”
“But was there any voice as expressive as yours?”
“No!”
“Or that was so
“I cannot hear my own voice.”
“Surely, Miss Ladylift, you can.”
Elinor knew she could, and he put the question plainly. She suddenly lifted up her large eyes upon him, and looked full into his for a moment—there was an anxiety to penetrate his meaning, but it yielded in another instant to the dread of encountering a stranger’s gaze; however, he had seen those large eyes.
“You can if you will,” said he; “every‐
“My dear Mother told me my voice was such a voice as hundreds of others have.”
“But what do you think yourself?”
“I believe her,” said Elinor.
“Yes, surely,” answered Leslie, afraid of alarming his companion. “She spoke her entire conviction, no doubt; still she judged from her Convent alone. There, perhaps, where all is holy, all dedicated to divine things, the inhabitants may be blessed, many of them, with gifts like the one you have in your voice; but it is not so in the world. You are in the world now; you must judge by what you see and hear; you may find there are things unlike those which the Reverend Mother knows.”
“Oh! she cannot be mistaken,” said Elinor.
“Only ask yourself whether she
Elinor answered nothing. The first doubt of the kind was painful, the more so because her honest nature saw that perhaps it was true.
After a pause, she said, “Who can I trust, then?”
“
“But I do not know
“No, perhaps I do not,” said Leslie; “you know I can only say what I honestly feel.”
“Yes, to be sure! I know you do that. Everybody does that,” said Elinor, speaking as she had been unconsciously taught, and as she felt, that though there were wicked people in the world, nobody with whom one associates could be in the number of those wicked.
Mr. Leslie abhorred Laura for coming up and interrupting the conversation. She said she was
sorry to see Elinor look so pale; no doubt she was used to very early hours in the
“You have persuaded the nun to talk, Mr. Leslie,” said she; “how clever you are.”
“It gives one an interest in succeeding, when the task is so difficult,” said Mr. Leslie.
“No doubt; a woman who has the audacity to know or feel anything, and to say it, must expect the contempt of the nobler sex.”
“Why so?,” said Leslie, coolly.
“Men are so short‐sighted, so easily taken in. If women affect simplicity and reserve, men see no further than just what those women give themselves the trouble to put on.”
“Is that little girl a dissembler?”
“Oh! I suppose you can judge.”
“I should judge not; but you know best.”
“If I knew anything, I would not say it against my friend,” said Laura. “My nature is more constant than that.”
“More generous than that,” said Leslie; “constant is not the word, for your acquaintance is so short. It is indeed very generous.”
Laura liked the words, and did not understand further, and though she was not satisfied, she went away fancying she was.
Next morning, every one else being occupied in their rooms with what letter‐writing or other business they might have, Laura, who could not lose any chance of being with Leslie, and Leslie, who could lose none of being with Elinor, and Elinor, who fixed herself upon Laura as her best safety in the new scenes, were all three in the library, standing about, looking at a print or a flower, and not knowing very well what to do. Elinor only was at ease, knitting gloves, move where she would.
“Suppose,” said Leslie, “we show the wood‐walk to Miss Ladylift. Would it not be a good employment of this delightful morning?”
Laura assented; that
Accordingly, each lady took up a parasol in the hall, and they all stepped into the perfumed
air, and proceeded down some broad steps, which led from the garden to the steep
“Shall we know how to go back,” said she; “but no doubt
“No fear of that,” said Laura, looking behind at the walk they had come along; “the way is not difficult.”
“And may you go here as far as you like?” said Elinor, thinking of her Convent restrictions.
“Who can doubt that?” said Laura, scornfully; “or that
Elinor, till now, had never ceased to lean
Leslie thought that the sooner she learned to doubt her former teachers the better. He had an
idea he could give her lessons himself. They went on, therefore, on and on till Elinor, who had
never known what it was to take a walk, was tired. She longed intensely for rest; her limbs
ached; they required absolutely the new stringing of
“I wish I could do like you,” she said; “but I have not learned to walk.”
“Dear baby,” said Laura; “still at nurse? I wish I could carry you!”
Elinor looked at each companion, with the
“It is a science you must practise,” said he. “It was a fault not to have attended to your education in that respect.”
Elinor was quite ready to acknowledge herself wrong, and to feel inwardly that her bringing up was not so faultless as she had thought.
At this moment, however, her wishes were all limited to rest, and gladly did she sink upon the seat at which Leslie prevailed on Laura to stop; but Laura was so restless, that Leslie at last started up with a new project in his head, and proposed that they two alone should make for the point at which Laura had intended to reach, and should leave their companion to enjoy a little repose before they returned for her to go home.
“Unless you are afraid,” said Laura, turning round on Elinor.
“No, I am not afraid, for you say there is no danger,” said Elinor.
And now Leslie hurried his companion
It was not till he had carried her along with him to a point much nearer to the house than to Elinor, that he suddenly affected to remember their charge.
“Meantime, what have we done with your ward, your nursling? Is not it time to go back for her?”
He was well aware at this moment that Laura was most thoroughly wearied herself, and that by a little contrivance he was secure of going alone to conduct the young nun home again.
“What! had
“Could I think of more than one?” said Leslie, with a look of gentleness.
“And that one was of course absent,” said Laura.
“Ah! I see,” said Leslie, affecting a little
Laura looked at her watch.
“Why did you allow me to forget time in this way?” said she.
“Was I likely to remind you?” said Leslie. “But at all events I will repair my error, at whatever sacrifice. I will force myself”—“from you,” he thought of saying, but that was rather too strong an expression to come easily, so he began again—“I will force myself through the world of briars by the brook side, which will take me back to Miss Ladylift more quickly than the path we have followed, and I will bring her to join you by the garden road, which is, I suppose, the nearest way to the house. Even your delightful intrepidity would shrink from the brook side, and, indeed, should it be otherwise, I would not permit you to hazard yourself so perilously.”
He was on his feet as he said this, and Laura, heated and wearied, could do nothing but agree; he looked back as he plunged into the thicket, and waving his hand, saw, and smiled to see, that she was waiting for some such token, and then sank upon the bench almost as weary as Elinor had been.
It was very easy for him to force his way along the brook, over great stones, and among tangled creepers and underwood; and indeed, his desire to reach the place where he had left Elinor, made these obstacles almost unperceived, and brought him, in a very short time, straight to the root‐house in which they had parted from her. He hoped she would be panting with alarm, and crouching almost weeping for the want of some one to reassure her; certainly she would not have ventured back alone. Could he see her white dress? not yet, trees were in the way; he could not see it—she was not there—yes, yes, quite in the corner, there was some one. Now, how gently he would he comfort her, and she would cling to his arm.
But there was no such scene in store
“Oh, do not harm me!” she cried, involuntarily; then she collected her senses, and a deep blush spread over her face.
“I would die sooner than harm you!” cried Leslie, fervently; but approaching no nearer than where he stood when she sprang up.
“I came,” he added, after a pause, “I came to be of use, if possible. Miss Chanson is gone home, and I will take you to her.”
“You need not,” said Elinor, “she told me the way was very easy to find—I can find the way.”
“But, why should I not?” said Leslie. “I left Miss Chanson on purpose to be of use to you.
“Oh, I do not even think of such a word,” said Elinor, coming a step nearer.
“That is the only feeling that can make you refuse so very common a service,” said Leslie, trying to wear an air of proud humiliation.
“Indeed, indeed, not! but I did not know—I thought—I had better go home alone.” So you had,
innocent Elinor, but
“If you so much dislike me as a companion,” said Leslie, “I will go.”
“I cannot dislike you,” said Elinor; “it would be wrong to dislike anybody.”
“I thought you did,” said Leslie; “still, in order to be of any use to you, I came to see whether you were still here.”
“That was good of you, very good, thank
“Yes, surely,” said Leslie, holding out his hand.
She looked him steadily in the face for a few seconds, and then took his hand.
“You cannot think I would harm you now,” said Leslie; “what your Reverend Mother said in the Convent, did not mean me.”
“No, you are not what she meant. She said I should be told of merits I had not, but you tell me of my faults.”
“You see, then, that Miss Chanson and others, every one, in fact, is right in making me a companion. Till you came here nobody guessed it could be wrong. You have brought your own ideas among us.”
“Oh, no, don’t say that; I did not mean it. I did not know what people did here, that is all.”
“Exactly,” said Leslie; “and now shall we go home?”
“Yes, if you please,” said Elinor. She took up her parasol and they walked leisurely along.
“You never,” said her companion, “saw forests, and great open skies, and plains, in the Convent?”
“Never,” said Elinor. “But we walked in the garden, and might sow flower seeds, and have beautiful flowers, and sometimes we went to the common, and the hill.”
“Did you read sometimes of other fine things, such as these woods?”
“Yes.”
“Are they like what you expected?”
“No, I did not know how beautiful they are.”
“I should like to show you what I saw as I came up the brook,” said Leslie; “you are not tired now, are you? Will you come a little out of the way?”
Elinor assented, eagerly, wishing to atone for having been tired once to‐day. Leslie went off
the path, and she followed, till the bank became steep and very inconvenient. Then he held out
his hand and she leaned
“There—I knew I should give you pleasure,” said Leslie; “that is why I brought you here.”
“But so much pleasure is wrong, is not it?” said Elinor. “I learned in my lessons that St. Francis, when he crossed some mountains which were very beautiful, kept his eyes always on the ground not to see them.”
Leslie did not say aloud, “Abject fool!” he said it only to himself; to Elinor he said, “I
should think that very wicked, because
“What do you mean?”. said Elinor, aghast. “It is the waterfall gives me pleasure.”
“Still,” said Leslie, “it has got no pleasure of its own.”
“Has not it? yes—no—yes, it pleases me, it delights me.”
“But it runs on day and night without being happy.”
“That is because it is not alive.”
“It runs over the rock because water must fall when it comes to a height, and it makes a noise because any one thing filling on another must make a noise, and the trees grow over it, because there were seeds from which they sprang; but they are all dead, as you say, and not happy. The pleasure is something different from all those things. It is in your mind. It is a gift to you, conveyed by things which have it not, and, therefore, a gift for which you ought to be grateful and use it.”
“Could St. Francis be wrong?” said Elinor.
“Nay, I really think if you were to refuse to look at all this, you would be ungrateful to me, who brought you here, in the first place, and much more you ought to enjoy it, when you are so made that your nature is to enjoy.”
“You think I may like it as much as I can?”
“Ay, freely, freely; whatever is pleasant is in your nature to enjoy.”
“Whatever is pleasant?” said Elinor, reflecting on the many things, the late rising, the neglected task, the idle play, the lingering over her toilette, which were pleasant but which she had been told were wrong, and warned against the pleasure of them. Leslie enjoyed the confusion into which she was running.
“Why, so it seems to me,” said he, with a candid tone.
Elinor was silent; he was no longer in haste to proceed, he lingered with her, teaching her
that pleasure was her lawful guide; and when, at last, they went forward, moved as slowly as
she was inclined to move and
“So; have you been looking for her all this time ......”
“For Miss Ladylift? oh, no’; I brought her home very slowly, for she was so much tired. She went through the breakfast parlour to her own room”
“Slowly, indeed!” said Laura, disdainfully; “you have been two hours and a half on the way.”
“To me it seemed twice that,” said Leslie, in a very low voice. Laura’s lips relaxed by a line, no more.
“You will come with us?” said she, looking at the phaeton which followed the great barouche, and in which, if he liked, he might offer to drive her.
“That would be most delightful,” said Leslie, “but I had not time for my letters this morning. I must write them to‐day—besides I must get a crust of bread; besides I am in no condition to sit by the side of delicate silks. No, I must sacrifice that happiness.”
Laura tossed her head, and turned away; and Leslie was very glad to have got off this tax upon him.
LAURA’S anger and jealousy were almost more than she could bear. She learned to know that beating heart, that dry mouth, that distaste to food, that early waking and no more falling asleep, which make up the personal sufferings of mental anguish. She had to talk, to listen, to make music, while intensely preoccupied; and she had the pain of perceiving that Leslie grew more and more indifferent to keeping up the appearances of devotion to herself, and became, like her, absorbed by one object, but that object was not Laura Chanson.
Little incidents of this kind altered the position of the three persons whom we have
presented to the reader. From a forlorn stranger, Elinor began to feel herself familiarised
with persons and things, and to be
Leslie, who had thought of nothing but amusing himself for a month or so, gradually found
himself interested in a pursuit, which, at present, had the charm of novelty in the object,
besides its difficulty. He reflected as little on the suffering he might inflict on the person
to whom he had hitherto devoted himself, as on those which in future he might leave with the
defenceless girl whom he at present worshipped; meantime, the suffering which Laura endured was
very real, whether she were justified in having exposed herself to it or not. The young girl
who had unconsciously taken her place was hateful to Laura; it was difficult to keep up the
appearance of interest and tender protection which had been their first relation to each other.
She justified her altered feelings to herself by saying that severity was necessary to teach
Elinor something of the ways of the world she had to move in, and to correct
In this embarrassment of perception she, one morning, brought into the library a heavy packet, containing letters which she had written to her Convent; and the first person from whom she made an inquiry how to effect its transmission, was Laura. But Laura was supercilious.
“Leave it on the table, child, with the
Elinor coloured and did as she was bid. But she was not satisfied, and after a short, silent bit of doubt, she looked round for some kinder listener, and turning her shy eyes to Mr. Leslie, saw that though he had a book in his hand, and his head was bent towards it, he was, in fact, looking at her. Elinor’s colour rose again, for shame that she had been ashamed to appeal at once to him; and avoiding the appearance of mistrust for which she had been laughed at, she smiled directly that she caught his glance, and went up to him as if he had been Sister Françoise or Sister Jeanne, and in a very low voice asked him what she should do. He was fully disposed to make it a serious affair, that he might be able to confer an obligation by arranging it, and rising, took it (Elinor following him) into the recess of the window and there examined the packet.
“It will not go by the post without a little trouble,” said he; “it weighs, I should think, six ordinary letters.”
“I dare say; for I have written to so many of them,” said Elinor.
“It must be paid before it leaves England,” said Leslie. “The postman will not know how much to charge. We ought to put it into the office ourselves.”
“How can I do that? It is so far to the town,” said Elinor.
“Is not it possible Miss Chanson may intend to drive or ride there?” suggested Leslie.
“Shall I ask her?”
“Do;” and he watched her timid advance to Laura, whom she instinctively began to feel was not likely to look very benignantly on a request of her’s.
“No, it’s
“If you will trust me,” said he, “I have
“Does it?” said Elinor.
“Yes, I feel quite sure of that, and I will post and pay your letter, and make it quite sure of reaching the hands of these dear Sisters.”
“Oh, will you?” said Elinor; “how very good‐natured you are. Only do you not want to do something else? I am afraid this is so much trouble.”
“No, a pleasure,” said Leslie; then moderating his tone, he added, “I like an early ride; I want one to put me in high force this morning.”
“That’s very lucky,” said the literal Elinor. “Tell me what it will cost,” and she took out her purse. Leslie’s heart smote him he saw that slender purse so slenderly provided. It was too much in keeping with the defenceless state and nature of that fair piece of human porcelain.
“Oh, not much. I will take care it goes safely.”
“But I
“To the monster man,” said Leslie, finishing the phrase she
Elinor again was ashamed of a good lesson. She did not know what guidance to follow; plainly she felt herself laughed at, and that was painful. She slid back her purse into the pocket of her apron, and stood again like a puzzled, penitent child.
“Such a nothing of a debt,” said Leslie, “only give me the letter.” He took it, and moving away to Mr. Chanson’s room, which opened from the library, asked him if he could have a horse, and then returning, told Laura he was going to Cantleton and inquired if he could do anything for her.
“I thought,” said Laura, smiling painfully, “we were all to ride to the Hollow Glen.”
“True, I had forgotten; but it will make no difference will it, if I am absent?”
“None,” said Laura, “of course. One’s
Leslie gave a deprecating “No, no;” and added, “Guests who do that, are not worthy of being received; but I really have a little business.”
Laura laughed scornfully, she could not repress her irritation. “Selfish business, purely?” said she, interrogating.
Elinor heard all this and was very much grieved that his good‐nature to her should bring this reproach upon him. She knew it was wrong to let another suffer in one’s place and spoke bravely out.
“He is not selfish, he is going to take care of my letter.”
Leslie himself coloured at this sudden shifting of the ground under his feet, and Laura burst into that insolent laugh which bows down all but such as can laugh insolently in return. The moisture which precedes tears came into Elinor’s eyes. She turned partly away, and Leslie could not but gaze on the innocent pretty picture she made.
“Don’t let me detain you, Mr. Letter‐
“Does what?” said Leslie, after a silent pause.
“Nay, nothing at all—only I thought you were not listening to me, your attention seemed elsewhere.”
“Oh! don’t doubt that whatever Miss Chanson says, or even hints, has my best attention and consideration. I’ll go now—pray excuse me.”
“By all means. I wish you to ...... do as you like,” said Laura, abruptly; and he saw her lip tremble.
“Poor Elinor!” thought he, looking back, “what will you make of the scolding you are about to get.” And a scolding it was, indeed. Not that Laura intended it when she began, but she lost her self‐command as she talked; and the anguish which she endured, through Elinor, made her blind to the innocence, and deaf to the guileless purity of the young girl.
“I don’t know, Elinor,” she began, “whether you think it quite proper to send one’s
acquaintances all over the country on
“Oh, my dear Miss Chanson, was it wrong?”
“Heartily ashamed, that’s all I can say; and so would any one with the least sense of decency,” said Laura, beginning to tremble. “But you have your own notions, doubtless.”
“No, indeed, indeed!”
“And to give yourself such airs in another person’s house—commanding everything as if it were your own, and more than if it were your own. The horses, the servants, the very guests, all to be at your command. You are to send our guests just to carry your letters to the post. I think what serves our letters might serve yours.”
“I wish I had known—I am very, very sorry.”
“What made you fix on Mr. Leslie for your confidant, pray. Was it because you found him here,
interested ...... I mean that you thought him not likely to devote himself sufficiently to your
superior merits, unless specially invited. You need not cry, it is
“I wish I could see myself and know how I have offended you,” said Elinor, weeping.
“Me offended! oh, dear me, not I! Mr. Leslie is as perfectly indifferent to me, as you are. I
only warn you for your own sake that you are acting as not another young girl in all the whole
of England would
So saying, Laura fled from the room, for she could contain herself no longer; and while Elinor wept silently in the library, Laura sobbed aloud in her boudoir, the door of which she had banged behind her and fastened with a double turn of the key.
Elinor had a guiltless conscience in her favour, and recovered first; but she was very
unhappy, and being ignorant as to what she had done wrong she resolved first to beg Mr.
Leslie’s pardon, and then to entreat his
But, patient as she was, and used to waiting, the length of time she remained there, during
which there was nothing coming, made her first uneasy, and at last anxious. She got up and
walked into the road, whence she could command a long sight of the highway
“No,” said Elinor; “only I think Mr. Leslie will return this way from Cantleton;” and as she said his name, she blushed deeply as young girls will do, at sight or at speaking of a young acquaintance of the opposite sex, though as heart‐whole as a bird just fledged, on the edge of its nest.
The old woman laughed in a motherly way. “Oh! that’s it,” said she. “I did not know, miss; you will be pleased to forgive me,” and she withdrew to her cottage, and Elinor to her tree, puzzled again, and but half liking what she did not understand in the old woman.
It was an hour and a half after she had come to the spot, when she heard the trot of
Without the least hesitation. or embarrassment, Elinor came forward from the trees, and
caught his sight, making a motion inviting him to speak to her. He immediately rode up to the
place where she stood, and
“I who have been so happy to be employed by you! who felt it such a kindness on your part to a man who has no friends, who wants so much a little sympathy, who would be glad to earn a kind ‘Thank you’ at any sacrifice, much more by the merest commonplace service. Ah, Miss Ladylift! ah, Elinor! do not talk so, do not think in this way. Who can have led you to such thoughts?”
“Alas! Miss Chanson was very angry with me. She told me no girl in England would be so bold, especially with you.”
“Did she; was it any consideration for me. Did she tell you that it was from consideration—from any regard to me, then?”
“No! no! She said she did not care for you—it was all on my own account.”
“Ha! ha!” said Leslie, “she said so. Then I think it is time for me to go away.”
“You go away! are
“Oh! I beseech you, do not say, do not think such harsh, hard words,” said Leslie, taking her hand, and gently leading her further into the wood.
They walked on together side by side, deeply engaged in conversation, in which Elinor’s
defencelessness touched Leslie’s heart with more of good emotion than he had known could dwell
there. Yet he enjoyed involving her in a situation which depended upon himself to make it safe
or dangerous, and which, at all events, was one in which she compromised herself with the
prudent, and those who had more habit of the world than she. He perceived her perfect innocence
of every such notion, and was every moment renewing a compact with himself to hold her in
reverence. Yet he secured her hand on his arm—he could not keep himself
Elinor’s attention was diverted from her own griefs, and Leslie’s sympathy, by the manœuvres
of the horse. With the tears in her eyes, she was provoked to laughter at its perversity; and
when most grateful for Leslie’s assurance of friendship and support, could not help turning
their talk to the horse’s entertaining movements. Leslie hated the animal; and, at last, to
keep the conversation in the train which pleased him, he invited Elinor to sit down beneath a
tree far and deep in the wood; where, having fastened his tiresome animal to one at a distance,
he returned and
“When I am gone,” he said, “and go I must, will you think of me?—will you remember the friend to whom you can always apply?”
“Yes, yes!” said Elinor; “there is no danger that I should do otherwise, for it is you only who tell me what I ought to do, who show me kindly where I am wrong.”
“And if you want advice,” said Leslie—and there he hesitated, whether indeed to ask her to enter into secret correspondence with him.
“I can write to you, if you will tell me your direction,” said Elinor.
“Divine Elinor!” cried Leslie, carried away with delicious surprise; and suddenly lifting the hand he held to his lips, he kissed it fervidly, so that in astonishment she drew it away, and a smile came for an instant over her mouth.
Leslie looked down at her with delight; he
“Hey!—what’s this? You and Miss Ladylift out in the wood, here?”—he was not a man of words.
Leslie started up; Elinor kept her seat.
“Yes; I came this way to enjoy the shade, and Miss Ladylift had done the same. I met with her a moment ago, and was about to show her the nearest way home.”
Elinor listened with wonder. She thought certainly Leslie had forgotten that she had come to meet him near the lodge, and that they had spent an hour in walking to the spot together, without any reference to going home; however, she heard him as children hear their elders say things they have themselves been taught not to say, and unconsciously they take a lesson in the difference between learning and practising.
Mr. Chanson asked no more; he only held out his arm to her, and said,
“Come home with me. Laura ought to
“Miss Chanson is out riding,” said Elinor.
“And why did not you go? What made you wander to this out‐of‐the‐way place?”
Elinor hesitated; she did not like to say she had been scolded, and had crept away.
Mr. Chanson thought she had made an appointment with Leslie, and that her embarrassment came from that consciousness.
“Well, well!” said he. “Mr. Leslie, you had better look after your horse. That’s your best way home—along the green path, there. I’ll take her over the brook by the foot‐bridge. Now then!”
And he walked forward, Elinor very willing to go with him, but looking back to see how Leslie got up to the horse, which was drawing away, and shying at his approach.
“Never mind
LESLIE had become aware that his presence had become unacceptable to the mistress of the house, or rather that his behaviour made it so, and therefore that it was time he should go. Her evident pique, which he had understood from Elinor’s report of her conversation with Laura, had confirmed this resolution, and he had determined to “have found letters at Cantleton” which required his presence elsewhere, even before the Squire looked so grim at him for being alone with Elinor in the wood.
At dinner, therefore, he avoided sitting by Elinor, made himself as agreeable to Laura as her
anger would allow, and before the ladies withdrew, told her he must leave Chan‐
“I am sorry,” said she, with a voice in which it was easy to perceive emotion, for his departure touched the sorest place in her heart, “I am very sorry that you have found reason to leave us.”
“Indeed, so am I. I have enjoyed the visit so much, that it is odious to me to learn from my letters ...... ”
“From them all?” said Laura, smiling sadly enough. “No, no! it’s not your letters.”
“And what is it, then?” said Leslie, abruptly, and colouring.
“Why should not you treat me as a friend?”
“I’ve no secrets,” said Leslie, mounting higher on his high horse.
“I will not ask any,” said Laura; “only I cannot bear to see a friend I value suffering from capricious power.”
“You speak in enigmas,” said Leslie. “I am not suffering at all, that I know of, except in leaving you.”
“That’s unkind,” said Laura, suddenly, and thrown off her guard; “that’s the last of your thoughts. I only wish you were as little deceived as you deceive me.”
“Deceived—deceit!” said Leslie’; “what are we talking about? I leave two friends here, who are, I know, as true as the mirror of a mountain lake; two charming ladies, whose friendship is the pride of my life—Miss Chanson and her ward, to whose joint society I offer up all my homage.”
Laura looked at him steadily for a few seconds, and then changing her manner suddenly,
uttered her scornful laugh, which made the blood tingle in his face as though he had
“I doubt nothing, I doubt nobody,” said he. “I am the simplest fellow in the world. When I see blue sky, I believe it blue.”
“And the little angels and all?” said Laura.
“Certainly.”
“I’ll say nothing against it, then;” and slightly shrugging her shoulders, she escaped.
When he took leave of the Squire it was the same thing.
“You are going away in a hurry,” said Mr. Chanson. “Have you had a tiff with anybody?”
“By no means. I have business which obliges me ......”
“Ay, ay. They’ll miss you, especially the little girl there; but mind you, I know nothing about her, beyond that I must take care of her. She has not a penny, and I am afraid is whimmy.”
Leslie was vexed at the Squire’s caution. Laura’s would have been nothing, had not her
brother’s confirmed it. There must be some‐
Accordingly he betook himself home, where he had occupation and amusement awaiting him, and
where the novelty of being master gave him interests which made it the place most frequently in
his thoughts when absent. It was an ancient house, which seemed, from the remains of building
about it, to have been once a portion of a much larger resi‐
All this valley belonged to Leslie, and so did the neighbouring lands, for about 3,000 acres
in all, of poor but lovely country. He had a neighbour, richer than himself, and with a grander
place, to the east of his valley; and a few other scattered houses, together
While he was walking over the dry stubbles, what was Elinor doing? Was she reading one of
those little dreamy books which he had commented upon many a time, till an unwilling smile
broke over her lips, and she turned away her face that he might not see it? or was she
suffering from Laura’s bad temper, with that pretty mournful expression in her eyes and on her
mouth, which made her look even younger than her own fresh youth? Was she sitting, cool and
pale, on the fallen oak in the wood, while he was
He went home very early, and then walked about his own place, cutting away boughs which shut out the lovely view, and projecting how to convert into an entrance a hexagon room supported by a central pillar, which was said once to have been a chapel.
But he was constantly leaning the hatchet idle against a tree, or drawing scrolls and scrawls on the margin of the paper where he was making his plans—his thoughts being elsewhere, at the side of Elinor, thinking over something said or done by her, and what he had said, or had better have said or done, in return.
Two or three days made his home intolerable—intolerable, at least, to a man so free to go
whithersoever his wishes directed him—and getting up one morning at dawn, from a bed where he
could not sleep, he put up a portmanteau before his servant was awake, and by the time the
labourers came to their work, was driving to the little neighbouring town where the coach
changed horses at seven
He would not on any account have been recognised; he was ashamed of returning so soon, and took the most genuine precautions to remain in obscurity. He engaged a room a couple of miles from the park, at a little public house where, having never entered it during his visit to the Squire, he was unknown; and pretending something about an engagement to survey the country, and displaying some paper and pencils, felt himself safe from inquiry.
The intense desire to see Elinor again, however, would not let him rest in the house, and as
soon as the night was quite dark, he took his way along the lane, and through the wicket beside
the carriage entrance, and then by cautious approaches to that side of the house where was the
room the family occupied in the evening. All was carelessly secure, as in a great country house
in the midst of its
All was silent inside. There were three persons, and one was Elinor. She was sitting beside a lamp, with her face to the window, but it was leant over a piece of work which she held in her hands. There was nothing but white of different shades about her; her muslin gown was white, a white satin bow fastened it at her throat, a white lace border, or collar, lay flat on her low shoulders, the work in her hands was white cambric, which she was embroidering; her pale face and fair hands were touched by the lamplight, and her motionless figure seemed patient of a dull employment and ungenial companions.
Laura reclined in a chair, partly turned from the window, reading; and the Squire was fast asleep on a sofa, breaking the silence by regular snoring, loud enough to increase Leslie’s chance of escaping detection. He saw her then, he could speak to her with silently moving lips, he could appeal to her with passionate eyes and entreating hands, he could bend his knee towards the ground, adoring her beauty, or rather her loveableness. Perhaps he a little over‐wrought these gesticulations, for while most wrapped in them, a little dog, which was lying with its back well into Laura’s silk gown, jumped up, and gave a sharp volley of barks.
Elinor looked suddenly up, but Leslie was gone into the shadow. The Squire did not cease his sonorous aspirations, and Laura was too much used to her Spitz’s hysterical alarms to move so much as her head. But Leslie felt his security gone; and that probably the little Spitz’s eyes were even then on the window, beaming with the purpose of another frantic yap upon the smallest sign from outside. He withdrew very cautiously, but his soul was bitter against the Spitz.
“Let me catch you outside these walls, Master Puff, and see if you disturb me again,” murmured he, as he retreated.
The necessity of his soul was to see Elinor again; he wished to be the unseen spectator of what she was and did, to make sure that a creature so innocent really existed, and to enjoy the spectacle if it was true. To enjoy it and destroy it; for he looked no further than to present gratification of the passion which filled his breast—all his remoter thoughts were of ambition and success in the tempestuous world, which seemed another sphere from that he occupied at present.
He put on, next day, the dress of a workman, and as deeply slouched a hat as he could suppose consistent with the character. He provided himself with an axe, and hoped to pass unrecognised, if he could avoid direct communication with his former host and fellow guests; and taking his way into the woods about the house, went first to the brook, where he had shown Elinor the waterfall, and where he knew she had occasionally resorted after that time.
His expectations were more than fulfilled, for he had no pains of waiting to go through, no fears, no doubtful hopes; a figure was standing on the very spot whither he had led Elinor, and though the face was turned away, the elegant shape was that which he longed to see. The falling water prevented his step from being heard, and he was able to take up a place among the trees, where he could observe her, yet run scarce any danger of detection. Should she perceive him, he would deal a few strokes at the trees, and trust to be taken for the forester, and pass unnoticed.
The unconscious Elinor made her preparations for passing the burning hours in shade and a
refreshing atmosphere. She laid aside her bonnet, put by her gloves, unfastened the cotton gown
from her throat, and it charmed him to see she did not open a book, but unfolded a piece of
household work, and industriously shaped, and hemmed, and sewed at the white jacket she was
making. Sometimes she paused, and looked long at the lovely fall of waters, and once going down
to the edge
It was a fair picture of still life, and he looked at it with the passion of a lover, and the eye of an artist; but at last he began to grow discontented that there was no sign of wanting or thinking of him, no looks cast upwards, no sighs, no restless movement, which he might have interpreted into regret that he was not there. Should he suddenly appear, would he be welcome even? Yes, welcome, perhaps, as a novelty, not as the thing desired—welcome to come and go, but if she knew he had come all that way merely to look at her, she would laugh. He was a very young man, and little knew the patience of a modest maiden, nor the absence of all spoken words, and speaking signs, when she is with herself alone, and is occupied with her natural duties and works.
He watched her all that morning, and saw her at last fold her work, rise and gather some beech leaves while she stood under the tree, to wind one into the other, till they made a wreath, then hanging it on her wrist, she took up her wicker basket, and shortly withdrew towards the house.
“Dear household Lar,” said he, coming and standing exactly in front of the seat she had
occupied, “one day you will sit beside some humble hearth, content to do the lowly offices of
home, to live the joyless life of little wants and coarse means; your fragile loveliness will
be stained by weather and hard work, your pure voice will have lost its clearness, but neither
you nor yours will think it worsened since these days. I should not love you then—I shall be in
my grave, or on the summit of ambition then—but there is an interval between that time and
this, in which, oh! Elinor! your quiet heart must beat—beat as mine does now—in which you must
know the agony of my adoration—in which we must make life all diamond‐light, if it be but for
the space of a moon’s change! Ex‐
Next day, he came again, and saw her again. It was, as the village bells told him, a Saint’s day, and Elinor, whom no one helped to perform her usual devotions in an appointed place, came into the entangled woods to find a temple. He saw her kneel in front of the great tree, and with humble eyes cast upon the ground, sign the cross upon her bosom, and open her little book of prayer.
Even in these devotions there was something which suited his feeling about Elinor better than
if the prayer had been more untaught, more her own creation. She passively did what she had
been taught to do—she murmured over a form of words, continually coming to the same repetition,
and making the same sign of devotion. She turned her pages to the places where marks in the
book showed she ought to go, and though the service lasted long, showed no wish either to
shorten or prolong it, but did what was set down for her, and then
Again she took her seat upon the fallen
“Nous sommes venus vous voir, Du fond de not’e village, Pour vous complimenter Sur vot’e mariage A monsieur votre epoux, Aussi bien comme à vous,” etc.
She broke off before the verse was finished, and he saw her look from her work, and though he could not hear it, was certain she laughed—briefly, as one does alone. Then there was some measuring or adapting in the work, which took up her attention, and obliged her to rise and use the fallen tree for a table, and when all was in order, she again sat down to work, and seemed to have forgotten all about “vot’e mariage.” Probably they were the words in the song which were the very last she thought about.
The intense pleasure of watching, and appropriating her solitary ways and movements, had gone
on long past mid‐day, when Leslie heard a step coming along the rough track which led from the
wood walk to this unfrequented place. It was only a servant, who, approaching Elinor, delivered
some message
“I thought he had chosen a spot all unknown,” said he, to himself—“one which a lover only could discover—but it seems the very servants know where she is to be found, much more every idle puppy and loiterer belonging to the society”—puppy himself, though of a stout, handsome breed.
However, there was no probability of her return, he thought, and after half an hour’s waiting
for the chance of it, he had moved away, and was descending towards the brook, when he
perceived a motion in the boughs overhanging the path, and stopping to watch, perceived it was
Elinor coming again, and in haste, to the accustomed spot. Leslie was in front of her, and
accident gave him a better place to see her than he had ventured to choose for himself; his
fear was that she should also perceive him, but she evidently
Presently she rose, and went hastily down to the brook, and there kneeling and stooping over it, dashed the water repeatedly over her face, and let her hair come dripping from the stream. She then sat down on a rock close to the margin, and not five yards from Leslie, but, as it chanced, with her back to him, and bringing from a little basket a case containing paper and a pen, she put her lithe figure into such a position as to find a desk on part of the rock where she sat, and began hastily to write.
Leslie’s heart beat faster than ever. Had she not asked him for his direction, that she
Meantime, Elinor finished the hastily‐written letter, folded it, and replacing the little
matters in her basket, pushed the basket among the ferns and stones, and hastily took her way
by a difficult path down the dingle. Leslie concluded that she was going to the post‐office to
put in her letter; and he purposed to follow soon after, and ask for it in his own name, in
case it should be addressed to him. But then the letter would be directed to his own place, of
which he had given Elinor the direction, and at the post‐office they would not dare give it
except where it was addressed. Yet he knew the old woman who acted as post‐mistress, and she
had been constantly in the habit of seeing him during his visit at Mr. Chanson’s, and perhaps,
if he resumed the clothes and character of Mr. Leslie, she might be prevailed upon to disregard
the direction in favour of the bodily presence of the man directed to. He therefore rushed back
to his lodgings to change his peasant’s dress, and then, regardless of being discovered,
“A letter for P. Leslie, Esq.?” said she; “there’s more fuss than enough about P. Leslie, Esq. I can’t sit to my tea for people all coming for that blessed letter.”
“Then there
“I did not say there was,” said the old woman; “and if there should be, it’s gone away in the west bag as directed.”
“Gone!” cried he, stamping impatiently; “what luck I have! but when—there’s been no mail since—when did it go, I say?”
“The mail was due at eleven and half,”
“You are not telling me the truth,” said Leslie; “the letter was not here then.”
“If you know better than I, sir, then I say no more.”
“Nay!” said Leslie; “but you know you were telling stories—and what’s the use? The letter is here, and you may as well get half a guinea by giving it me as not.”
“I can’t do no such thing; it’s made up in the bag to go where it ought to go, and I’m forbidden by my office to let anybody meddle with it, except the right person at the right place.”
“But,” said Leslie, “you have already let somebody meddle; the person—the people—who you say have been disturbing you at your tea.”
The old woman coloured up to the eyes, though she would not give way. “I said somebody disturbed me; and so she did. Was not the hole cut away in the window for letters to be dropped in? Where’s the use of bringing them into the house, and not being content with the natural gap.”
“That’s not what you meant by disturbing you,” said Leslie; “that person may have brought the letter into the house, but after it was in the box, I believe you have been taking it out for somebody else, and you can’t produce it for the right owner.”
“Can’t I?” said the old woman.
“No! I shall inform against you,” said. Leslie, “for allowing your office to be tampered with, unless you immediately put it into my possession.”
“That will just be doing the thing you are going to complain of,” said the old woman.
Leslie was provoked to smile.“Come, come,” said he, “I
The ancient post‐mistress laughed, and went to the box into which the letters were dropped.
Leslie found out her fibs as fast as she composed them, and she acknowledged him a master
spirit. A little rummaging and a little grumbling produced the letter in
“Who opened this letter?” said he, abruptly, after looking at it attentively.
“Nobody but yourself,” said she, trying to lay her thumb on the fastening; “you have worried it in turning it about so.”
“No, no!” said Leslie, guarding it from her, for though he had only asked the question as a random shot, he now was certain that there was some mystery.
“
The old sharpshooter was chased from her defences, but ran and took up another position. “Well—well,” said she, “you are a young gentleman, and a mighty good‐looking, and if I were you, I should not take it amiss that the ladies thought worth while escorting my letters, and jealousing what was writ in them. It is not old gentlemen and old ladies as do such things.”
“In short, Miss Chanson has had this letter in her hands before me.”
“Oh! dear me!—Miss Chanson!—no, dear no!—I never said no such thing.”
“No, you did not say it!” said Leslie. “I perfectly comprehend that it could not possibly be that lady; and now don’t be afraid, for I know all I want. Good evening.”
“That’s a wilful man,” said the post‐mistress to herself, “and those be two silly girls to have anything to do with him.”
Leslie meantime walked hastily away, and took a path over the fields to be out of observation, opening and reading the much canvassed letter as he went along. He could not but smile at the simplicity of the writer’s alarms, and of her confidence in him.
“Sir, (”that’s Monsieur,“ said he)—
”SIR—You are my only friend; I do not know what to do unless you can help me—and you told me to ask you for help if I was in trouble. Have you money you can lend me? I will pay you back, a little every quarter, and once you said it was not wrong
to borrow from you. Miss Chanson called me, and gave me many bills, which I did not know of—perhaps they will put me in prison. What will become of me? “ELINOR LADYLIFT.”
“Poor, precious, enchanting Elinor!” cried he; “how unkind, how sententious, they are to you. I can see the matter from here; ordinary bills are thrust into your hands, without explanation, without advice, and your conventual imagination sees nothing in them but an ogre of a creditor, and dungeons and chains. Oh! how can I be soonest with you? I dare not come at once, for even your innocence would disbelieve that I was as far off as I ought to have been when I got your summons. Yet—summons! no, it is not that; nothing was further, I do believe, from your thoughts, than to call me to you—yet, poor dove, you have done so, and when such fair birds are no better looked after by their natural guardians, what is indeed to become of them? Now I must write so as not to frighten her.”
Accordingly he wrote in the soberest manner, making much, indeed, of her embarrassments, but promising to alleviate them; and then informed her “that particular circumstances having called him into her neighbourhood, he had received her letter in a most fortunately brief space of time, and he should be able, that very evening, to meet her near the waterfall in the wood, and to bring her the means of extricating herself from her difficulties.”
“She will wonder why I should not walk straight up to the house, and ask to see Miss Ladylift,” said he, as he sealed his letter; “but I hope the spirit of intrigue and coquetry may awaken in her sufficiently to do as I suggest, and ask no questions.”
The next difficulty was to convey this letter to her, and it perplexed him till he saw the
Squire and Laura ride past his lodging, and thus knew they were out of the way; and then he
resolved to go himself to the house, in the peasant’s dress he had worn in the morning, and
there to put his answer into the hands of a labouring clod in the gardens. This he did, begging
him to take “Mr. Davis
The obliging clod complied, and Leslie returned to his lodging, and early in the evening to the woods, expecting the guileless creature who put such confidence in him. Nor was he disappointed. About nine o’clock, of a warm, moonlit, September evening, Leslie standing anxiously in the wood‐path, saw Elinor coming along it to meet him.
“How good you are,” she said, as they met; “but indeed I did not mean to trouble you thus. I thought you would have written to me; indeed, I did not think of your coming.”
“But you are not displeased?” said Leslie, taking her hand, which she withdrew when she had performed the proper greeting. “For my part, I am so happy to be of any service to you, I am so happy to see you again, that I cannot but bless the difficulties which have brought this meeting about.”
“Oh! Mr. Leslie, I am sure you would not say so, if you knew how miserable I have been.”
“But you are miserable no longer, are you?” said Leslie; “you feel that I am able and willing to remove every cause of pain—I am able to make you happy.”
“I hope so,” said Elinor; “but it will be a long time before I can pay you.”
“What! pay me? Oh! I was not thinking of that; I was thinking,” said Leslie, drawing her gently to the fallen tree, where he had watched her sitting those autumn days, and placing himself beside her—“I was thinking whether you did not know that I look upon this moment, when you trust me, when I you apply to me, when you know me to be a better friend than any of those whom chance has thrown you amongst, as the most delightful that ever in all my youth and enjoyment passed over me”—he possessed himself of her hand—“and I don’t deceive myself, do I? You know me to be your truest well‐wisher, your most anxious counsellor, the person who would desire your happiness beyond all other things, and do whatever may best promote it.”
Elinor’s hand stayed in his, but it was
“No, no! and you felt it was none of those guardians of yours, who was willing to do so?—you did not apply to them?”
“Oh! I should never have done such a thing,” said Elinor, the slightest smile passing over her face, as at the suggestion of something wholly out of the question.
“I have a kind of right, you have given me a right to counsel you, guard you; you are inclined to do as I advise you?”
“Yes,” said Elinor, with a mournful inflection in her voice. “I know nothing at all of this world I am in, and I have found you wise, knowing everything. You can teach me what you please, but I know you will teach me what is right.”
“Ah, yes! right—the right way to be happy—and we are creatures made to be happy, not to suffer pain from each, other, not to be unkindly treated, but to seek out those who love us, and to put all our trust that what they do will be the best they know how to do, for our happiness.”
Elinor was silent. She was listening, and trying to comprehend.
“Elinor, did any ever devote themselves to you, and think, of nothing except how to please, how to take care of you; what you liked, where you would go?”
“Oh! no, certainly,” said Elinor.
“Your kind Mother in the Convent, your teachers the nuns, your companions—did you ever feel that when you came they rejoiced, when you went they mourned; that you were the thing they first thought of at waking; the object for which they planned their plans, lamented their failures?”
“No!” said Elinor, “they were not so unreasonable.”
“But he who loves you is so unreasonable, so reasonable at the same time, for that which is dearer than oneself must be more present, more cherished than oneself—the happiness of that creature must be before every other wish and plan. Would it be no pleasure, dearest Elinor, to be thus beloved?”
His right hand suddenly transferred her’s to his left, and went round her waist, nor did
“May I not love you, Elinor?”
“Indeed I think you do,” said Elinor.
“I doubt whether you do as much for me,” said Leslie, to himself, and he felt that he should
but set her on her guard by any further revelation of his feelings; but he was not wholly
displeased with the step he had advanced. All recollection of the cause of their meeting had
departed from him; but while he was thinking how best to go on with the interview, Elinor took
advantage of the pause, and returned to the difficulties he was to settle for her, which to him
appeared prosaic and superfluous, but to her was the thing that made their meeting interesting.
Leslie took from her hand the little neat bundle of papers which she produced; he comprehended
that Laura had not chosen to explain or soften
He would then have passed to other subjects, but Elinor would stay no longer after she had fulfilled her errand, and then he fixed the next afternoon for another meeting at the same place, to give account of what he should have done.
“Say nothing of our meeting,” said he; “it is best not. I can scarcely explain why; but promise that you will follow my advice.”
Elinor did so. She had no conscience but Leslie—her own had never come much into activity, and that which she brought from the Convent had been all overthrown.
Elinor returned to the house, and to the saloon where Mr. Chanson and his sister Laura were sitting, and entering it with her light, noiseless movement, was taking up her work, and about to seat herself in her usual place, when Laura stopped her, by asking, in a constrained voice,
“Where have you been, Elinor?”
“In the wood,” said Elinor, the colour rising, she knew not why.
“But, my dear,” said the Squire, “that’s not the proper place for a young girl like you, at night, all alone; you should not go there.”
“And
Elinor had nothing to say; the question was so home, that it admitted but of yes or no; one of which she might not, and the other she would not say.
“Speak out,” said Mr. Chanson; “don’t be afraid of us. Tell the truth always.”
“Oh, yes! that I will, always,” said Elinor.
“You were alone, then, I dare say, were you not?” said Mr. Chanson. “Still I don’t like you to wander about alone, and you will do it no more, will you?”
“Very well,” said Elinor.
But Laura, speaking almost at the same time, said, “You were
Elinor answered nothing, but bent her head over her sewing, and had the tears in her eyes.
Mr. Chanson was almost as much embar‐
“Was it Mr. Leslie?” said Laura.
“Oh! Mr. Leslie!” said her brother, half turning round; “quite impossible.”
Laura could not be quite sure it was he, for though, indeed, the broken seal of Elinor’s letter had revealed the intercourse between them, she could not comprehend by what means he could so rapidly have obeyed the summons; yet she could not but feel it must be Leslie, and her anxiety and dread about it were extreme.
“Speak, Elinor! say whether or not it was he.”
“No, no,” said Mr. Chanson; “there is no sense in asking such a thing. I had a letter from him two days ago, about the distemper‐powders; he was not going from home—besides ......”
What there was besides he did not explain,
“You are a good little girl—only mind what Laura tells you;” and Elinor was so pleased with
the kind words, that she felt as
But Laura had feelings quite apart from the interests of Elinor, which prevented any approach
to kindliness, and those were her own concern in Leslie, and in all that he did. He had secured
a place in her affections such as he never aspired to, and which, at this time, he would much
rather have been without; and it made Laura wild with jealousy to think that one day Elinor
might occupy the place which she herself, with all her beauty, wit, and wealth, longed for in
vain. Should those two be coming and going together, civil to her, but lovers of each other?
should it be by short and transient fits that she should see Leslie, but Elinor be of his
house, always his and with him? should the stranger’s sustained attention be for her, but the
word, the sign, the look, the understood gesture, be for Elinor? Laura could not endure it, and
the thing was so inadmissible, that whatever she could do to prevent it
“There are great excuses to be made for that poor child,” said she. “The liberty she enjoys is so sudden, and the training she has had is so bad, that she is liable to errors from which other people are free.”
“Yes, indeed,” said the Squire; “and it is very kind and just of you, Laura, to make excuses for her. She wants a friend.”
“Yes! I only wish she were more willing to listen to me.”
“She is a little wilful, is she?”
“I think you must have perceived that.
“I hope not,” said the Squire; “though, indeed, I saw that Leslie was rather in love with her.”
“Oh! no, no!” cried Laura, anxiously; “a man is always flattered if a girl shows any liking for him, but that’s all. How could he take a fancy for a child like that—uneducated yet artificial, not pretty nor amusing?”
“She does not say much,” answered the Squire.
“Besides, Lawrence,” went on Miss Chanson, “though he might have been pleased with her, if he had been wholly fancy‐free, yet—being as he is ......”
“What? is Leslie in love with anybody—hey; Laura! is
“I have never said a word to any human being before,” said Laura, turning away her head.
“Is it possible? The thing I should like beyond all others; why did not I know?”
“Nay, you think more of it than you ought. Indeed, Lawrence, I don’t quite understand him; something. is on his mind, which—which ...... in short, there has no word passed between us. Has he any fortune? Sometimes I have thought, that knowing me to have a large one, his own want of any may have held him back.”
“Oh! he is not poor, but very proud. Are you civil enough to him, Laura?”
“Nay, certainly,” said Laura; “it is for him to seek, not me.”
“Yes, yes; but at the same time, I can tell you that Fanny Wimbledon would have been Mrs. Chanson, if she had not thought it necessary to chaff and flout me, when I was looking for a kind word.”
“Did she like you, vain man?”.
“So I heard afterwards; but I was in Caithness, and it was too far to come back. So don’t throw him away—that is, if you think you could like him.”
“Lawrence, you are mother and brother to me;” and she laid her head on his shoulder. “I
“Is it so, dear Laura?” said he, fondly caressing her; “then may Providence bring you and him together. If I can help you ....”
“Only say nothing to him. Oh! for heaven’s sake! do nothing rash. Proud he is, and a word might alarm him. But it is a comfort, brother, to have made a confidant of you, and to you I am not ashamed of saying what no mortal ear besides must know.”
Thus talked brother and sister; it was a pity that Laura knew all the time that she was lying. Those words of her own, “I have never revealed it to another human being,” took herself in, for although they conveyed a great deal, they affirmed nothing.
Elinor was perplexed beyond measure what to do about her next day’s engagement. The
This had been a tale of the early days of her arrival, and she was surprised to‐day at
Leslie had been there early—as early as he thought it possible the usual morning ride or
drive of the others would set Elinor at liberty
“Innocent and artless Elinor!” thought he; “with a whole heart to give, a whole nature to be made happy, is there anything better in life than to make and share your happiness?” and then more dreamily his thoughts dwelt upon images of virtuous felicity, upon the meanness of betraying such guileless confidence, and upon the difficulty which he had not hitherto counted upon of converting her quiet feeling into one of passion.
It was already quite dusk, when his ear at last caught a footfall. It was of one running quickly; and eagerly springing to meet her, he at last beheld Elinor, and felt an almost unknown pleasure in the reality that she was there.
“I am here for one minute only,” said she. “Mr. Chanson forbade me to walk out in the evening. I only wanted to tell you not to wait.”
“And why?” said Leslie, holding fast her hand.
“He says it is wrong. You did not tell me so, or I would not have done it.”
“I know no wrong; but you must not go yet. What! will you not stay to know what I have been doing for you? All is settled now.”
“Oh! kind friend,” said Elinor, receiving the little bundle of papers which he had prepared so as to look business‐like (taking care that in fact they should trouble her no more), “how can I thank you? I can only say thank you—thank you—Mr. Leslie, good—good Mr. Leslie. Farewell! I must not stay; let me go.”
“And it is this moment I have been waiting for all day,” said he.
“Have you, indeed? I am very sorry to have kept you so long. How kind of you not to have gone away. But I am so glad you did stay; I had got a note written for you, but I should have been uncertain whether you received it.”
“A note!” cried Leslie; “let me have it;”
“Elinor,” said she, “is it thus you keep your promise?”
“I did not promise,” said Elinor; “besides, I came only to say that I could not come.”
“Go home,” said Laura, in a low, trembling voice.
Leslie did not mean to be scolded like a schoolboy; he approached Elinor with the open, commonplace air of an acquaintance, and offering his hand, “Good evening, then, Miss Ladylift,” said he. “It gives me great pleasure if I have been useful to you, and I trust you will command my services on any future occasion.”
“Go home, Elinor,” Miss Chanson repeated, and Elinor, puzzled, moved away and disappeared, letting fall, as she did so, the little twisted note, which by this time she had forgotten.
Laura, meantime, made several efforts to speak, while Leslie politely waited, his eyes averted, and only listening indifferently for anything she might wish to say. But he was surprised and startled out of this indifference by a sudden outburst of tears from Laura, who, unable to withhold her emotion any longer, gave way, and wept like one most miserable.
“Miss Chanson,” said he, coming up to her; “alas! what is the matter? Are you ill? can I do anything? Lean on me, I beseech you.”
Laura’s tears flowed only the more profusely, and it was in vain she used her utmost effort to restrain the sobs which burst from her breast. She did, in fact, put her hand on his arm, but she turned away her head, and avoided, as much as she could, any support or assistance he would have given her.
“Forgive me. I did not know I was so weak. I am ashamed, like one on the rack. Pain and shame—pain and shame for me who have been so proud, so sheltered from both!”
“What is it you mean?” cried Leslie,
“I shall not be, if I can think I am your sister,” said she, suddenly. “A sister prefers her brother’s happiness to her own—if he is happy, so is she. I have just learned what are your feelings. I did not always know them, but I do now ......”
Her voice broke off, and though she tried to go on she could not.
“What do you know?” said Leslie, not at all choosing that Laura should force herself on him as a confidant, nor be able to say that he was the lover of Elinor. “I have nothing to discover, beyond a casual circumstance in which I have been of some slight use to your friend, but if it is true I am to hope for the kindness of a sister here”—and he tried to take her hand, which she very hastily snatched away—“ my happiness would be great in proportion to my want since infancy, of every kindly home tie.”
Laura raised her large, fine eyes to his, with a look interpreted by him to mean, “Is that indeed all you can feel?” and then suddenly put out her hand, which he took, and felt that it trembled.
“Be it so! yes,” said Laura, “and now believe that I will promote your wishes in any way you will direct me. I have no self any longer.”
“How can I thank you,” said Leslie; “but do not mistake me—I want no service from any one. I have no wishes, unless, indeed, I might entertain that of again enjoying the pleasure of such society as made my life happy under your roof.”
Laura sighed deeply, and shook her head. “Ah, yes! you use such words very lightly. Well, be it so; come to us again, Mr. Leslie, and if ...... am I not your sister?” she concluded, at last, in an eager, abrupt voice.
“I feel,” said Leslie—not knowing what to say he felt—“ I, the most unworthy ......”
“I’ll explain that I met you,” said Laura, breaking off what he was saying very impatiently;
“you will be very welcome to my
“What is all this?” thought Leslie, looking after her as she hastily disappeared. “I am to
understand that she thought me her lover! and not only forgiven, but taken for a brother.
Brother, indeed! There’s something generous about her—romantic enough. But how unlike
Elinor—that inquiring, innocent look, those confiding eyes! Why should this Laura want me to
see more of
LAURA had now entered on a desperate game, which she resolved at every hazard should end in making her the wife of Leslie. Right is so much the essential point in our actions, that scarce any villany is deliberately done without justifying it to ourselves; and so Laura, when not abandoned to passion, found good reasons in the advantages to Leslie, and in her own superior powers of making him happy, to carry her along the path from which she could not think of turning. Every instrument must be laid hold of; she had already made her brother an unconscious volunteer, and she next prepared her cousin to assist in the cause.
The same fiction which had served with
Sir Peter’s indignation was boundless—
“There is no harm in that, is there Pet—is there Peter?”
“I should think not, indeed—little coquette that she is—and fool that
Accordingly, the day when Leslie thought proper to accept the invitation forwarded by Mr.
Chanson, upon hearing from his sister that she had accidentally met him, Sir Peter went up to
Elinor the moment she came into the drawing‐room, and forced her into talk, which he continued
as he took her into dinner, and sat himself down
And so, in fact, she was, for her whole being was at ease now that Leslie was returned, and
she had leisure to listen to her companion, who was as young as herself, and very gay and
droll, and made her laugh, as girls will at nonsense. Leslie had habits of perfect
self‐control, though he was so young, and he forced himself to be at ease so successfully, that
Laura could not determine in her own mind whether he observed what was going on or not.
Careless as he seemed, however, he was watching them, and a jealous pang shot through Leslie’s
heart, as to whether it was possible that this young soldier should ever have indeed had an
opportunity of seeing Elinor as
After dinner, Sir Peter, intent on the interests of his cousin, still kept up the attempt to monopolise Elinor. He had provided for so doing by engaging her beforehand to sing a particular song for him, which, by a great effort of his memory; he had succeeded in remembering to have heard from her the evening of his arrival, and when the party was settling to the employments of the evening, he followed Laura to the piano‐forte, near which Elinor was working, and while Laura played, began to request the execution of the promise he had obtained.
“If you like,” said Elinor, “by and by; but will you be so kind as to let me sing later? Miss Chanson wishes those ladies to sing, she told me.”
Sir Peter could not but comply with this modest request, so unlike the answer of young ladies
more in the world, and moved
“You are happy now, are you not?” said he; “there are no more such tears as you say you shed over that little bundle of papers?”
Elinor looked up, frightened lest any one should hear.
“No one is listening to us,” said Leslie, “no one can tell what we are saying; the insufferable drumming of the piano‐forte prevents the human voice from being heard.”
“Drumming!” said Elinor, with a sudden smile of surprise; “nay, is it not very good playing?”
“Do
“Oh, yes! it is very good indeed.”
“Do you
“I think so,” said Elinor; “one ought to like what other people are so kind as to do, and it is very difficult music.”
“Still you do not answer. Do you like that loud, hard drumming?”
“When you say loud and hard,” said Elinor, “you teach me what to say. Nobody likes what they can call loud, hard drumming.”
“I prejudice you! That is very true,” said Leslie. “So we will leave off talking about it, and I will entreat you, the moment it is over, to replace it, by singing the Spirit Song. Do you remember, you studied it for me?”
“Yes; and since you have been away I have studied it more, and can sing it better,” said Elinor.
“Who would do that for me, except yourself?” said Leslie. “Nobody cares where I go, or what I like, or when I shall be back, or whether I die on the road, or live.”
“
“If
Elinor rose, but hung back, while Leslie
“Nay, why do you ask me? I am always delighted when Elinor can be persuaded to let us hear that lovely voice. I merely played a little air to bring people round the piano‐forte.” And while she spoke, she looked round for her cousin, and summoned him by a glance, which he well understood, and rushed to the rescue, seeing which, Laura moved away, and left the coming skirmish to do what mischief it would.
“I am so glad to see you ready to sing,” said Sir Peter; “I was afraid I should have to wait long for Adeste.”
“Miss Ladylift is going to have the kindness to sing a song which I have begged for,” said Leslie, stiffly.
“But mine first, I hope; you promised me first,” said Sir Peter, in the blandest tone.
“I think you had the goodness to get up on purpose to oblige me,” said Leslie, “did not you?”
“Yes,” said Elinor, frightened, and looking round for Laura.
“Then let me find it; here’s the book I know—yes, here is the song.”
“Ah! that’s not fair,” said Sir Peter, “you don’t forget how very kindly you granted my petition, and I have been depending upon you.”
“I did promise him,” said Elinor, looking at Leslie humbly and appealingly.
“Did you,” said Leslie, very coldly; “nay, don’t allow me to interfere with your arrangements.”
“
“Allow Miss Ladylift to determine that point,” said Leslie.
“May I?” said Elinor, joyfully, thinking if she might settle it, the difficulty was over; “then let me sing first Adeste, and yours afterwards, Mr. Leslie.”
Leslie made no answer, except a bow, and stepping backward, withdrew from the circle round
the piano‐forte; nor returned
Thus ended the first day of the visit, to which she had looked forward as the time of such happiness.
Laura next morning took her to task.
“What makes you walk about with such a mournful air?” said she; “you look like a naughty child who wants to kiss and make it up. What ails you?”
“I am not a child,” said Elinor, in her sweet, humble voice; “but I am what you please to call naughty ......”
“And want to kiss?” said Laura, scornfully.
“No,” said Elinor, hurt at being turned into ridicule, and at receiving reproof in
“What then,” said Laura, “and who is it you have offended?”
“I am afraid I have offended Mr. Leslie.”
“Is it possible you think enough of a man of his age, indeed any age, to trouble yourself about offending him or not?” said Laura.
“Why should not I?” said Elinor, aghast.
“Because,” answered Laura, breaking out; “it is the most absurd thing for a girl with any proper spirit, I ever heard of in my life.”
“But I have no proper spirit,” said Elinor, who felt that if Leslie would forgive her, she would beg pardon from him with all her heart.
“You don’t know even what it is,” said Laura; “upon my word, your conduct is perfectly indelicate. You might almost as well go and ask him if he will be kind enough to accept you for his wife.”
“His wife!” cried Elinor, quickly; “what has that to do with being sorry to have displeased him? Wife! what can you mean?”
“Nonsense! I do hate affected innocence, and all that stuff, merely to impose upon a man. Heaven knows they are open enough to flattery; but, really you must allow me to say, that you persecute Mr. Leslie, with yours. You follow him about, and look at him, and invite him to your side, and force him, really force him to pay you attentions, which he probably would willingly he paying elsewhere, only he can’t get rid of you.”
“Oh! indeed, indeed, you mistake!” said Elinor, almost amazed to death; “he can get rid of me any moment. Think how he went away yesterday evening, and would not even say good night, and indeed I am afraid to seem to be intrusive, and I never do put myself in his way, or do anything to speak to him, unless it comes naturally from him.”
“You mean, in short,” said Laura, most disdainfully, “that his constant attendance
“Yes, I suppose so,” said Elinor, bewildered; “I don’t know any other reason.”
“Really, you are a perfect simpleton, or choose to seem so,” said Laura.
“I dare say he is sorry for me,” said Elinor, seeking excuses for Leslie’s kindness. “I am away from all my friends, and he is very, very kind in giving me advice.”
“And what right have you to ask him, rather than me,” said Laura; “most women like to consult women, rather than young men, and most people will judge those who do otherwise, to be as forward and as bold, as I must say, Elinor, you seem to me.”
“Am I bold?” said Elinor, sadly, feeling so fearful, and so shy, that she could not comprehend the reproach, and as Laura was habitually out of temper with her, taking it as an instance of what she must meekly bear from her hostess, rather than as a true accusation against herself.
It influenced her conduct however, towards Leslie, for under Laura’s eye she
Sir Peter learned through Laura, that his plot had succeeded, and took a boyish delight in the mischief made, over which he laughed with his cousin, as two children do over a ringdove in a string, which they are tormenting; but Elinor, if she did not offer apologies to her kind friend Leslie, had no spirit or inclination to laugh or talk with Sir Peter, and was almost as silent to him as she had been to Leslie, the first time he sat by her at breakfast.
In this mood, the amusements of the day were arranged. Men have a way of
On one side of this, Laura promised to take her station, and Elinor was to accompany her in
order to witness the achievements of the hounds in these difficult circumstances. There is no
faster running than a drag, and luckily for the sportsmen, the day was a
They sat down together on the stump of a tree, Laura holding a book, and Elinor producing from the pocket of her black apron a bit of curiously fine cambric, on which she was working a cobweb pattern, the whole of which could have been rolled into a walnut shell. They were quite silent. Elinor was afraid of Laura, and her spirits froze under the unsympathetic influence. To‐day, especially she was shut into herself, and she mechanically pursued the occupation before her, so far pleased that Laura did not disturb her in it.
At length the cheerfulest of sounds broke the silence, the distant tongue of
“Are they coming?” she said, at last, half rising, and looking at her companion.
“It seems so,” said Laura, coldly, rising also; “I suppose you can hear the hounds?”
“Yes, and now they are nearer; they seem going away again; there! do listen, there’s an echo.”
“Everybody knows that,” said Laura.
She walked forward, and Elinor by her side, they approached very nearly the rocky gap worn by
the water; they could hear the boom of the waterfall far below and the unaccountable
changefulness in the intensity of its sound which running water
At this moment a horseman arrived; he alighted, and cheered the hounds to persevere. It was
Mr. Chanson himself; he knew the secret pass intended for them, but would only act like magical
music, applauding their better guesses, but not explaining wherein the achievement lay. They
were maddened to accomplish it, by his voice, and at last the hound which first came up put
himself over the edge, where there seemed no hold, and whimpering at
As he neared the chasm, he caught a glance of the horsemen who were now on the other side; he
checked the speed of his horse a little, encouraged him by his
“They have run into it now,” said he; “I may as well stop at once.”
Laura had been so thoroughly frightened, that she did not instantly recover. She remonstrated
with him on the rashness with genuine emotion, which he easily distinguished from any affected nervous‐
“My horse did it gallantly, did not he?” said Leslie, looking cheerily at Elinor, whose face caught and returned his smile.
“Like flying,” said Elinor; “it was very pretty.”
“How childish you are!” said Laura; “you know nothing of the danger.”
“After all, there was none,” said Leslie, “and the appearance of it gave zest to the leap.”
“It is very pleasant,” said Elinor, “to see danger, if one is safe.”
“How do you know that?” said Leslie.
“Because in the convent,” said Elinor; answering quickly to his quick question, “the waves used to dash against the garden wall, but could not come in, and we all liked to be near them. But once the waves broke over, and then we all ran away.”
Leslie laughed, and looked investigatingly at Elinor’s face which had blushed
“How moveable her nature is,” said he. “It was made on purpose, I think, to complete mine, cast in my mould, when a man had been completed, and it was fit only to form a woman.”
ELINOR accepted peace with Leslie gladly and gratefully. Nothing was said between them, but they resumed without words their former position. He did not want—from her at least—any show of spirit, or assertion of the rights of woman; the meek glad cordiality of the young gift was what enchanted him.
“I should have taken Leslie for Elinor’s lover, if you had not told me, Laura,” said her brother.
The word went like a dagger through her heart, but she smiled as though the thing were
beneath notice, and said merely, “Oh!
“This is all my sister’s doing, the whole of this garden; I know nothing of such matters, and it is very lucky for me to have a woman of so much taste and manner at the head of my establishment.”
Leslie had been profoundly meditating on Elinor, but roused himself to answer. “Indeed it is; we are glad enough of the result, but we don’t like the trouble of providing for it beforehand.”
“Laura is uncommonly clever about the management of one’s house,” said her brother, “indeed about everything. She looks well, don’t she, at the head of one’s table? I am proud of her.”
“With great reasons,” said Leslie.
Mr. Chanson was warmed by this agreement.
“And it is my good luck that a girl who might have her own house in London, and do what she likes—for she has all her mother’s property—she is only my half sister, you know, and her mother had Kitsal, you know, at her brother’s death.”
“Kitsal,” said Leslie, absently, but with a kind of wise voice, as though that word explained the whole matter.
“It was turned into money,” said the Squire. “If Laura should ever marry, I should try to keep her interested in the county by giving my influence to bring her husband into Parliament; I could do it, sir. They want a Whig, and at the next election, I could, and I would do it.”
“That’s an object worth every man’s ambition,” said Leslie. “I wonder you never put yourself in, you would surely have liked it.”
“No, no, it’s not the place for me; I was young once, but I never could hear anybody talk
above ten minutes without falling asleep, and what should I do therefore in the House of
Commons? I leave all that
Mr. Chanson was pleased with himself for this successful exposition of the advantages which an alliance with Laura held out, and when he saw Leslie in the course of the day talking with his sister, he repeated to himself with inward self applause “it works, it works!”
Sir Peter also tried to put in a good word for her; “Desperately fine shoulders my cousin has,” said he, looking at her in a becoming evening dress; “she is a fine creature, don’t you think so, yourself?”
“To be sure, everybody must; good colouring too—bright and clear.”
“Yes, very unlike that little pale sparrow,” said Sir Peter, designating Elinor.
“Sparrow! oh yes! she chirps nicely, don’t you think so, yourself?” said Leslie.
“What her singing? I am not very learned about music, but I was much indebted to her for obliging me so about that song the other night.”
Nobody ever caught Leslie wincing
Sir Peter laughed; “I doubt,” said he, “whether that would be uppermost in her thoughts. Conventual as she has been, she has no objection to learn the polite art of flirtation; you see that yourself?”
“Not I,” said Leslie, “I’ve something else to do; and I apprehend if I had not, that little sparrow would only chirp defiance at me.”
“
“It is no matter of mine,” said Leslie.
“You have other views, perhaps,” said Sir Peter.
“What?” said Leslie, in a quite altered tone, which sounded very much like, “Don’t be impertinent.”
But Elinor! Leslie felt she did not love him, that her regard was one of respect and liking,
such as she felt for the old
“I said I would show Sir Peter where the stones with shells in them are to be found,” she added, after a pause.
“Why did you say you had no engagement, then?” said Leslie, abruptly.
His tone made her blush suddenly, for it alarmed her with the feeling of having unconsciously said what she ought not; but after two or three seconds she answered, “because I forgot it.”
Leslie did not believe her, he saw the rising blood, and interpreted it his own way; but the one truth told about her intended walk was enough effort, without requiring a second about her motive, and he went on, “Don’t do as you promised.”
“No?” said Elinor, astonished.
“Let older people show him the stones with shells in them,” said he, “you had better not.”
“Why?” asked Elinor, “I once showed them to
“Yes—very true—but you know that as soon as you came to this new scene, you thought I could be useful in giving you an insight into it, and in advising you. I have done so to the best of my power, have I not? so that you can be sure your fast friend.”
“Indeed you are,” said Elinor.
“Now you are not so sure of everybody—and unless you wish it very much ......”
“Oh! no; besides he can easily find the way if I tell him.”
“Yes; and never mind saying much about it to anybody, that’s my advice. It will be better just not to do it.”
Elinor instantly agreed; and after this they talked on other subjects, about which, although Elinor laughed a great deal less than with Sir Peter, she was far more deeply interested, and forgot every one else, while his low voice, and her lower rejoinder was suffered to continue uninterrupted.
“Oh! that inveterate flirt!” said Sir Peter to Laura, by whose side he sat; and Laura with death in her heart, was cross to her cousin, and conveyed in obscure language, which had a clear meaning for him, that he did not help her, and was either clumsy or careless.
The boy was piqued at this, to strain his efforts for better success, and it was therefore
with eagerness that he watched next morning, lest the promised walk should escape him; but,
Leslie also had his attention alive, and in order to give Elinor a good excuse for not going
out, he made
Laura’s eagerness to accept his offer was based on exactly this reason.
“D’ailleurs tous nos parens sont sages, vertueux.”
“Oh! thanks, thanks, what a treat it will be! Peter, here’s such a pleasure for you, Mr. Leslie is going to read a poem of his own to us. Oh! I am all impatience—such a treat.”
“Nay,” said Leslie, “how can you know that beforehand. I want your opinion whether the thing is good or not.”
“Oh! there can be no doubt of that. Come to my morning room, where we shall not be
interrupted; I could not endure any
“Not in the least,” said the candid Leslie. Accordingly, to this select committee, he about half an hour after this time unfolded his MS., and told them it was a few verses, which he had a mind to send to a magazine then in fashion, to see whether they would be accepted or not.
“Of course they must,” said Laura, “they will be only too happy to print anything
“If they don’t,” said Leslie, “I shall be mortified that my verses should be worse than those
which they do print—but a man cannot judge for himself.
“I know
“And you, Miss Ladylift?” said Leslie, to Elinor.
“I can tell if I like them, or not; but that’s all,” said Elinor.
Leslie smiled, and Laura flattered herself he was comparing the childish simplicity
“It is too long, I think,” said Elinor.
“Good heavens, too long!” cried Laura, “I only wish it were ten times longer.”
Elinor coloured up to her eyes, at being thus convicted of misapprehension; but Leslie smiled brightly, and after a few seconds said she was quite right; as he read it, he had himself been struck by the necessity of cutting out some of the stanzas.
“It is very useful to read aloud what one has silently written,” said he; “which do you think I must take away?”
Elinor answered nothing at all to this, and Leslie had not expected she could.
The morning had worn on meantime, and when the party seemed likely to disperse, Elinor had withdrawn to her room, and it was plain to Sir Peter that his chance was over for the present. He took Laura into the conservatory just outside, and here their conversation soon began to break into gleeful laughter, and exclamations of capital! and then hush! and foolish boy! Leslie paid no attention, but went his way, with his verses in his hand, remodelling what he thought faulty, and intent on showing the approving answer of the magazine when it should arrive, to his late audience.
In no long time after, he was summoned to luncheon, and then to an expedition which had been
arranged to a neighhouring lion. When the ladies had gone upstairs to get their cloaks and
bonnets, hats
“I should like it very much,” said Elinor, not sure what answer the question meant to get.
“Oh! then of course it is settled—it does not signify.”
“What does not? I am quite willing to stay at home.”
“What, really!” said Laura; “are you certain?”
“Quite, if you prefer it.”
“Nay, in that case, you could do me a service. I meant to have gone myself this morning, but Mr. Leslie’s interesting poem prevented me. I want some specimens from the Neenshill quarry to show Mr. Goell to‐night, and if you don’t mind staying, you could get them while I am away.”
“Is Sir Peter going to Neenshill?” said Elinor, speaking suddenly the thought that instantly occurred.
“Peter! no—he is to ride with me—what should take
Elinor coloured again, at her mistake, and willingly undertook Laura’s commission. Pleased at her success, Laura descended the staircase, and found the party assembled in the hall, some for riding, some for driving.
“Isn’t Miss Ladylift coming?” said Sir Peter.
“Well! do you know, she has changed her mind,” said Laura; “she says she thinks the day too hot, though I don’t know that it is hotter than it was. I can’t persuade her, she thinks she had better stay quietly in her room—her head aches she says.”
Thus glibly lying, Laura got into the phaeton, and the party set off.
Leslie had been appointed to drive Laura; therefore he saw nothing of the movements of the rest, till they arrived at the destined place, and assembled to walk up the glen; then both he and his companions missed Sir Peter.
“Oh! such a misfortune!” said one of the
“Really,” cried Laura, “how annoyed my brother will be.”
“And Sir Peter thought best to ride it back gently, when we were about half‐way.”
“The best thing he could do,” said Laura.
Leslie meantime spoke to the groom who had accompanied the riding party. “What’s the matter with the horse?” said he, indifferently.
“Don’t think there’s nothing, sir,” said the groom; “but Sir Peter took it quite on his‐self.”
Leslie feared Sir Peter had taken more interesting matter on his‐self than conveying home a lame horse, and instantly he suspected Elinor of being a party to this pre‐arranged lameness of Rampage; and he resolved to know what it all meant.
He followed the party who had walked forward into the glen, and expressing his
When he came to the house, nobody was there—the servants knew nothing—had not seen Miss Ladylift go out or come in. Leslie had met with Rampage in the stableyard being led about quite cured of his lameness, but not yet of his perspiration; his own horse required similar cares, and the head groom uttered anathemas upon young gentlemen’s “hignorance of orses,” such as often follow upon young gentlemen’s excited passions which the grooms leave out of the account when they attribute all to “hignorance.”
Turning at once to the wood, Leslie strode along the path which led to the quarry, with all
the feelings of an injured man, and in a very short time had reached the hill, the highest
point of which contained the quarry. It was dotted with trees in natural clumps, growing from
rocky ledges
Under this sudden thought he dashed into the thick of the wood, and there, from safe distances, again fixed his eyes on the path along which they must go. They passed very near, Sir Peter carrying her basket, and talking with great animation. Elinor’s face was hidden by her great hat and veil; she was saying nothing as she passed, but how could she when her companion was so loquacious? enough, enough, she was walking with him! They passed on, and Leslie strode away, burying himself in the woods till nearly dinner time, and then dressed furiously, and came down to the drawing‐room as placidly and calmly as if not one disturbed thought raged within.
“What became of you, Mr. Leslie?” said Laura; “did you lose your way in the glen?”
“No,” said Leslie; “but I got so entirely away from the place where we were to have met, that I resolved to borrow your groom’s horse, and ride home without waiting for you.”
Laura let the subject drop. “Look here,” she said, turning to the table; “Elinor has been so kind as to get me some fossils to show Mr. Goell this evening, and after all that tiresome man is not come. They are beautiful, are they not?”
“Very,” said Leslie, and turned to Elinor. “You got as far as the stone quarry then,” said he, in the blandest tone, “this hot day?”
Irreproachable as the voice was, it made her colour.
“Yes,” she said, in a low voice; “but ......” the disjunctive conjunction was indicated, not spoken through, and Leslie, taking up two or three in his hand, said “You must have had a great weight to carry. Your arm must ache, does it not?”
“No,” said Elinor; “for Si ......”
“I had the honour of sparing Miss Ladylift that trouble,” said Sir Peter.
“Oh—yes!” said Leslie, as if the explanation were most satisfactory, and he would not catch
the eyes of Elinor, which he felt
And now for the next few days Leslie behaved like a brute to Elinor; a polished brute, bringing her shawl, setting her chair, opening the door with frigid politeness, but never once looking her in the face; never coming near for a word of explanation, never entering into what she said or did; never including her in any project or employment. All the time he felt he was straightening, rather than loosing the bond between them, for he was aware she was intent upon explanation, and that at any moment by a return to kindliness he could open all the pent‐up feelings of that guileless heart; yes, guileless, for in his most secret thought he was convinced there was no guile in Elinor, though he chose to say, even to himself, there was.
Meantime, she was so unhappy that she sometimes rebelled against it; she seriously thought
she would return to her convent, and hide herself from a world where plainly nobody cared for
her. When all her efforts
“What right has he to make me so unhappy,” she said to herself, but Leslie did not melt, though he saw her eyes cloud with what he knew were tears, suppressed though they might be.
Laura saw all this and was delighted; she thought her plans were working their full effect;
and Leslie’s attention to her, which was mostly aimed at vexing Elinor, she readily deceived
herself into thinking was wholly to please herself. She was in great spirits; she looked very
handsome, and did all that she could imagine would best please her favoured guest. His poem she
continually brought forward till he dreaded the very mention of it. Every post, she remembered
not to forget her interest about the expected answer, and each time she expressed her
conviction that the editor would only not know how to give it
“Yes, they refuse it.” Laura had not much tact; instead of dropping so distasteful a subject, she could not let it alone.
“Impossible! how absurd! and the things they do take, yet refuse yours!—for
“That is just what they
“I only wish you would give it me,” said Laura; “I would print it, and show the world what poetry is.” So she went on, not conscious how this effort to show the author was not mortified, pressed on him the assurance that everybody saw he was.
Leslie, however, turned the matter into laughter, wished his enemy might write a book; and, in fact, took the rejection to heart very little after the first moment of making it public. But Elinor had seen that he was vexed for some instants, and when the ladies were lingering in the morning‐room before separating for their several avocations, she had heard Laura making much of it to the circle round her.
“Poor Mr. Leslie,” she said; “I’m sorry for Mr. Leslie, he bore it pretty well.”
In the innocence of her heart, Elinor deduced that he had suffered a great fall, that he was
humbled, he who had been so proud and lofty in every way. She glided
She had laid her little plan for doing him a sort of homage, in what she looked upon to be
adverse circumstances, and in pursuance of it had already sought for, and found a book, the
only circumstance about which that interested her, was that the text in one page was mixed with
a certain number of Latin verses, which verses she meant to be her allies in her harmless
stratagem. Yet she hesitated for a minute before carrying her plan into execution, and in the
mirror he contrived to watch her, without attracting her observation. He saw her timid
approach, he marked the pause she
“No, I don’t want to sit down, I want to ask you if you will explain this Latin for me.”
He took the book a little surprised at her request, and read into English four lines beginning—
“Pannonis haud aliter post ictum sævior Ursa.”
“Thank you,” said Elinor, looking him in the face, “you know everything, you can do everything. How pleasant to be so clever as you are.”
Leslie returned her look, trying to comprehend what this little scene meant.
“What book is it,” said he, “where you have found this passage?” and he turned to the title
page of the little volume. Elinor
“It is,” said she, “it is ......” and she tried to catch the title at the top of the page, Leslie saw in a moment that she knew nothing about it.
“Have you read it through, as far as this?” said he.
“Not quite,” said Elinor.
“It is a volume of Montaigne’s Essays,” said Leslie.
“Would she be angry?” said Elinor, in sincerest alarm.
“Nay, does not it strike you as you read, especially now this twentieth Essay,” (he knew perfectly well she had not read a word of it)—“that she would hardly have thought it a fit study for her pupil?”
“Would not she indeed,” said Elinor, “Oh! indeed I did but just look at it a very little.”
“If you had looked a very little more,” said Leslie, “I should not have had the pleasure
“Is there?” said Elinor, more embarrassed, “I did not think—that is I thought ......”
“You thought,” said Leslie, his whole manner changing to tenderness, “that I was vexed, and you came to raise my self‐esteem.”
“No, no, not vexed,” she murmured.
“Yes, indeed; do not deny it. I see it, like a glimpse of Paradise. How gentle, how womanly—all I could have aspired to, would have been forgiveness, for I have done very ill, but you no sooner fancy me humbled, than your generosity comes to put me higher than I was before.”
“Indeed,” said Elinor, “I wanted to know the meaning.”
“Indeed no,” said Leslie; “you had something better in view. You acted from the impulses of
your noble heart. How inferior I am—despicable. If I might ever
“I know you are good and clever,” said Elinor.
“Good? alas! but I may become so. All good is possible in contact with such lovely goodness. Elinor! I cannot tell whether there is any feeling in your heart for me, beyond that which you would have for your father confessor; but in mine, there is a perfect love for you, which I did not know I was capable of. Love me! love me! Oh! Elinor, say you can love me enough to be my wife.”
Elinor stood speechless, puzzled by his change of manner, uncertain whether he was displeased at first, amazed at his earnest expressions, and perfectly bewildered by the prayer to which it all led.
“How can I tell,” she said, at last, and Leslie’s
“Is there no answer for me but that,” he said; “what does it mean, Elinor, am I such a
stranger to all your thoughts, am I
“Oh yes! I can tell that,” said Elinor, “you know you are my only friend.”
“And is not your only friend fit to ask you for
“That only Mr. Chanson can tell,” said Elinor.
“Oh! your guardian? yes, I understand you now; but it is your answer, not his, that I want; Elinor, I am not asking your guardian to be my wife.”
Elinor smiled, and her bright, shy eyes were kindled almost to laughter, but she answered with a grave voice. “It is only he, who can determine for me about such things.”
“So they say in your convent,” said Leslie, “but consider how many things were told you
there, which differ from what you have learned in the world. Think, most precious Elinor, is it
he who can tell, or you, whether you would be pleased at dwelling always where I dwell, at being
Elinor was silent, but she was listening to every word; her eyes had fallen from his, but her hand rested in the grasp of his two hands.
“Can any tell all this, except yourself? Can you not tell it now? answer me, only answer may I love you.”
“I thought I had made you angry,” said Elinor.
“Oh! never think that again—be my wife, and such thoughts could never come—there would be but one thought between us, neither you could doubt me, nor I you; would not there be a pleasure in that?”
“Yes,” said Elinor, thinking, “he will never suspect me again,” while through Leslie’s mind it glanced—
“She played me false about that rendezvous with Bicester, but never mind, I won’t tempt her to tell me stories.” Aloud he said, “Then tell me your own self you are mine. Say there is so much happiness for me in this world, land for you too, happiness—is it not—will it not be?” and now his hand unforbidden got round her waist. Elinor began to understand him.
“Yes—it is more happiness than I ever thought of,” she said; “but Mr. Chanson must say if I may.”
“No, no; not yet, at least, you have nothing to ask from him; it will be enough that he should be told by and by. This is our own concern, that the world’s. Why should they meddle, and whisper, and smile; to us it is serious, it is sacred? Why should every fool know our precious secret?”
Elinor was glad to be allowed silence, she would have felt it a painful task, to say anything
so interesting to Mr. Chanson, to whom she never talked; or to Laura, of whom she was afraid;
and she went out of
Leslie was equally self‐controlled, he wished beyond measure to keep his secret, and therefore succeeded; there was no covert thought prompting either of them to let it be discovered, and therefore there was a perfect simplicity and good faith in their manner of doing it.
The days following were a time of incredible happiness to Leslie. He had been vanquished by
generous and good feelings suddenly getting the mastery over him, and he was lifted above the
base purposes which he had entertained towards Elinor. He enjoyed his own better feelings, the
nobler part of his nature took the place of the baser, and had an artistic attraction for him;
he felt himself freer for great things than before, he had the pleasure of loving what was not
himself, yet his own; and although he was unable to conceive the guileless purity of the young
girl, he was
“She must be told,” he said to himself. “It is due to her generous behaviour towards me, and my position as guest of her house. I will tell her, if nobody else.”
Accordingly, one morning, when he knew her to be alone in her sitting‐room, he bade
“Have you found what you want, dear child,” she said; “there, yes, that’s it, is not it? ......” but Leslie interrupted her.
“Nay,” he said, “it was I who told—begged, that is, her to be here. We want your concurrence.” He observed, though without fixing his eyes on Laura’s face that there was a kind of horror in it, such as comes when an object of phantom‐like dread rises before one, and the mind refuses to believe it. He immediately finished his sentence. “This lady,” Leslie indicated Elinor, “consents to be my wife. I owe it to you that you should be the first informed.”
The blood forsook Laura’s lips; her heart it was plain had stopped, so far as a
“And now we shall look to your kind offices for counsel and assistance in our project, and for making known to the world in general what we thought it right to bring first to the best friend of both.”
“Not yet,” said Laura, speaking with a steadily, uniform voice; “my brother has so little thought of such a thing, that he would, perhaps, throw obstacles in the way.”
“Obstacles!” said Leslie, carelessly.
“No, not that, but he might be angry with her I mean; it would so disturb him.”
“Believe me,” said Leslie; “we are both willing to leave it to you to make the discovery when you like. Neither of us shall interfere on that subject, if one way or another seems better to you.”
“It is merely your advantage I think of,” said Laura.
“Of that I am
“And now,” he said, “I’ll leave my little betrothed with you to get some woman’s talk about fringe and so on. She wants a friend on all matters as you well know, and I humbly beg for one than whom she could not anywhere find a better.” Leslie drew back, courteously applying his compliment by a slight indication of his head, and quitted the room, after an encouraging glance at Elinor.
When he was gone, the agitation of the scene acted upon Elinor, and she could not restrain
her tears, while she tried to possess herself of Laura’s hand, but Laura’s efforts were
exhausted; she drew away her hand
The first thing was to gain time, and this her instinct had already prompted her to do, when
she besought Leslie to keep
To this end she laid her plan, and with farsighted anticipation she soon after sought her brother, and engaged him by gentle degrees in a conversation on his political interest, which had always a certain charm for him. There was some property at a little distance lately acquired by him, where the votes of the tenants were less their landlord’s than those which had longer felt his subject of discourse, and suggested the propriety of “at some future time, any leisure day,” cultivating their acquaintance and gaining a hold on their opinions.
Her brother assented, but complained of the tediousness of the operation. Laura hinted that he should lighten the disgust by taking a companion; some one, she said, who would do credit to the cause, and whom he might recommend to them whenever there was occasion.
“Why not speak out,” said Mr. Chanson; “there is one I should be glad enough to recommend, if
you can tell me
“Nay, you know all I know about him,” said Laura.
“All?”
“Yes, and far more than any other human being ever can know.”
“Then I wish it were more, for my dear little Laura is not the woman to be trifled with.”
“No, no, don’t say such a word. I understand him, and so he does me. Only be best friends with him, and give him an interest among us.”
“I will do anything for you, sister,” said he; “you are as clever as you are hand‐
“Thank you, Lawrence,” said Miss Chanson, and the kindness breathed over her heart like dew upon some burning, arid plain. The tears came to her eyes, and she hid them on his shoulder.
“You are happy, Laura?” said he, inquiringly; “you are satisfied?”
“Yes,” said Laura; “oh, yes, I am.” It was very hard to form those words, but she succeeded.
She had provided in this manœuvre for securing the absence of Leslie whenever her plans should require such a movement to work out the present details. She had only her cousin Peter to help her, and in the late circumstances of apparent estrangement between Leslie and Elinor, he had been laid aside as not wanted. Now, however, he was her chief hope; and the day of his departure drawing very near, what he had to do must be done without delay.
“Peter,” she said, “we are all going to walk after luncheon. Now that little flirt will enjoy
a
“Do you think so,” said her cousin; “well she shows it in an odd way. How uncommonly silent she is, except to Leslie.”
“Oh! she torments him to death,” said Laura, “he was saying to me this morning that he wished—wished—that is ......”
“What, Laura?”
“He came, Peter, to my room to speak to me; and she was there, and would not go away.”
“My dear Laura!”
“No, no, nonsense; I don’t know what he had to say, but with her in the room, and so determined to stay ......”
“Yes, yes; but during the walk this afternoon there may be a better opportunity. Well, cousin Laura, you know it will break my heart, but I devote myself, I cover my head with a white mantle, and stretch out my hands to the infernal gods.”
“What nonsense you talk, dear Peter.”
“Shall we take a gentle walk in the woods?” said Laura, to the party after luncheon, “the autumn colours are growing beautiful, and the day is neither too hot nor cold.”
Everybody agreed, and they assembled gradually under the portico, as they were ready, previous to the start. Leslie had gently driven Laura into a corner, and in the fulness of contentment with himself and others, was asking questions sufficiently embarrassing.
“Have you taught her, Miss Chanson, how to cut out cloaks and gowns; and what to do with a housekeeper?”
Laura commanded her voice, and made some trifling answer.
“You know it is to you only I can talk on the subject,” Leslie went on; “in the first place, I have no mind to let everybody into my affairs, and in the next, you bid me be silent for the present.”
“Oh yes! be silent,” said Laura, “I
“That you command me is sufficient reason,” said Leslie, who felt that he owed her some reparation.
“You yourself, perhaps, may find reason to thank me,” said Laura.
“Nay, I thank you already. The one point being gained, of security in the regard of that little lady, I am grateful for every evidence of interest in either her, or me.”
“How happy you are in a confiding, honest nature,” said Laura.
“People always despise those whom they call confiding” said Leslie, “and those despised persons always presume on their own particular clear‐sightedness, and say others may be taken in, but as for them it is impossible.”
“Heaven forbid, that it should happen to you!” said Laura, then hastily went on. “You talk so
loftily about despising, and being despised, like one who knows
She moved a step forward, and so did Leslie, and saw that Elinor was standing just within the
door, and that the officious Sir Peter had offered her his arm for the walk. Laura eagerly
watching also, perceived that Elinor lifted her eyes to Leslie, and that a slight glance of
intelligence passed between them, after which Elinor demurely took the offered arm, and
proceeded with Sir Peter. That look wrenched the dagger round in Laura’s heart; it was the
thing which her imagination had represented as most intolerable, the familiar token which both
understood, and from which all others were shut out; her insidious words had fallen useless,
and now, friendly as Leslie might be, faithfully as he kept by her side, he did but confirm her
anguish by a behaviour which was so friendly, merely because he had made her the confidant of
his successful love for another. She could not play out her part to the end to‐day. She was
obliged to
For a time she preserved the impenetrable silence which her feelings dictated and which Elinor, frightened at the repulses she met, shrank into herself to observe; but at last, as she slowly won self‐command, she resolved to employ the time in preparing the ground for the scheme before her, and however odious to herself to enter into conversation with the happy young girl.
“How was this all arranged, dear?” she began, in an invalid tone, “tell me about it.”
Elinor was as little inclined as she to pour out confidences, but she hesitated not to answer.
“I was afraid he was angry,” she began ......
“Well,” said Laura, impatiently.
“I was afraid he was unhappy,” said Elinor.
“What do you mean?” again said Laura, hastily.
“He seemed angry.”
“Oh! nonsense—what stuff—what made him angry?”
“Your cousin ......” Elinor began, but was glad to be interrupted by her imperious sympathizer.
“By the by, I wanted to speak about Peter; he is a very young man, and you must not make
mischief. You have been talking a great deal with him, you know
“I have never ...... ”
“Yes, you have—never mind that. Have
“Had I a bad headache?”
“Yes, of course, you can’t forget that.”
“I don’t think ......”
“Yes, very bad, you did not drive with me to the glen on account of it.”
Elinor was silent.
“Have you talked to him about it? I say.”
“No.”
“Oh! that’s very well, then do not. I know that you and Peter went together.”
“No ...... he ......”
“Well, came back together, from the stone quarry, and if you were to make a long story about it to Mr. Leslie, there is no knowing what might happen. It was foolish, perhaps thoughtless that is, in my dear cousin, but merely that, scarcely that; and Mr. Leslie is so proud, he might take the greatest offence, he might shoot him dead, my poor cousin.”
“Might he really?” said Elinor.
“So promise me one thing, never to say one word about that walk—now promise.”
“I never will, if I can help it.”
“Oh! you
“I promise, as far as I can,” said Elinor.
“Can! ridiculous! however, that will do, and now pray let me be quiet. I really cannot talk any more, my poor head in such a state.”
And now putting her hand to her head, she leaned it down against the back of her easy chair, and there in anything but ease, she acted the motionless invalid, in which character she could escape further conversation, yet retain the young girl as nurse, and watch in her room. This lasted till bed time, and a severe trial it was.
When at last she had dismissed Elinor, with severe directions to go at once to her chamber,
and had got rid of the importunate services of her maid, she was at liberty to start up, and
walking through
“I cannot come to‐night. Mr. Leslie forbids me to go out.—ELINOR LADYLIFT.”
This note thus altered, she purposed to convey to Sir Peter as coming from Elinor, and from
him it should pass either by Sir Peter, or by Laura herself to Leslie, whom she trusted it
would persuade of Elinor’s falsity, and by so doing wrench two hearts asunder. There were
chances of an explanation between them, and
“Hated, despised!” she cried to herself; “for ever parted from him. But so I am
“Alas!” she said to herself, “if the felicity which I labour through all obstacles to attain were mine by the gracious course of fortune and fate, how good I could be, how kind to others, how grateful myself!”
THE next morning, after breakfast, Leslie contrived to say to Elinor, that he had been unjustly deprived of her society the previous evening, and that she must come out and walk with him.
“Miss Chanson can say nothing against it,” he added; “for you need only answer her that you are going with your affianced husband, and her brother won’t think of us one way or the other.”
“Besides,” said Elinor, “he will be at the stable for the next half hour, and Miss Chanson will have the housekeeper almost directly. I can come down the turret stair and out by the great Datura.”
“We are doing all we can to spoil the most guileless nature in the world,” said
In about a quarter of an hour Elinor did as she had proposed and joined him in the garden,
and then seizing her hand he led her into the park and out thence to the fields, and soon they
were quite away from all frequented track. It was an autumn day, the heavy mists were golden
with the sun which was vigorously dispelling them from the valleys and brook courses, and
lifting them up all gorgeously from the glowing earth. The red berries of the wild convolvulus
hung in long festoons upon the hedges, and its yellow leaves shone like pale gold in the sun.
The wild cherry trees were glowing with bright red, the birch all amber; the ferns dressed the
hill sides with their rich shapes and colours, and the hills drew nearer than usual, with every
white house and spire distinct on their intense blue. A fragrance of vegetation
“I feel my heart beating” said Elinor; “at seeing everything so beautiful. Why does it beat?”
“Because everything is so beautiful,” said Leslie, smiling.
“And you told me I might enjoy the pleasure,” said Elinor.
“Yes, it is fitted to give enjoyment. It is innocent; you feel no regret afterwards.”
“No, I don’t,” said Elinor; “but I should have done so in my convent, because I was taught to fear the things I liked. It was you who taught me differently.”
“Yes; but at all events do whatever you think is right,” said Leslie. “I only meant to say
that whatever is
“I think” said Elinor, “that walking through this autumn country, and my hand held by yours is both.”
“Both, both,” said Leslie; “and it will soon be our right for ever. We shall be
“Yes,” said Elinor, her calm, maidenly face looking straight forward; “there will be no
stranger to interrupt our talk, no necessity to ask anybody’s leave to walk with you. I may sit
in the room where you write, and work without talking; when you like, I may sing what you only
like; if you are tired you can sleep without caring whether I am there or not, and I
Leslie was silent. It was a new, strange pleasure to hear the meditations of that innocent
heart. He believed at that hour what so very few men have the enjoyment of believing, the
purity and guilelessness there can be, and is, in many young girls. His pleasure was like that
of a man who gets sight of an unsunned treasure, which the earthly air and light he lets in
will soon crumble away; but which
There, as they coasted along a high bank with an irregular hedge on the crest, Elinor’s eye
was caught by something hounding about in the fern, and in a moment they saw it was a leveret
which seemed at play so near them. Elinor paused
“Oh! how cruel, how wicked!” said Elinor; “who could! loose it do, pray.” Leslie, to obey Elinor, went up the bank and tried to lay hold of the leveret, which, half dead as it was, still sprang about to avoid him.
“It will die,” cried Elinor, the tears almost running over; “oh! do catch it,” and she also
scrambled up, and helped Leslie to try to lay hold of it. At last they succeeded. Then Leslie,
with one hand upon the suffocated little beast, searched his waistcoat pocket for a knife, and
gave it to Elinor to open, and to insinuate it between the leveret’s neck and the string in
order to set it free. He watched her earnest face, all given over to pity and interest; her
fear to give pain, her resolution to venture it, her disgust at suffering inflicted; and she,
thinking of nothing but the leveret, most delicately, most skilfully got in the knife, and
drawing the sharp edge across the string released it. The poor leveret,
“Poor brute, it’s all over,” said Leslie, putting it on the grass; but Elinor was not so indifferent. She raised its head upon a little tussock, stroked it gently, pitied it, while her lover stood by smiling at the pretty picture; and at last the leveret began to move, and Elinor was relieved and delighted.
“Oh! I’ll carry it home,” she said, breaking off a great burdock leaf, and placing the little body upon it; then carefully set it on her arms, and Leslie held her by the elbow, to get her safely down the bank. “I’ll get what they call a whisket for it,” said Elinor, pleased like a fresh child with the imaginary details of the leveret’s life; “and keep it in my room, and give it leaves. What does it like best?”
“Flowers, I think,” said Leslie; “any fresh, tender annuals out of the garden. It will eat up the verbenas with the greatest pleasure.”
“Do you think you can get some?” said Elinor.
“Oh yes, every morning; but I must take care Miss Chanson does not see me.”
“Oh! you must not hurt her garden.”
“Well, well; we will take the hare away with us, when you and I go away ourselves, and it
shall have all the flowers at the Tower to itself, if
Elinor looked at Leslie, and smiled. “Yes, thank you; it shall live on the eastern terrace you told me of, and have a wooden house of some kind to go into at night.”
“That will be the very place,” said Leslie.
At this moment the leveret, which had recovered its senses, but kept the recovery to itself watching its opportunity, made so sudden a spring, that before Elinor could utter the little cry its movement provoked, it was out of her arms, and scudding away to the copse.
“Oh dear!” said Elinor, looking at her empty leaf.
Leslie laughed.
“Never mind, I can have your hand again; so all is for the best,” said he.
And thus they walked, by the hedgerow sides of the corn fields, across banky meadows cropped by sheep, along woodland paths, which descended to the brook courses; where they were crossed by gray large stepping‐stones; within the edges of the wood, where with trees for a natural colonnade, they looked out upon the silent, sunny country; hand in hand they walked, healthy, beautiful, good. It was Adam and Eve moving through the Garden of Eden.
They had scarcely met a human being, the country was thinly inhabited, and they had
unconsciously sought the least frequented parts; but some hours after they first began their
walk, the forest silence was disturbed by a distant voice, uttering a loud “mark!” and then was
fired a gun as distant, and before long both sounds came nearer; nay, they presently saw a towering
The next moment, Sir Peter Bicester, and a gamekeeper, and couple of beaters came in view; he immediately left off his pursuit, and came up to Elinor, hoping he had not frightened her, and so on. Leslie had dropped Elinor’s hand; till she was declared his promised wife, he did not wish to claim any intimacy with her; but Elinor was unconscious of such scruples, and replied in the simplest way to the young man’s apologies.
“But we are going home now,” she said, “so do not stop your amusement for me. Thank you for thinking of it.” And she moved on.
“Shan’t you come out, Leslie?” said Sir Peter.
“No, not I; if there’s anything better to do, I don’t care for a gun.”
“And there
“Well! that is as it may be,” answered Leslie, and followed Elinor, whom he speedily overtook.
THAT evening, Sir Peter knocked at the door of his cousin’s sitting‐room, when he came in an hour before dinner.
“Have you got some tea, Laura?” he asked; “let me have a cup with you, if you are going to have any.”
“Come in, come in!” said Laura, ringing the bell at the same time, and ordering tea for him
and her.
“Six pheasants, and a woodcock,” said Sir Peter; “I just went into that outside cover, you know, below the lime kiln.”
“And quite enough,” said Laura, “for a distant part, scarcely preserved.”
“Yes, it is a good way off,” said Sir
“He had?”
“Yes, and they looked as like real lovers as ever you saw any two people. Now, Laura, I want you to answer me one question; are you quite certain there is nothing between them, quite certain? Because if there is, I would not put myself in their way for the generalship of the Indian army—no, not to be made knight banneret on the field of battle.”
“Have not I told you,” said Laura, “how matters stand.”
“Yes; but he may be a fool, and he may have taken up with the little idiot; and if the flirting is not on her side, I will have nothing to do with making her break her little heart.”
“It is all, all on her side; but for her intrigues I should be happy—and I can be happy—I am; what is that man to me?”
“Nothing, Laura; that’s right, don’t throw away a thought upon him, if he has been such an ass.”
“But he has not!” said Laura, struggling mentally against the doom, as one does bodily against the great weight that is pressing the lungs together, so as to stop breath. “It is merely that a child is artful enough to deceive him, is thoughtless enough to hazard her own character, and ruins my peace.”
“Nay, if it is so ......”
“I tell you it is.”
“Swear!” said Sir Peter, crossing the forefingers of his two hands, playfully, yet in his heart looking seriously to such an appeal as safe to procure him the truth. Laura did not think nor hesitate for a moment. She laid her hand on his crossed fingers—
“ I swear!” she said. She hated her cousin for making her do this, but she had no doubt, nevertheless, about doing it.
“Very well, then, I will serve you loyally and zealously to the extent of my power, and that
extent is limited, for I
“Yes, yes, go on Thursday,” said Laura,
“As how?”
“Well, if she appoints you to meet her? If she tampers with you, as she does with Leslie?”
“Oh! in that case.”
“You will let him know it?”
“No, I shall not tell him—that’s quite impossible.”
“He can find it out then,” said Laura.
“It would be better for him if he did; would lose a trifle and gain a treasure. Oh! Laura, I wish I were but older, wiser, or of more value in the world, I would fling myself at your feet, though Crœsus and Lycurgus were in the way.”
“And I would not have you,” said Laura, peevishly, then correcting herself, she added, “what
a hoary pair to offer to a young lady;
Sir Peter went on talking nonsense,
She herself conducted the assault this evening. Leslie gave her occasion; he told her that he must very soon announce to her brother the engagement into which his ward had entered; and Laura, now thoroughly on her guard assented, proposing that the end of the week should be the time chosen. Leslie agreed, and Laura had gained one point, for did not the Thursday of Sir Peter’s departure come between?
“I shall be glad when he is gone for your sake,” said Laura to Leslie.
“Why so?”
“Nay, I think you deserve all the walks and talks and little appointments to yourself.”
“Oh, I am not uneasy about that,” said Leslie; “such fancies trouble me not. As King Pericles says, ‘Falseness cannot dwell in thee!’”
“Falseness in me?” said Laura, startled.
“In her, I ought to have said, but I was too conscientious to misquote Shakespeare. Oh! no, that trouble is quite over.”
“Then why did she and my cousin find themselves at the stone quarry that day she had the sudden headache, and could not drive with us?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” said Leslie; “the best way would be to ask her.”
“Do, if you think the truth so easy to be had.”
“Only I don’t care to know,” said Leslie.
“Oh! very well. I am sure
She turned away, and proposed music to one of the party, but her eyes did not fail to observe
that Leslie took advantage of the opportunity to stand talking with Elinor at the open window,
and she persuaded herself was asking the explanation she intended him to seek. There was some
little pre‐occupation in his way of carrying on the beginning of the conversation, a shade of
embarrassment, and a questioning air. Elinor coloured deeply, and hesitated to answer him, and
Laura believed that the headache which she herself had ordered Elinor to remember, and the
silence which she herself had ordered Elinor to keep about the stone quarry walk, were throwing
the appearance of double‐dealing over the entangled girl. Leslie’s fond look at last she could
not so well interpret. She did not think he was satisfied with respect to the walk, yet
“perhaps” (thought she), “he believes a woman cannot speak the truth, and forgives her—forgives
Laura was not much out in her interpretation of Leslie’s looks; in fact, he was disposed to believe and to excuse in Elinor, the manœuvres which he fancied the inexperienced young girl had been led to practise before her present engagement with him; but at all events, as things were now, he determined to put a stop to all proceedings of the kind, and would fain have warned and set Elinor on her guard, as her mother would have done, had she ever known her mother.
“Nobody may interrupt me now,” he said, “in the happiness of such walks as we had yesterday. Nobody has any claim on you now, when I claim you. You have given me that right, remember.”
“Mr. Chanson said I must go with him to see his greyhounds fed,” said Elinor; “but I will not.”
“Oh! Mr. Chanson. Yes, you may go with him.”
“Miss Chanson also said I was to carry the hymn books to the school. She wants
“No, no; you must do what she asks till you leave her altogether.”
“But you said I was to walk with you only.”
“I mean it is not fit for a young girl to let an idle young man like Bicester, meet and follow her.”
“So my Reverend Mother told me, and I did not, till you laughed, and made me laugh too, about it.”
“Well, well, yes; but a man says things he does not mean; you should be aware that
“
“Oh! it is quite a different thing with me. What I say now, does not apply to me. Only I
don’t want you. to let that puppy talk to you. He can, only mean
“So the Reverend Mother said,” repeated Elinor; “and I will obey her and you.”
“Next Thursday he goes away,” said Leslie; “and do you know, dearest and gentlest Elinor, that I am going too? Chanson has got a project in his head about visiting some property he bought not long ago; and he says his sister thinks it will be a good opportunity to do so when young Bicester leaves the house, and before fresh guests come in. He wants me so very much to be his companion, that I have consented. We shall not be away above a few days, and during those days I will tell him that his ward is his ward no longer, but that it is I who have to answer for her in future.”
“Do,” said Elinor.
Leslie looked at her, and half laughed. “You will not tell him the contrary?” said he.
“Oh! no, no,” said Elinor; “no more, surely, will he? I am sorry though that I did not ask
him first if I might, for the
“And
“I hope not,” said Elinor, “for I have no right or wrong in my head now, except what I learn from you.”
“Ay! trust me, then ...... Oh! I could not mislead you.”
“No, I am sure of that,” said Elinor, lifting her eyes to his. He thought of the morning at breakfast, when he could not get one glimpse of those shy eyes; and he thought also of the many things between that moment and the one in which her innocence had converted all his thoughts into pure projects like itself. In his heart he worshipped the creature who held so strong, yet so silken a dominion over him, and in his enjoyment of the prospect now before him, he instinctively tried to forget the cruel one which he had entertained and abandoned.
Laura had no time to spare, or she would
This Sunday, therefore, saw her in the family pew with her guests; saw her take the school report from the hand of the curtseying schoolmistress, and rebuke the child who was shown up for inattention. She let the horses and servants rest to‐day, and proposed merely a walk by way of amusement. Before she could prevent him, Leslie drew Elinor away, and by the side of the waterfall and up the banks of the brook, they passed the afternoon hours.
Laura had got a present for her cousin
Sir Peter was rather melancholy and sentimental. He was going to the other side of the world, and was pleased to do so, and yet it touched him to feel that nobody was much interested in his departure except himself; his place would close over at once, and it was he only who cared or reflected that he was going. Laura’s care, therefore, to procure a present for him, gave him pleasure. He employed himself in examining and admiring every article, and in obtaining from Laura a few words in her own hand, declaring herself the giver of the bag, and the well‐wishing cousin of the recipient.
“And you will think of me once or twice, will you?” said Sir Peter; “when my thoughts are travelling homewards they will now and then meet yours coming out to Ceylon.”
“To be sure they will; and many others will be on the same journey, anxious to know what you are about.”
“No, Laura, no. My mother, if she were alive, would have let no post go by without a letter. I have a green bag stuffed with those she wrote to me at school, and so would a sister, perhaps, if I ever had one, but nobody else ever cares for a young man more than for one grain of wheat rather than another in a sack full.”
“Oh! indeed,
“Who else?”
“Nay, I don’t think I shall tell you. It is such nonsense.”
“You don’t mean the little nun?”
“No, no; of course not.”
“You do,” said Sir Peter, starting up, and forgetting his melancholy; “what did she say?”
“Oh! nothing—I forget—nothing worth hearing.”
“Nay, Laura, you shall tell me, or I will ask her. Where is she?”
“In her own room, I should think. You can’t go there and ask her.”
“I thought she was walking with Leslie.”
“Not very likely after what she said to me. If she is walking with Mr. Leslie her coquetry passes all allowable bounds.”
“Why, what did she say?”
“Nay, you will be so vain.”
“Not vainer than I am,” said Sir Peter, smiling gaily.
“True; that’s hardly possible,” said Laura; “well, well, she is very demure, and does not talk much you know, to me at least, but she said this morning in her sudden way, as if her words broke out of her thoughts, ‘Sir. Peter smokes every evening, does not he?’”
“What an unsentimental meditation!” said Sir Peter.
“I did not think so,” said Laura.
“As how, is it not?”
“When you smoke, you walk out; when you walk out you can be met.”
“Nay, is that it? nice little girl!”
“I don’t know that it is
“Thanks, thanks, dear cousin, but I can’t be quite so convenient as that, for I suppose you would have her my wife.”
“Peter!”
“But if she do think of morning walks with Leslie, and moonlight walks with me, at least
“Never, never, never!” said Laura.
Dinner was not over till the evening was dark, for October was at the end of its first week. The rooms were bright with lamps and candles, but the windows were open to the shadowy scene without, for the weather was very hot, even as though summer were abroad masquerading in the splendidly coloured robes of the aged year.
“Let us walk down the garden,” said Laura to Elinor, who was the only lady beside herself of the party; “the air is oppressive, further from the house it will be cooler.”
They went together along the garden paths, and reached the avenue of great Scotch firs which terminated it, and which at its other extremity had a wicket opening into the park.
“I wonder,” said Laura, “whether Eliza Mosterick has had the broth she wanted; did you hear anything about it?”
“No, I did not.”
“But you knew she was ill. Did you call to inquire about her when you were out this morning?”
“No,” said Elinor.
“You might just as well have done so, and put the Sunday to some better purpose than merely amusing yourself,” said Laura; “poor woman, perhaps she has been waiting vainly all day. I wish I could go as far before my brother comes into the drawing‐room; he does not like me to be absent.”
Elinor was silent; whatever she might say she felt would bring down a rebuke.
“Could you go, Elinor?” said Laura, at last.
“Certainly,” said Elinor, who was accustomed at the convent to wait on the sick, and to be employed about their errands. “Shall I?”
“Well, if you will. You know the house; it is the underkeeper’s—you know, just fifty yards from the end of the avenue on the right—she was very ill—unless she is better—and I meant to send her some broth and things ....... Stay, take her five shillings will you, in case she wants to buy anything. Here, put my scarf over your head. It is as good as a bonnet.”
Elinor did all she was bid, and Laura, when she was disappearing like a white spirit down the
gloomy avenue, turned hastily and ran to the house, where she gave thanks (like Shylock when
his enemies’ ships are lost, and he says, “Thank God, I thank God!”) to see that the time for
evening Sunday prayers was not more than a quarter of an hour distant, at which epoch of the
evening the absence of any member of the party must become conspicuous. Both Leslie and Sir
Peter glanced round
“Is not she here?” said Laura, looking round; “I have been in the garden, but she refused to come. I think she said she was going to write a letter.”
Leslie was obliged to content himself; and taking up a book, sat watching the door which,
every time it opened drew his eager eyes, till the appearance of some uninteresting figure
caused them to be impatiently cast down again. Laura’s attention went nervously to the clock,
which ticked on so composedly, and would not hasten towards half‐past nine. Nor even when the
half‐hour had leisurely lifted up its voice twice, to denote that it was come, did the outer
bell sound for prayers, till another full minute had gone by; and yet
“Where have you been?” he said, in a very low voice.
“Miss Chanson took me into the garden and sent me on an errand.”
Leslie had just heard that Miss Chanson bad been alone in the garden, and that Elinor had said she was going to her own room.
“But you are not alone,” said Leslie.
“I could not help it,” said Elinor; “he came out to smoke and met me.”
“He always smokes in the garden at night. You knew it?”
“Indeed, indeed, I did not.”
“Dear, dear Elinor, do not .......”
They had now crossed the hall and entered the parlour where the servants were assembled. The
necessary outer decorum prevailed, but stormy was Leslie’s bosom, sad and frightened was
Elinor’s, while holy words and pious attitudes alone appeared to the public ear and eye. Laura
hastened Elinor away with her after prayers, saying that they must be punctual to‐morrow at
breakfast in order to be ready for an expedition which she had arranged, and however early it
was they would now go to bed to prepare for it. Leslie was so much in love that he did not
venture on being offended with Elinor; he no longer assumed an authoritative manner with her,
that was too paternal, too like a guardian, but he had a grieved look and way towards
“She is sorry,” he said to himself; “she knows she has been wrong. No doubt it is his fault more than hers. Still, why did she use the worn out plea to Laura of writing letters. Why did she, to me, invent the pretext of being sent on a message. And she tells these little lies so innocently, she would deceive any man, if he were fool enough to think there is a woman in the world who does not lie.” He stamped the unoffending boards of his room as he came to this conclusion, and walked up and down till he reflected there was such a thing as going to bed.
And now came Monday, the day on which the drawing, the needlework, the gardening, the
professional duties, if there be any, or the gun and the dogs, the fishing rod and ride if
there be none, are resumed after one day’s suspension. There has been the village church
changing the disposal of the
“And why is it?” thus her thoughts came over her, but not worded; “why is it that I love him
thus?—he is not eager to please me, as others are. I am obliged to cultivate conversation
before it runs freely between us. He does not seek out my
Laura sprang out of bed and took up her self‐imposed burthen. How carefully were all the
minute cares of her person attended to, and how mechanically; but as for her mind, its habits
were not those which led her to be true with herself; hence all was slurred and burred within,
and she had a most imperfect view of what she herself was doing. But at half‐past nine she
descended clean as a white pebble from a running brook, neat as a rose‐bud still bound
Chance did not show itself favourable to‐day; for her plan had been to keep the lovers apart
by dividing the party between carriage and horseback, and to visit a show place in the
neighbourhood, of which the possessors were friends of hers, and their society and chaperonage
round their house and garden, would prevent the formation of
“It will be too late, even if the rain stops by mid‐day,” said he; “you must do something else. Come, we’ll have a game of billiards first, and then, when you two women have written a dozen letters, and worked your frills, or your kettle‐holders, you shall help me to change the shells out of the library to the new cases. I want the labels neatly written, and little card boxes made. I am glad it rains.”
“I will be glad too, for your sake,” said Laura; “Elinor, will you help?”
“Oh, yes!” said Elinor.
“You can’t want to write more letters!” said Laura, availing herself of the shot which accident opened to her.
“No,” said Elinor.
“Have you finished all?” asked Leslie, in a low voice.
“I have not,” said Elinor, in a voice still lower; “but say nothing. I shall be so glad to do Mr. Chanson a little service.”
“His sister believed that you were employed in writing last night,” said Leslie.
“How could she,” said Elinor; “I went to bed by her desire as soon as we were upstairs.”
“Equivocator!” thought Leslie.
Evening came, and with it a change in the weather. Before setting, the sun shone brightly out, and it left the autumnal garden in a gentle haze of warm air, where the smell of the fresh earth and the excited flowers, and the air renovated with moisture, flattered every sense of eye and ear.
“How delicious,” said Laura, when she and Elinor stood again outside the window which opened on the walk; “let us take our bonnets and walk for ten minutes.”
They did so, and at the end of that time, Laura said she must return to the house. “Elinor,
will you be so good as to go as far as the clerk’s, and ask him to look in our pew for my
prayer book? the one in vellum, you know, which my brother gave me. I forgot to bring it away,
and I want
“I can’t do that to‐night,” said Elinor.; “in the morning if you like.”
“Why not?” said Laura, turning full round upon her.
“Sir Peter does not allow me to walk alone.”
Laura burst into laughter. “What, must Sir Peter shut himself up every time it pleases you to take the air?”
“I don’t mean that” said Elinor.
“Oh! you fancy he means to assassinate you, or take hold of your hand ...... or ......”
“No!”
“Or that his sole object in walking out is to share the delights of your conversation, and wait upon your presence. Upon my word his sole object is, rather, to smoke his pipe.”
“Oh! yes.”
“Which object he pursues in the garden and the fir‐grove. Therefore, even though that
frightful young man were to amuse his leisure with the sin of tobacco, you
“No,” said Elinor, “I cannot. Mr. Leslie does not choose I should.”
“Oh! now it comes out. She’s afraid of beiing scolded, is she? What! she has been scolded already, and has cried and said she would never do so no more, no! never. What a good child!”
Elinor stood with tears in her eyes. “Yes,” she said, when Laura scornfully waited for an answer; “I said I never would do what he disliked.”
“I never heard anything so babyish in my life. Why you are no more fit to be a married woman than an infant. If you let a man tyrannize over you in that way while he is your lover, he will be cruel as a husband, and sick to death of you in six months.”
Elinor stood silent: her colour rose under the hard words and fearful prophecy, but she did not credit it, and yet would not contradict the utterer.
“Now, my dear child,” said Miss Chan‐
“Very well,” said Elinor, smiling, “I will remember what you say.”
“And go to the church for me,” said Laura, smiling also, “there’s a good girl.”
Elinor shook her head.
“You will not?”
“I cannot.”
“Say
“Indeed I cannot, I will not.”
“That will do. Then will you be so very obliging as to go in and tell my brother, that I am
obliged to go on an errand, because you
Laura turned her back, and set out hastily; but in a few seconds she stopped, and looked
back, she had expected that the
“What! will you do neither one nor the other, do you defy me? am I to be defied in my own house? ridiculed? go to the church directly, or let me believe you are the most ungrateful of women.”
“I will not walk alone this evening,” said Elinor.
“Will you do this, then?” said Laura, commanding her voice to the lowest and calmest tone. “Will you pass this evening in your own room?”
“I am very sorry I have offended you,” said Elinor, “I will do whatever you bid me,” and she turned away, and went straight into the house, and upstairs, while Laura dashed the tears of passion from her eyes, and inveighed against the cruelty of the young girl, for triumphing in her victory over the lover of her benefactress.
When she reached the drawing‐room it was still empty. She opened a book of drawings on the
table, and composed her
“She told me she was going to write letters,” said Miss Chanson, demurely.
Sir Peter instantly glanced at his cousin, and smiled. Mr. Leslie caught the smile, and his
eye turned in the same moment upon Laura, but she was looking straight forward, as innocent as
a bird. He perceived, however, that young Bicester was swallowing a scalding cup of coffee, and
that lounging apparently from one window to another, he silently opened the door, and
disappeared. Leslie, with no attempt at mystery, went out directly after. The evening was
growing very dusky, but he saw the man he deemed his rival, entering the avenue, and hastily
followed him. Sir Peter was alone; and that he was alone, surprised Sir Peter. But that the
person who joined him should be Leslie, thoroughly annoyed him, and Leslie on his part was
equally angry at finding the young soldier thus apparently awaiting a
“Are you going into the park?” said Sir Peter, at last.
“No; are you?”
“No.” Again there was silence; then Sir Peter began again.
“I never knew you choose this walk before.”
“Did not you?”
“No.”
Sir Peter shook the ashes from his cigar bitterly, and then turned suddenly, and walked in
the opposite direction. Leslie, who seldom smoked, took out a cigar, in order to give himself
some reason for being here, and puffing with undue vigour, excited a great smoke, and marched
to the end of the avenue; here he turned, and about mid‐way, the two young men met, and crossed
each other, each sending out a large gale of tobacco, and looking as happy as he could. How
long this was to go on, Leslie did not like to conjecture but at all
“It is too plain, that he expected her,” he said to himself; “then he has already met her.
Yet I warned her—besought her—but he is a villain, availing himself of her untaught, guileless,
nature—inexperienced, bewildered, humble as she is! If he knew my claim upon her, she would be
safe. Yet impossible! shall the silly coxcomb know that it is my promised wife, whom he has
hoped would come at midnight to meet him? Impossible! He is going, thank heaven! to the other
side of
Thus he stormed within, standing beside one of the stern fir‐stems, which threw a steadfast shadow on the turf from its branches between the moonlight and the ground. Nearly half an hour passed, in which time Sir Peter felt fully persuaded that his rival must have been tired of his suspicion, and have left the avenue. He himself had been to the saloon, where still the fair Elinor was not, and with some hope, rekindled from the malicious eyes of Laura, he returned again to try his fortune. Slowly he paced down the avenue, and failed to perceive the dark figure beneath the fir‐tree. As he came on, it advanced suddenly from the shadow. Sir Peter started slightly.
“I forgot something,” said he.
“Did you,” said Leslie.
“Yes!” said Sir Peter, and again they passed each other, and Sir Peter proceeding to the end
of the avenue, opened the gate, and went finally out. “What right
Next morning, Tuesday, Leslie and Miss Chanson were walking together through the garden to the conservatory. Elinor looking from her window saw them, and was pleased that her angry guardianess should be in company with one who she felt would speak even better of her than she deserved. So warbling some low notes with her melodious throat, she turned away to put in order part of her simple wardrobe, with skilful fingers well versed in the arts of hemming and darning.
“She told me,” said Leslie, to Miss Chanson, “that you sent her to her room last night.”
Laura started, not knowing how much of their interview had been repeated, and looked Leslie inquiringly in the face.
“If I did ...... ”she began, and paused.
“Tell me one thing,” said Leslie, “did you do so from any idea that it was better not to leave her walking alone?”
“Why do you ask me?” said Laura, quite at ease again; “what does it matter?”
“No, no, it does not matter ...... very much,” said Leslie; “only is it possible, do you think that she intended to join ...... that is ...... to meet ......”
“Only
“No, no, it is not,” said Leslie, “but she has been in an unnatural atmosphere. She came here full of innocent mistakes, and we undeceived her too hastily; she has lost the landmark for all minor proprieties.”
“Then I wonder,” said Laura, “that she should think it necessary to conceal them, by such complicated statements.”
Leslie again was silent. “She is bewildered,” said Leslie, at last, “by the admiration she
excites; I have not flattering words so freely at command as others, and per‐
“That’s quite impossible,” said Laura, very quickly; then as if frightened at what she herself had said, she added hastily, “perhaps she wants character, she is like most women ......”
“Oh no!” said Leslie, sighing, “she has a firm purpose, hidden under her soft exterior. I will talk to your brother the moment we are alone, on Thursday, and I will make her mine before any other candidate dare come between my treasure and me.”
It was now Laura who was silent. To hear a purpose announced which directly contradicts the secret object of one’s endeavours and desires, is like a blow struck right upon the heart. Why cannot the blinded eye of our companion see and choose the path which we perceive so plainly is the one fit for him?
Leslie was out of spirits, and when he had gone through the flowers of the conservatory
mechanically with Laura and
Laura proposed twenty things in order to entangle Elinor with her cousin, but was baffled in all. Elinor would not take a lesson in billiards, would not learn to sit the pony, would not teach Sir Peter a duet, would not lend him a book of her own—she declined all, even before they were fully proposed; and at last, upon the arrival of some morning visitors, attached herself to the mother of the party, who did not choose to walk far, and never left her side the rest of the morning.
Laura did not venture upon any scheme for the evening, but she saw with bitter pleasure, that
Leslie, by seeming accident sat by another than Elinor at dinner, and that when they were all
assembled in the drawing‐room, he and Elinor seemed to want subjects of conversation, and were
grave and embarrassed in place of that joyful glee which Leslie’s face had so often
Wednesday was come, and now Laura had her last blow to strike, the one that must undo her if
it did not succeed. There was a feeling in the house about seeing the last of Sir Peter, since
after to‐day, he could be seen and heard no more. He was not to go shooting alone, nor to take
a solitary gallop; he was to walk with Laura and the rest, he was to visit the stables with Mr.
Chanson. Even if those who were not to be travellers had something better to do, there would be
time for that to‐morrow, when there would be no more time available for Sir Peter. Mr. Chanson,
Leslie, and Sir Peter, were all to set out early on the morrow. They were to drive together to
the neighbouring town, and there to separate, the two first to pursue their way to Mr.
Chanson’s property, and the young soldier to go on to London where his final preparations would
be made. Leslie, in a doubtful state of mind, was looking out for offence and cause of
“So now it is come to the last evening,” said Sir Peter, as he and Laura sat together an hour before dinner, in her own apartment. “I have had a very pleasant visit, and I shall not forget it.”
“And what remembrances do you carry away from our nun?” said Laura.
“Oh! hang the little nun, I am tired of her; I can make nothing of her, and really I believe our meetings have all been either my own doing, or accident. She cares for nobody but Leslie.”
“She does not care for
“Did he tell you so?”
“No—not in so many words—but words are not always necessary to explain meanings.”
“You are so clever, Laura! you see everything.”
“Women have that faculty, you know. Now, I would venture to lay a wager, that if this last
day, you were to write, soliciting one last interview, the interview would
“Oh! it is too much trouble.”
“Where is the trouble? there is pen and ink, and I will tell you what to write.”
“But it is hardly fair.”
“Fair indeed! as if any measures were to be kept with her. What has she done by me?”
“You! oh, I can’t keep in my head that you can possibly have any regard for a person who does not adore you.”
“No, it is most unworthy,” said Laura. “I will do better ...... there, there ...... shake him off—forget him. But that little girl I should like to unmask, nevertheless; come play out the play, write her a little love‐letter.”
Laura now took her portfolio on her knees, drew the little writing table close, and laughing
and coquetting, composed a note which amused Sir Peter, and which he copied at Laura’s side,
and promised to remit to Elinor. Laura agreed that he should do so, but just as he was leaving
It was ten o’clock that night when a woman wrapped over her head and whole figure in a cloak,
brushed by Sir Peter, as he walked in the avenue, and as she passed thrust a note into his
hand. He caught the hand that gave it, but it told nothing except that it was enveloped in a
glove. Rather than be detained by him, the hand slipped out of the glove, and the figure darted
into the thick shade, and disappeared. The glove was merely a concealment for the hand, for it
had plainly been held loosely, as a measure prepared beforehand to avoid detention; but it was
a woman’s glove, of delicate size, and was finished with a plaited ribbon, such as Elinor
frequently employed herself in fashioning. Sir Peter laughed as he recognised it, and placing
“I cannot come to‐night, Mr. Leslie forbids me to go out.—ELINOR LADYLIFT.”
Poor Elinor’s ill starred billet!
SEE that man walking up and down his room all night, except when at times he flung
himself on the sofa, burying his head in his clenched hands. The little shred of paper lay
sometimes on the table, sometimes on the floor, trampled on, crumpled, torn; again spread out,
and read with unabating fury. Beside it lay the glove, which together with the note had been
brought to him by Laura, and which with scarce any words she pressed upon him as the tokens of
Elinor’s falsity. He saw them and believed; they seemed to him to indicate that the meetings
between Elinor and the young soldier, which he had persuaded himself were the effects of accident,
As soon as day dawned, Leslie left the house, and continued his agitated walk up and down the garden where he knew, by many a morning’s experience, it was Elinor’s practise to walk before the breakfast hour, and where of late he had usually joined her.
The cold October air chilled his frame, the heavy rime, almost frost, weighed down the
remaining flowers and the dripping
At last, a window which opened to the ground from one of the sitting‐rooms was heard to rise, he stood still, partly hidden by the trunk of a cedar, and saw shrouded in a gray cloak, and a hood concealing her face, Elinor step into the garden, and move along the walk to his place. He instantly came forward, and silently seizing her arm, saying no word, answering no look, dragged her forward with a hand which she felt violently trembling, nor stopped till they were in the wood together, deeply hidden, as the words they had to say together required hiding. Then letting go her arm from one hand, and opening the other, he showed her the little note and the glove, which it had clenched as they came along.
“Your’s?” he said, fixing his bloodshot eyes on her face.
“Oh, it is my glove which I had lost,” said Elinor, holding out her hand for it, and looking up at Leslie, perplexed, whether to smile or yield to terror.
“And where, and how did you lose it?” said Leslie; “tell me, explain ...... confess that ......”
“How can I tell?” said Elinor, frightened, and with a trembling voice.
“No; in one sense you cannot tell, shame forbids—your false nature forbids—can you tell me this? Did that glove deliver that note? look at it.”
Elinor looked at the little paper in his fierce hand, and recognised the first words of the billet she had written months before.
“Leslie,” she said, “I do not know, how should I? it is so long ago.”
“Silence!” cried Leslie, “you can deceive me no longer; no affected innocence, no well‐continued deceit can perplex or blind me now. This is then your writing?”
“Yes,” said Elinor, earnestly looking in his face, and saying the one true word, for
“ Devil! angel! woman!” cried he. “You have failed then to deceive me! you confess—we are even again. I was on the point of believing in virtue—you fail—I am free, falsest, hardest, perfidious woman ......”
Elinor interrupted him. “What harm have I done? did not you tell me I might write to you.”
“To me! oh, well‐acted innocence! yes, I was so cunning. I thought to have surpassed you in cunning; would I had ...... any crime better than to have been smiled at till I was a fool, and for an instant to have been held in your mocking snares—but it is over—seek your other victim, if you will, follow your soldier if he will have you! I have my eyes open at last.”
“As I live and stand here, Leslie, there is no human being who cares for me, or whom I care for, but you.”
“Words! sweetest words!” cried Leslie, “falser than sweet, and crueller than false, were I
not free. But they are nothing to
“Leslie!” cried Elinor, laying her hand upon his arm.
He caught hold of her hand, and crushed it in his, like one whose nerves have escaped control, and are contracting upon the object that excites them with mechanical fury; then his hold relaxing, he flung her hand away, and uttering a groan, which at the same time he struggled to repress, lie turned, and rushed from her sight.
Elinor was changed to stone, by all that the few minutes just passed contained; she gazed on
the blank space where Leslie had been, and had said such killing words; she thought of herself,
entering the garden but now, about, as she believed, to converse with her lover, and part from
him for a few days, soon never to part again; and could by no means realise that his love had
turned to fury, that he had said he was about to leave her for ever. Her mind and body seemed
paralyzed, and when at last
The guilty cause of all this woe, once more glittering in outside show, like some splendid
serpent, was descending in apparent peace to the morning meal; but
When she beheld the young girl, she knew that her artifices had succeeded, and triumph filled her heart. Elinor, abandoned by what was all the world to her, and terrified at her own solitude, no sooner saw a familiar face, than she rose and flung herself on Laura’s shoulder, straining her in her embrace with inarticulate mourning. Laura thought of her own fine lace and muslin, which Elinor was deranging; and raising her, so as to stand free of the sorrowing girl, asked her, with a voice as kindly as she could make it, the cause of her distress.
Elinor’s explanation would hardly have made anything clear, had not Laura possessed already a
more perfect knowledge of the circumstances than she could receive. The
“Last indeed!” said Laura; “after such a parting, there can be no reconciliation. What have you done Elinor?”
“Indeed, indeed, I have done nothing! he is too cruel to me.”
“Yes, too cruel; he has been very hard on you; he should have overlooked what faults your ignorance of the world led you into. Think of him no more, give him up as he has given you.”
“I must die before I do that!” said Elinor.
“Nay, nay, dear child; dying is not the thing in question. Here, dear, take a little water ...... can’t you? well, lie down, or sit down, I will come again to you—but they are all waiting now—I will bring you a cup of tea.”
And Laura departed, going down stairs elastically, and filled with the image of her
Breakfast was nearly over when a note was brought to her brother at the other end of the table; he opened and read it to himself, and Laura all the time was obliged to keep smiling at her cousin, who sat beside her, for his last breakfast in her society, but whose words at this time conveyed no meaning to her at all.
“What have you got there, Lawrence?” she said, at last; “you look perplexed?”
“This fellow Leslie,” said he; “he writes me word that a messenger came for him from home,
and he is obliged to set off at a
“No, sir,” said the servant, who was waiting at breakfast.
“Who saw Mr. Leslie go?” said Mr. Chanson.
“It was not I, sir.”
“Go to his room. Are his things gone?”
Nothing was gone.
“Nor does he say anything about sending them,” said Mr. Chanson; “he’ll write again, I suppose—but what a nuisance for me. Now I shall have to go alone ..... I shall stay, I think.”
“Oh! no,” said Laura; “go, and perhaps he will meet you. What can have happened. Perhaps his house is burned down?”
“Perhaps he is arrested for debt?” said another.
“Perhaps the bank he deals with is stopped?” said a third; but both Mr. Chanson and Sir Peter
looked at Laura, suspecting a quarrel between her and Leslie. She neither said nor looked any
answer, but
“My dear child—Laura—sister—what is it? Speak to me—can I help you? Only tell me who has grieved you.”
“Has he not forsaken me, Lawrence? Shall I ever see him again?”
“Who is gone, Leslie! is that it? I was afraid something had gone wrong between you.”
“Oh! I have been so wrong; I have acted so foolishly. Only that little girl’s artful manœuvres bewildered me. This very morning she appointed to meet him in the garden, and I could not bear it. I ...... I ......”
“You quarrelled with him, did you? and is it that which keeps Elinor up stairs and drives Leslie away? But what right had you to quarrel with him; tell me, had you any?”
“What right!” said Laura impetuously, “except that of a betrothed woman?”
“Is it so?” said her brother seriously; “in that case I have no business to go looking after prospective votes. My business is to stay at home, and see that my sister has justice done her.”
But Laura sank almost on her knees, her arms clasping her brother all the time.
“Oh! no, Lawrence—no!—don’t ruin me quite. Any interferences of that sort would destroy my happiness for ever. He loves me—he will return to me, but it must be by his free will. Could I deign to accept a hand that did not bring a heart ...... but the heart is there—it is mine—my own fault has alienated it for an instant, but if it be left to itself it will not fail to return. If he departs at my rash word, my penitent word can recall him.”
“I thought you implied it was he who had left you?”
“I cannot measure exactly what I say. I am distracted. I came to tell you all.”
“Let me remain with you, Laura; it will be best.”
“No, no! I would not have him think you know anything that has passed between us. Go, dear Lawrence, I will recall you if it prove necessary. All I want is to have nothing concealed from you on my own part, and to be able to trust my brother through good fortune and evil.”
Real tears came into Laura’s eyes, as
LESLIE’S anger and despair carried him to the end of three days, and when those were
elapsed, the mild image of Elinor began to break through his stormy passions like present
moonlight in a sky thick with black clouds. His own harshness, exercised upon so delicate a
feature, shocked himself; her fear, her courage when she laid her soft hand upon him, her utter
bereavement when he left her in the deep wood alone, wounded his heart. He believed in all the
faults which he had believed at that moment, but he began to think they were immeasurably
punished by him; he felt himself the greater sufferer under that punishment, and when his
spirit revolted from the idea of receiving again the broken vows which she had once made him, he
When he had persuaded himself that such was the object which made him long to see her again, he at once gave way to his desire to do so, and a very short time saw him again in the neighbourhood of Chanson Wood, haunting every spot where he could hope to meet with Elinor. But it was all in vain, the cold weather caused all the shutters to be closed with declining daylight, so that he had no such chance as the summer had afforded him of investigating the dwellers of the rooms. No old favourite haunt was visited by her footstep, no morning or evening hour brought her out to behold its beauty.
Leslie wandered about for four and twenty hours, and then made his way to the house itself, and inquired for Mr. Chanson. He was not yet come home.
“Miss Chanson?” She was walking in the flower‐garden. He had not words to ask for Elinor, but
followed the servant
“Can I see Miss Ladylift?” Laura hesitated. “What! she cannot forgive me?”
“Could
“A man has always a right to forgive a woman. Where is she?”
“Mr. Leslie ...... don’t you know?”
“My God!” cried Leslie; “I have killed her!” and his wild eyes searched and commanded Laura’s face for the fearful words he expected.
“Not so,” said Laura; “but she is not here. Before I could communicate with my brother, before I could reflect what to do, she insisted on setting out for her convent.”
“Her convent?”
“After you were all gone, and I returned to her room, she had already made her
“Tell me,” said Leslie, laying hold of Miss Chanson’s arm, and speaking in a very low voice; “was she willing that he should go with her?”
“Why?” said Laura.
“Was there not another whom she expected to join her.”
Laura’s colour rose to scarlet in‐her face.
“It never occurred to me till now,” she said; and in truth, Leslie had suggested an event in the plot which Laura had overlooked in contriving it.
“Where is the companion you gave her?” cried Leslie.
“He returns to‐morrow; but surely if what you fear had occurred, I should have heard it from him.”
“I can’t tell,” said Leslie, as if unable to
“Does he think to leave me thus?” she said to herself; “is all over between us, does he suppose? and he goes without a look behind, unconscious that there is a spell upon him, and of necessity he must return.” Then as she saw him ascend the steps of the terrace, her eye could not but mark that he did so with a step very unlike the decided strong movement of his general pace. “He is ill,” she said to herself; “I may lose him even in trying to win him. Better even that, than that he should belong to another.”
The day was by this time dark, and Laura, whose general habits were luxu‐
It was ten o’clock before she reached the town; she had a humiliating part to play,
“You have done me a service, Mr. Roundel,” Laura began, “in conveying that young lady back to France.”
“Since it was for your interest, as I understand,” began Mr. Roundel.
“For her own, I beg it to be understood,” said Laura.
“Oh! certainly, certainly.”
“Did she seem delighted at returning to the convent?”
“I can hardly say delighted,” answered Mr. Roundel.
“Indeed! I am surprised at that. What could then make her wish so much to return? Did anybody come to welcome her?”
“A maid‐servant answered the bell when ......”
“No; before you reached the convent? In fact, Mr. Roundel, I have cause to suspect that her
eagerness for the journey—for the trouble of which, by the by, allow me to offer you this
note”—Mr. Roundel looked at it, and began to understand that his answers
Mr. Roundel bowed assent.
“You must be aware that her fancy for this gentleman could never be encouraged by us; but it is possible that infatuation on his part ......”
“Very possible,” said Mr. Roundel.
“What, you had reason to suspect?”
“Nay, I cannot deny I had my suspicion,” said Mr. Roundel, thinking that expression would suit whatever came next.
“Indeed! and what followed?”
“What followed?” said Mr. Roundel. “Well, to tell the truth, nothing very particular.”
“You trifle, sir; if that young man gave you cause to suspect intentions which she favoured, I conclude that you were unable to conduct your charge safely to the convent.”
“I assure you,” answered Mr. Roundel,
“Unfortunately, Mr. Roundel, I fear that
“Is it possible?” said Mr. Roundel. “At all events, I discharged my duty.”
“Undoubtedly, there is no fault of yours; but however distressing to myself to speak upon such a subject, I feel it my painful task to mention to you, that should any one inquire about her from you, you had better put an end at once to any interest taken in her, by stating that, on too good authority, you know her to be unworthy of it.”
“Upon my soul!” said Mr. Roundel; “and if particulars are asked, I can refer ......”
“It is not probable that I should enter upon such subjects,” said Laura, in the most dignified manner; “I have already said, perhaps, too much; and when I came to you, I did so as to a friend, who, I trusted, would relieve me from the necessity of saying more.”
Mr. Roundel bowed, and Laura, rising, prepared to depart.
“But if I am asked where I left the young lady,” said he, “what must I say?”
“The truth, sir,” said Laura, very loftily. “What you yourself know to have been true as to her arrival, and what you understand from me to have been true with respect to her subsequent departure.”
“I understand,” said Mr. Roundel, in a very low voice. Laura’s eyes met his; then, in a grand way, she requested his pardon for disturbing him at this late hour, and bidding him good‐night, sailed out of the house, Mr. Roundel following her to the pony carriage, and when she was gone shrugging his shoulders, and muttering an epithet I will not repeat.
The next morning, Leslie, who had passed the night in walking about a bedroom of the inn in the town, wandered forth, dragging through the time till he might inquire when Mr. Rounder’s return was likely to take place.
“Master was already at home,” the maid
Leslie received the story so calmly, and so much as a matter‐of‐fact, that Mr. Roundel became almost persuaded that he himself had been telling the truth.
“A very fine young man,” said he to himself, when, after thanking and wishing him good morning, Leslie disappeared down the street. “A fine man, and takes the result of his adventures quietly;” and with that Mr. Roundel turned back to his office.
Leslie meantime reached the inn, and wished to inquire what public conveyance would first
start on the road to his own place; but the words which he found him‐
He was known at the inn as the guest of Mr. Chanson, and when the doctor had seen him, and
declared him dangerously ill with brain fever, and when it became apparent how desirable the
presence of some responsible person might become, the landlord sent information to Chanson Wood
of what had happened. Mr. Chanson had returned the evening before, and his hospitable nature
led him at once to the desire of receiving his sick friend, and to have him nursed under his
own roof. Laura se‐
A carriage fitted up for bearing an invalid, was despatched with a handy footman. Mr. Chanson went on horseback to the inn, and before the end of the day, the unconscious Leslie was conveyed to Chanson Wood; and lay there helpless, like one entangled of old in the meshes of a corrupt and beautiful enchantress.
The struggle between life and death was more severe and more solemn than Laura had
anticipated. It lasted very long, and sometimes forced upon her the real probability of that
which she had hitherto put to herself in words only, namely, that Leslie would die. “If he
should die?” she said to herself, believing it, and trembling at what it implied, but she threw
off the image, for it was in disagreement with all, the web she had been weaving, and whatever
unfavourable report was brought her,
But it was very long before the demon of the fever could be cast out of Leslie’s frame, and
when at last it was expelled, it left him shattered, exhausted, and so utterly devoid of the
strong sense of life he had hitherto enjoyed, that it seemed to him impossible ever to be again
the free, careless, powerful being he was accustomed to be; rather, he felt that he had only
escaped the death of fever to go down more slowly, and as surely, into the grave, where all
things are dark and at rest. His mind had begun under the auspices of the pure love with which
Elinor had at last inspired him, to have healthier feelings than were habitual to it, of
happiness and of virtue; but the disappointment of his newly‐born faith and hope had swept away
all the better feelings which grew up with them, and a more gloomy scepticism as to whatever
was just and good never darkened any human
It was now five months since he had fallen down unconscious in the inn at Cantleton, and been conveyed by Mr. Chanson to his own house. He had just become able to walk about, and his only desire was to go home and die there. He felt the burthen of his obligations to Mr. Chanson and Laura, and heartily wished they had left him to perish when he fell ill, and have neither tormented him with a second long process of dying, nor with a debt to them, which nothing he could do was able to pay. He made efforts beyond his present strength in order to get away the sooner, and the re‐action when he was alone piled over his spirit the mountain weight of its oppression.
Laura watched him; and it seemed to her the moment was coming when she might finish her
enchantment, and prove whether the spell had been woven strong enough or not. She did not
deceive herself as to the fact that he loved her not; he was obliged,
It was one early April day that she proposed to him to walk for ten minutes in the
“This short walk is long for me,” said Leslie, “but my ability to perform it reminds me that I am able at last to relieve you of a burthen which you have so kindly supported. To‐morrow I will find my way home.”
“If you have resolved upon a thing,” said Laura, “you will do it; remonstrance is useless.”
“Yes,” said Leslie; “but it is a kindness in you to speed me thus.”
“The kindness of letting you free yourself from my society without useless contradiction? you
cannot say yes to that; social
“Not so much honesty,” said Leslie, “as the conviction that I am a dying man. I cannot fence with words at this time; I have strength for nothing but the bare truth, and I allow that to die in a dark corner at home, is what remains of my ambition.”
“Alas!” said Laura, “since you say those cruel words, I know that you mean them; I too have a meaning,” she went on.
“Nay, do not tell me,” said Leslie, for he felt she had a scene in store, and he shrank from the trouble of it. “There is no meaning, no purpose which has anything to do with me, or in which I have a part to bear.”
“I mean,” said Laura, suddenly, “that in your death, more die than you.”
“By no means. I was a pleasant fellow enough last year, but this one, I am a mere curtain, a drop‐scene; when I am pulled away, all the stage will be bright again.”
“And all this for the sake of one who is
“One,” said Leslie, shuddering, “whose name must not be a sound again, for God’s sake. Unspoken as it is, it galvanizes life back to my heart.”
“Forgive me, Leslie, I am grieved to have said it.”
“Forgive!” he answered,
“No, not idle,” said Laura, “I am not without need of forgiveness, though others want it more.”
“Don’t say so, for you do not mean it, nor have I wit or strength to unravel your feigned humility. In my best days I always was idle about contradicting those who spoke ill of themselves.”
“You are hard,” said Laura, “and oblige me to look very narrowly to my judgment of myself. Perhaps you are right; though I may have done a wrong thing, still it is possible that, like Othello, I was not the most guilty.”
“‘More sinned against, than sinning,’” said Leslie; “I told you so.”
Laura paused, she thought he would ask in what she had been sinned against, but he said nothing, and she was obliged herself to make use of the opportunity she had opened. After a minute’s silence, therefore she resumed.
“Society makes crimes out of things which are innocent by Nature. When man is in prosperity a woman is obliged to deny that his good or evil destiny can interest her, but when fortune has forsaken him, when he is unhappy, ill, lonely, is it unwomanly then to say she feels for him?”
“Alas!” said Leslie, “I am not deserving of one kind feeling. I tell you truly that I cannot rouse one in return, for any human creature. Who could, when his grave was dug, his shroud making?”
“Do not talk thus, Leslie; even were it true, a woman, were she friend, sister, wife, would know no comfort, except to watch and support every step which remained of his earthly career to one in such trouble.”
“I am no judge of that,” said Leslie, smiling; “I think, however for my own part, that I am like an unsociable lion, who stalks into the wilderness to die, and leaves the lionesses to enjoy themselves in the world again, when he is gone.”
“The world,” said Laura, forcing back conversation to a grave tone, “looks to
“Nay,” said Leslie, “it cannot be so unjust.”
“Cannot be!” cried Laura; “why use that vain phrase when nothing is more certain than that it
“On the contrary,” said Leslie, “our manly phrase is that we are much flattered by such generosity.”
“And your meaning is that, you despise it.”
“That depends upon whether it gives pleasure. For my part,” he went on, “she
“Yes, I must say what I have to say; I am wrong to do so, but your desolate words wring it from me. I liked you prosperous, I love you miserable; answer what you will, these are plain words—I cannot deceive.”
“Oh no! I can never be deceived again, I can never feel again. I tell you truly, those words of yours leave me unmoved, therefore unsay them. I can easily forget.”
“No, Leslie, they are as true as that they have been spoken.”
“They have a meaning, certainly,” said Leslie, “but hardly that which they bear at first sight. Let us understand each other: do you believe that busy bodies would respect you more if you bore my name? A dying man’s name is not much to give.”
“Leslie, can you think, that even if the world has been so unjust, (and so it may have been), such selfish thoughts can prompt me in what I say?”
“Call them by some other title than selfish thoughts, and they seem a fair motive enough. Only be honest with yourself; confess to yourself that you are moved by some such motive, and that you know I am so indifferent to the whole world that I cannot love nor esteem any member of it; nay, that kind words, such as you have used, pain or annoy me, more than any amount of indifference.”
“You hate me for them,” said Laura.
“No, I cannot hate, I cannot love; it is to me as if you said my name could be useful to you, and as if I hesitated whether to give it or not. Can you still wish it?”
“Can I do otherwise?” said Laura.
“Yet reflect: should you not buy too dear the suppression of certain rumours which you say exist, if to attain that end, you must undertake to walk by a dying man to his grave?”
“Leslie, you know me, or affect to know me very little. I have said the word which once you
almost said to me, I have truly said it; you knew long since, that you were dear to me—you
forget it—it was indifferent to you. It was not
“Remember, even those words leave my heart unmoved. Laura forgive me, but I seem to myself like the statue of stone, upon taking whose hand we have all seen such unpleasant consequences ensue at the opera.”
“Can you jest?” said Laura.
“No, I will not—I will calculate. I hear those strange words of yours comparing them with
scenes which I confess remain in my memory. I reflect on the evil you say the world has cast on
you. I repeat that I feel nothing, and that what I do, or what I forbear is indifferent to me.
And after that—if you will—
Laura held out her hand, he took it; not
Pale, unanimated, uncongenial, these two went slowly along the walk, while the clouds of a suddenly overcast spring sky veiled the light of the day. It was like Adam and Eve wandering through the world after they were cast out of Paradise.
Next day Leslie told Mr. Chanson of his engagement with Laura, and departed to his own house.
All approach to tenderness on the part of Laura, he treated as if it aid not exist, and Mr.
Chanson, a matter‐of‐fact man, was completely puzzled. But Laura was contented. The project
which had seemed almost impossible was executed; and when she pondered over the situation in
which she found herself, she shut her eyes upon the fact that Leslie’s misery was her own
creation, and dwelt upon that of attaching herself to an un‐
Leslie meantime reached the Tower in a state of perfect exhaustion, and he thought with
pleasure that the next tidings Laura would receive of her bridegroom, would be in the formal
style, and on the formal deep‐edged paper of the undertaker. He sank into a stupified sleep, at
the length of which the few servants in his house were too uninterested in their master to
wonder, and probably did him the best service in their power by neglect. He woke and wondered
that he did so, and now without rule and without physic, proceeded to live or die, just as day
by day might determine. His time was passed in the most absolute solitude, so that through the
twenty‐four hours he would sometimes not find occasion to utter a word; he would lie at length
on an easy chair, his gloomy eyes fixed on one spot, or wander into the air, and out of sight,
nobody knew whether afar off, or just hidden by the first
In this mental condition, he wrote several times to Laura, to break off the engagement
LESLIE’S excuse to himself for marrying as he did, was the ever present conviction that he must die. But for that sick state of mind he could have done no such thing. He believed the world to be closed upon him, and circumstances drifting him towards Laura, he had wearily yielded himself to them for the few months he expected to know the last of life, and its society.
Time, however, as any one more accustomed to illness would have anticipated, produced a
gradual amelioration; and it was with reluctance that Leslie found himself compelled to
acknowledge a renewal of the life which his will was ever prompt to lay down. The commonplace
matters of a household in which he was called to act, did
Thus through the winter he went on resuming his intellectual health, though the moral sank to
a lower and lower tone, as he continually reflected on the dream of innocence and virtue which
had existed only to make him the dupe of a girl of seventeen. That false girl was ever present
to his ideas, he repented his forbear‐
“But did not I myself bid her follow her soldier, if he would have her?” he repeated to himself. “Heaven! how infinitely far was I from believing such a coarse word could resemble the truth.”
He had more thoroughly believed that he was speaking the truth, when he told Laura, that in
marrying her, she was perfectly indifferent to him. So she was indeed, and very soon did Laura,
after reaching the point she had allowed to dazzle her, begin the descent which led away from
that glittering height. All her life she had so far taken pleasure in being popular, as to make
people as comfortable as she readily could; her brother’s habits and fancies, her cousin’s
whims and wishes, she had never traversed, nay, much more had promoted, and this same
patronising and good‐
“Poor Laura” he said to himself,“I promised her I would die, and here she is suffering all the penalties of believing me. I am sure I intended it.”
Laura’s goodhumour soon gave way to
Rather more than a twelvemonth had passed since their ill‐omened marriage; and however
apparent the unsuitableness of Laura’s character became, the secret of her machinations
remained undiscovered. In the early days of her marriage, the apprehension that some chance
might reveal it, had continually haunted her. Every letter which she saw Leslie reading made
her anxious; she watched his face for the sudden lighting of discovery; she dreaded when he put
it by and said nothing about the contents, that suspicion had been excited which he would
silently follow out; she examined his letters before they reached him, if she found it possible
to do so; and
But as time went by and no revelation took place, as Leslie remained unaltered, and no kind of allusion to the past ever arose between them, the silence in which all was involved began to give her confidence, and that which might have happened at any moment, and which did not happen, seemed like a thing gone into oblivion, which never could possess a tangible shape again.
Laura grew bold in impunity, and then followed the reflection that she had secured the
position she now occupied beyond the
In this uneasy state, irritation arose out of many a trivial circumstance; harsh words were
said on her side; cold scorn of them was implied on his; he forgot them, and was neither more
nor less annoyed by the companion who had forced herself upon him than he had expected to be;
his interests were all apart from her, and were
In these circumstances Mr. Chanson found them, when, in the end of the autumn following their
marriage, he re‐
They were all three one afternoon upon the terrace of the Tower, where the building wanted
most repair, and where Leslie had arranged some plans of alteration.
“I should not wish this picturesque building spoiled,” said Laura; “should you, Lawrence?”
“No, who would?”
“We don’t agree about the way of restoring it,” said Leslie.
“No; I incline for preserving the character of the building. I don’t see any reason for
destroying a beautiful thing,
“Look here, Lawrence,” said his host; “this fragment of a wall fell when I was a boy, climbing the Tower. It and I came down together.”
“And you not killed?” said the Squire.
“So it seems,” said Leslie.
“Is that the reason,” asked Laura; “why you mean to leave the Tower with a great rent in it?”
“But I don’t mean to do so.”
“Nay, the other day when I showed you my idea of the restoration, I understood you to say it did not suit you to do anything to the Tower.”
“Pardon me, I did not feel the merit of your suggestion; but I was and am aware, that restoration of some kind is essential.”
“When do you mean to begin building,” said Mr. Chanson.
“I have not thought much about it,” said Leslie.
“Then you may leave it to me. I have thought, and I have a right to do as I
“What is your meaning?” said Leslie.
“Once I could do as I pleased with all that was then my own.”
“That’s a strange observation,” said Leslie; “let us speak of it this once, because your brother is here. Lawrence, I beg of you to say whether the implied reproach is well founded.”
“Laura, my dear, really I am obliged to acknowledge that for once you are wrong. Leslie’s magnificence to you ...... do recollect!”
“Wrong? did you ever say such a word as that to me, while I was so happy in your house.”
“One more word,” said Leslie; “be just with yourself. In bringing you here, did I deceive you?”
“Oh, dear no!
“What are you saying or meaning,” said her brother, who observed Leslie’s
“It is quite true,” said he to Mr. Chanson, “that I was strangely deceived by one to whom your sister alludes.”
“No, no, Leslie!” cried Laura; “I did not mean that.”
“What do you mean? What does anybody mean?” said Mr. Chanson.
“It is best to cast away secrets,” said Leslie; “who could bear one clinging about him like a poisoned shirt? That young girl ......”
“What! Elinor?” said Mr. Chanson; “nay, Laura told me all about her the very day we parted, when Peter took the place with me which you threw up, and went I know not where ...... but what does it matter? Laura forgave you.”
“Forgave me?” said Leslie.
“Well, whatever word lovers please to use. You were reconciled at all events, for here you are man and wife.”
“Do choose some other topic for discussion,” said Laura; “I will explain what he means presently,” she added, in a low voice to Leslie.
“No, allow me to understand your brother,” said Leslie; “I remember the day perfectly, but being absent, you know, I was not aware of the movements of the rest of the party. Your nephew took my place?”
“He did. Laura persuaded him.”
“Yes,” said Laura; “they travelled part of their journey together. Now, Lawrence, you promised to walk to the brook. Let us go, or it will be too late.”
“Well, if you wish it,” said her brother; but Leslie interposed.
“Did you ever learn where Sir Peter went when you parted?”
“To Ceylon, man! We all know that..”
“But in the interval between the time
“Nowhere at all,” answered Mr. Chanson, “except where I went. I never did part with him till he went abroad. How could he go anywhere?”
“I heard a very different tale,” said Laura.
“That’s unaccountable,” said Mr. Chanson; “why, you know very well that I went to sea with him for a dozen miles, and came back in Mendip’s yacht.”
“Are you sure,” said Leslie to Laura in the commonplace tone of conversation; “that you
“Did not
“Yes. I was told another.”
“And believed it,” whispered Laura, under her breath.
Leslie looked at her fixedly. Mr. Chanson went on speaking. “Peter was sorry enough that his
visit was at an end. He was a great admirer of Laura, and in a
“Do you speak so easily of what passed?” said Leslie.
“Why not? if she had liked him it would have been all very well.”
“She had no mind to marry so poor a man,” said Laura.
“Poor little thing! Any fate would have been better than shutting herself up in the nunnery,” said Mr. Chanson; “I often think of her.”
“She is there?” said Leslie, in a voice of perfect composure, and Laura could not but start at the self‐command which enabled him to catch at the revelation her brother was unconsciously making without betraying that it was new to him.
“Certainly; it was entirely her own choice to go there, was not it, Laura?”
“Her own, solely, I suppose we must conclude,” said Laura.
“You hear of her sometimes?” asked Leslie.
“Yes; every three months an ecclesiastic
“You have never failed to hear from him?” asked Leslie.
“No, except when I was absent from home. Laura had the letter then. Did not she mention it?”
“Not I,” said Laura; “was it worth while? I am tired of the subject—I am cold. I shall go in ......” and she departed, walking leisurely towards the house.
“I see how it is,” said Mr. Chanson; “Laura has not quite forgotten the fit of jealousy which Elinor caused her, but take no notice of it. Women are naturally unreasonable, and must be allowed for.”
“In what have I given her cause?” said Leslie.
“Oh! I am alluding to the time before your marriage, to your great quarrel, when we all parted.”
“She complained to you?”
“No, no! don’t think it; but seeing her so unhappy, I could not but inquire the cause, and then, for the first time I learned your engagement, and her fears that Elinor had entangled you, though in love all the time herself with young Bicester.”
“All that, she told you?”
“Yes.”
“Indeed!” said Leslie; “never mind. I begin to understand. And Sir Peter, what did he say?”
“I never said much to him on the subject. But in what little he did, say, he alleged in his own excuse that having learned your engagement to Laura, from Laura herself, he thought himself entitled to make love to Elinor, as you had no right to do so—all the time acknowledging that she avoided him as much as she could, and that he was wrong to have so persecuted her.”
“Did he say that?” asked Leslie; then, as Mr. Chanson made no answer beyond a brief “Ay,” he
repeated in a tone which
“Yes: honourable of him was it not? I should have been quite deceived in that young girl had not Laura told me beforehand of her little skittish ways.”
Leslie kept silence, but with a sudden effort he broke in two the short stick which he held in his hand; his brother‐in‐law looked at him in astonishment.
“By Jove! that’s a strong arm. Is it some trick? How do you do it?”
“Sometimes one has a wish to do a strong thing,” said Leslie, pitching away the broken pieces.
Mr. Chanson rose from the stone wall where he had been sitting. Leslie also moved, and took the way towards the house, whither, following the impulse thus given, the Squire also bent his steps, and entering it by the first door they came to, Mr. Chanson turned into the hall, and Leslie, the moment he was alone, strode up stairs in quest of Laura.
She knew he was coming, but did not
“I am come to demand account from you of the deceit you have practised upon me.”
“Have I deceived you?” said Laura; “did you believe me?”
“Yes; a lie like yours there is no defence against. Unsay it.”
“What am I to say and unsay?”
“Where is that young girl?”
“Whom do you mean?” said Laura.
“Elinor Ladylift.”
Laura laughed. “You speak out. Elinor Ladylift is in the convent of St. Cécile. You heard my brother say so.”
“Did she at once go there, stay there? did no one ever seek her there? did she take refuge and remain there?”
“So Lawrence said.”
“You dare not trifle!” said Leslie, striking the table with his hand, and advancing a step nearer to Laura. “Do you know it of your own knowledge?”
“I know nothing to the contrary,” said Laura.
“You acknowledge, then, that your representations were false .......”
“False!” said Laura.
“Go on. There was a letter brought to me by yourself. Explain it.”
“I have often brought you letters,” said Laura.
“There was a letter purporting to be written by Elinor Ladylift to your cousin Bicester. Was that letter a forgery?”
“It was her writing,” said Laura.
“What is behind in your meaning? Dare you say she sent it to him? Dare you .....”
“I did dare, and it answered my purpose,” said Laura; “you believed. I could have laughed at times to think how the great, manly intellect yielded to despised woman.”
“Laugh! yes,” said Leslie; “that is the very word for perfidy and crime which in due time have lost their covering, and are carrying you to the ruin you have wrought for others.”
Laura sprang up. “Nay, not so; guilty I have been, but what has made me so? Miserable I may be, but I ventured all for that which I have won—I am yours!—you are mine! In that hope I knew nothing, cared for nothing, except itself. Whatever I have done, you, you Leslie should pardon me, for that for which I perilled my very soul was your love!”
But Leslie drew back as she approached him. “Love!” he said; “is it by that name you call a
vile fancy which was con‐
He left the room at once. Laura sprang up before he was gone, and called him, but he closed
the door and went to his room. Here, like a man who once possessing the amulet that ensured the
blessing of his life, and who, dropping it into some profound lake, stands despairingly gazing
into the waters; did Leslie stand awhile, horror‐stricken at the knowledge of his own fate. All
that he had left behind he now saw and knew; all the clouds that had hidden past actions rolled
away, and left the view of the sunny land behind him, which he
Springing out of the first torpor, he took measures at once to leave the Tower. He provided
himself with what money was in the house; he thrust his papers and letters into the drawers,
and summoning a servant, bade him instantly prepare what was necessary for a journey, and bring
it after him to the neighbouring town, whither he himself would proceed at once on foot. To put
himself into action was the only relief he could find, and hastily he passed through
When joined by his servant, he took charge himself of the portmanteau, sending back the man without message or explanation, and hastened alone with all possible despatch to the coast. Here he took the first conveyance which crossed the sea, and was put ashore at early dawn on the Breton coast, at a village but a few miles from St. Cécile’s nunnery.
It was Thursday, and he remembered having heard Elinor say that Thursday was the day on which
the pensioners were chiefly permitted to receive their visitors. He therefore pressed forward
with all haste to add one more chance to those shadowy chances which remained of ever beholding
that dear face again, but his heart died within him to think how faint they were; sixteen
months’ grief, neglect, Time, what had they done? Was she even there? was
At this door he knocked, and presented a letter he had prepared, entreating per‐
“Qui me demande?” and Elinor stood there looking at the group within.
“One not worthy so much as to ask pardon,” said Leslie, turning to her and approaching.
“Mr. Leslie!” cried Elinor, starting as if a bullet had struck her heart.
“That’s the last word you said when I last beheld you,” said Leslie; “if I was mad then—if there was a curse upon me, can you forgive me?”
“I forgave you long since,” said Elinor.
“That is, you would wish me no harm,” said Leslie; “but is that all—is forgiveness only that?”
“Yes, only that” said Elinor; “but indeed, full and free forgiveness, for though you were
more unjust than I understood, you know that,
“No! no! no!” said Leslie, taking her hand, and drawing her to the window, while he spoke very low. “It is not all so lost between us. You are to me all that woman can be to man. You have my destiny in your hand; you must hear me.”
“There is nothing to hear,” said Elinor; “you renounced me, and I found shelter here. Your wife sent me.”
“I have none,” said Leslie.
“How! I know from herself that you have married Miss Chanson.”
“No; there is a fiend who lays claim to me; a serpent stole round me, but I am free!”
“You speak madly,” said Elinor; “I will go. May you be happy! Farewell!”
“Is that all? you loved me once, Elinor.”
“I try to forget all the past,” said Elinor. “It is quite gone... Let me go now.”
“You try? Do you say that? Alas! is it your will never to see me again?”
She did but bow her head as if in assent, but he felt her trembling hand.
“Oh, my beautiful! my perfect!” he cried, grasping that hand and trying to look into her eyes; “you love me still! that love is still there. You are too true and good to say ‘No!’ when you cannot but say to yourself ‘It is Yes!”’ Elinor hid her face as far as she could on her own shoulder, the tears ran down her cheeks. “You loved me once,” he repeated.
“You tried to make me,” said Elinor.
“ Oh, angel! I did. It was long before your heart gave way; very long before your colour mounted when I came, but it did at last, and you never can forget it.”
A sob broke from Elinor.
“La pauvre enfant,” said the old mother, who was present; “laissons les!”
“Mais, ma mère, c’est si joli,” whispered the young pensioner.
“Fi, donc, Jacqueline! un jour cela t’arrivera à toi, peutêtre. Faut être compatissant,” and the good woman drew away her girls, leaving the room to Leslie and Elinor.
Leslie drew a chair for her, and sank down before her. “I have been so miserable,” he said, dropping his face on her knees, “I am so—not at this moment, with your precious hand in mine, but if I loose it and am again what I was before I grasped it, I cannot go on living, I must die.”
“It would be best if we both could die,” said Elinor, “for on earth we must part for ever.”
“Then you, you—are
“No!” said Elinor, hiding her face and weeping.
“Alas! and once we were so near it—a word or two was all that was between it
“How
“Was I not mad? was I not a fallen spirit, into whose hands an angelic one had been put? But you are here again to save me; it is your destiny to save me.”
“Do not talk idly; you have chosen your companion; your wife ......”
“Wife, hush! hush! there is one whom my heart acknowledges—here, this is my lawful wife. That woman is a mere adultress.”
“You frighten me, Leslie.”
“Ah! save me from what frightens myself—come with me now. Rise, fly with me. The world is waiting for us outside that open door. We cannot stay in prison; home, paradise, innocence, wait for us there! Come, my own Elinor!”
Elinor’s eyes raised to his face, reminded him of that day, now two years old, when
“Could I leave my Mother so? Would she allow it?”
“No, no; but to be happy is our nature. I am good if I am happy, but make me miserable, Elinor, and what crimes lie before me!”
“Nay,” said Elinor, “we need not be happy, but we must be good.”
“Are not those two things one,” said Leslie; “if it lie in your power to render a human creature the most blessed being on the earth, would you not do wrong to leave him in his misery? Must not that be wrong?”
“I cannot tell,” said Elinor; “we must wait—one day, no doubt, we shall be happy.”
“And will our youth wait for us, will our life wait?”
“Oh no!” said Elinor, “and I wish, with all my heart I wish, that we were old, and sick, and infirm, for then we should be near the land where I may come to you.”
“Ah Elinor! but should those lands be dreams! Hear me! ......”
“I cannot, dear Leslie—oh yes! indeed you are
“You have brought her bad news, I fear,” said the Superior.
“Yes, bad news,” repeated Leslie, mechanically.
“Poor child! she has need of good. Ever since she came back here so suddenly,
“I know scarcely anything about them,” said Leslie.
“Yet you came from them to her, I understood.”
“Yes,” said Leslie, “I am acquainted with them, but they are people perfectly indifferent to me.”
“Do you think anything happened there to make her unhappy? Who visited chiefly at the house?”
“I knew one, a mere fool,” said Leslie, “he thought himself clever, and was the gull of every female and male idiot that chose to deceive him.”
“Then he it could not be, whom she regrets.”
“Does she regret some one?”
“I cannot tell; her confessor knows; if she have proved the vanity of
“God forbid!” cried Leslie.
“And why, sir? Do you think she has no vocation?”
“Vocation!” repeated Leslie, hardly knowing what he said.
“Before she went to England, I thought so too,” said the lady, “but experience of the world’s emptiness and sorrow, often work a change for the better in the heart.”
“Alas!” said Leslie.
“There would be a difficulty, of which you are perhaps aware,” said the Superior.
“Difficulty? yes, no doubt—what is it?”
“When we have devoted ourselves to our profession, and have no leisure for the works which earn a living, we must have means of subsistence, live as hardly as we will. Therefore those who enter here for a life of devotion must be able to support themselves and others, by contributing to the general stock, or else they must come as menials, which would not do for her ...... but Elinor is so very poor.”
“Is she poor?” said Leslie, with infinite pity in his voice.
“She has perhaps ten thousand francs
“Oh! my Elinor!” groaned Leslie.
“With that she boards, and though it is too little, we keep the precious child among us, and she nurses, teaches, works, up to her best strength to make up what is wanted.”
“Madam,” said Leslie, “your society is most worthy, most deserving, would not a few thousand francs, bestowed on it in her name, secure her more comforts, more ease?”
“Such a donation might enable her to assume the veil,” said the Superior.
Leslie shrank as if his hand had found itself on the bag of a nest of hornets.
“Don’t let her do that, Reverend Mother,” said he; “what is so dangerous as to encourage vows which are not voluntary, or of which the vower may repent? You might have a sin to answer for.”
“Fear not,” said the Superior, with dignity, “that we need the advice of a stranger in guiding our flock.”
“No, no, I am aware of that—yet I entreat you forbid her to become a nun.”
“Leave her to us, young man,” said the Superior.
“I must see her again,” said Leslie.
“Nay, your interview has already been long.”
“And write to her.”
“Give me your letter, if you wish to write, she shall have it.”
“But if she wishes it, I may return.”
“If she does not wish it, you cannot.”
“And you will influence her. Oh! madam, there are miseries in the world, so great that you would pity the very devils whom you hate, for suffering them.”
“There is a refuge from all,” the Superior began—but Leslie broke away.
“I can’t hear it now; preach to ease, not to the rack. Let me go,” and he rushed away in a state of mind almost beyond his own control.
For several days he wandered round the Convent, asking admittance, and still refused,
offering rewards to get a letter con‐
Violent were the passions of the strong but fettered man, fierce the hatred of the powerful but baffled intellect; wild was the fury of the man, who believed in but one world of good, and saw the mortal moments passing away, unenjoyed, and irretrievable.
Out of those hours arose a purpose. The reader sees the man, and knows the deed. From the
premises laid before him, he need not indeed have concluded that even that man would do that
deed; but since it was told, in 1855, that the husband killed the wife, so now, in 1860, it is
explained