Volume 4 — CHAPTER VIII. ELLEN'S HISTORY.
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Ellen D'Aubrey was the daughter of an Irish officer, who her mother (Ellen Carpenter) had married against the wishes of her family. Our heroine was their only child. {191} Soon after her birth the mother, Mrs. D'Aubrey, fell into delicate health, and years of pain and suffering ensued, after which she died, leaving Ellen, then ten years old, to condole her husband for her loss. This, however, was not so easy, for Captain D'Aubrey had truly loved his refined and gentle wife, and the illness she had borne with so much sweetness and patience had the more endeared her to him; besides which, during that sickness he had learned many important lessons. Up to that time his wife, though amiable and affectionate, had thought but little on serious subjects, and he, though nominally a Catholic, had neglected his religion. But when sorrow came, and the wife and mother became aware that though she might linger on a while, she could not regain health, and must leave behind her those so dear to her, then an anxiety for future reunion took possession of her. She began to question her husband of religion, and he, recalling for her solace the lessons of his youth, became himself impressed with their importance. Catholic truth and Catholic consolation were poured into the soul of the departing wife, and having procured her every necessary aid, the captain imparted himself a great consolation by promising to watch over the education of their darling child, and endeavor to bring her up in the faithful performance of her duties as a Catholic Christian, without endangering her faith by permitting her to frequent schools or society hostile to her religion.
The noble-hearted captain had scarcely closed the eyes of the being he held so dear, than he began to consider how he might best fulfil his promise. He sold his commission, and living on a small annuity which he possessed, applied himself to develop in his child the powers that lay enfolded in her soul; but above all, he sought to cherish and to strengthen religious principle. Well did the little Ellen repay his care. At that time, in England, there were few exterior aids to religion. Catholic chapels were few and far apart. One priest attended many missions, and these but stealthily; but so much the more sedulously did the captain endeavor to infuse the spirit of religion into the soul of his child, and to animate her with patience, meekness, humility, and universal charity. Loving and beloved, she grew up beneath her father's eye like a beautiful flower, reciprocating his tenderness, and increasing daily in beauty and accomplishments. Suddenly a dark cloud lowered above that happy home. Captain D'Aubrey was seized with a fever, and in three days expired, leaving Ellen, at the age of sixteen, an orphan, almost penniless, cast upon the world's cold charity.
Strangers made out her connexions, for Ellen was stupefied by the blow. Strangers wrote to Mrs. Carpenter, her maternal grandmother, and before Ellen well knew what she was about she was travelling south with an old lady, who endeavored in vain to rouse her from her sorrow.
When the captain's affairs were arranged, but little was found remaining. His annuity ceased at his death. It had just sufficed for their maintenance; and as the sale of the furniture amounted to very little, the poor girl was utterly dependent.
Such was the account given by Mrs. Carpenter to Mrs. Barford, her married daughter, with whom, being herself a widow, she then resided. Mrs. Barford had married a man whose character was the very reverse of that of Ellen's father. He was a thorough business-like, money-making instrument, having no higher idea than to be continually extending his business, no higher ambition than to be mayor of the city in which he resided. Already he was a great man in his own estimation, and he intended that his family should become of importance also. This couple received Ellen but coldly, though she hardly knew or felt it, for she was as yet absorbed in grief. Mrs. Carpenter intended to be kind, and insisted on Ellen's grief being respected. {192} A week or two passed, then it was proposed one Sunday to Ellen to go with the family to church. She excused herself. Another week passed—and the same proposal was repeated. On this she was closely questioned as to the reason why; and when Mr. Barford came at length to understand that Ellen was a Catholic, his anger knew no bounds. A Catholic in his own house! He feed popery! He foster rebellion! He countenance powder-plots! The thing was impossible! the girl must leave the house—she would corrupt the children, contaminate the servants, compromise his respectability, pervert the neighborhood; in short, breed every kind of disorder and endanger his position. Go she must. In vain his wife pleaded that the poor girl had nowhere to go to; she was obliged to summon Mrs. Carpenter to her aid. As the old lady had plenty of money, Mr. Barford held her habitually in respect, especially as she could will it as she pleased; therefore, when she insisted that where she was her grand-daughter should find a home, the great man yielded, and among themselves they arranged a plan which was to counteract the evil influence they dreaded. Mrs. Carpenter undertook to watch Ellen closely, and by degrees to win her from her papistry: and as there was no papist church in the locality, the neighbors need not even know what her religion was.
As for powder-plots, the good old lady argued that a girl of sixteen, without friends, money, or resources, could not effect much against the government, so she was not uneasy on that score. Silenced, but not convinced, Mr. Barford, who dared not disoblige his wife's mother, said no more on the subject to her, but he determined to keep a sharp lookout, and nip in the bud any incipient conspiracy. But under these influences, the poor girl's happiness was sadly compromised. Her grandmother undertook to enlighten her as to the character of these papists, to show her what a terrible set these unfortunate, benighted idolaters are, and so to bring her round to the Protestant establishment. Most horrible tales of conspiracies, plots, martyrdoms, inquisitorial victimizing, and every species of villanous scheming for the overthrow of pure religion, were recounted to her. These failing to make impression, the sin of idolatry was brought home to herself, and on Fridays the crime of not eating meat was by no means accounted a small one. A regular series of petty persecutions were commenced, the children of the family were taught to distrust her; she was not allowed to make acquaintances in the neighborhood, nor to stir out, save at her grandmother's side.
The old lady meant well in the part she took in this; she was not aware of the greater portion of the annoyance Ellen underwent, and she thought time only was wanted to enable her to throw off the prejudices of her education. She really liked Ellen for her refinement and gentleness, and kept her as much as she could about her. She made her read to her, and wait upon her; and though the books were not to Ellen's taste, yet this was by far the most tolerable portion of her existence. But even of this small alleviation, Mrs. Barford grew jealous; she was greatly afraid that her mother would leave too great a portion of her wealth to the poor orphan girl, and her harshness increased in proportion as Mrs. Carpenter's partiality manifested itself. She did not hesitate to impute the most unworthy motives to Ellen for paying such kind and respectful attentions to her grandmother, for Ellen's conduct contrasted too painfully with that of the unruly children of the household; and when by her reproaches Mrs. Barford drew tears from the poor girl's eyes, she would bid her "go and warm herself into her grandmother's favor, by her Jesuitical caresses and her crocodile tears." {193} Poor girl! it was no wonder that she became pale and thin and miserable; but instead of being induced to give up her religion, she clung to it the more, the more she stood in need of consolation. And thus a year, a long and dreary year, had passed away. At length a partial respite came. Mrs. Carpenter was taken sick; Ellen waited on her most assiduously; but although she could scarcely be spared as a nurse, on account of the comfort her presence seemed to afford the sick, yet Mrs. Barford's jealousy, and her husband's ill-treatment, considerably increased. Measures were often spoken of between this amiable pair, and plans devised to effect an estrangement between Ellen and her grandmother. The old lady partially recover, and then Mrs. Barford grew eloquent on the wonderful effects of a change of air. By dint of manoeuvering, she at length made the poor sick woman consent to dispense with Ellen's attendance at the watering-place to which they were bound. Mrs. Barford went herself to take care of her mother, and her children accompanied her.
* * * * * * Ellen was now virtually alone, for Mr. Barford was engaged in his business, and not wish to be troubled with her company, even at his meals. What a relief! Ellen heard the carriage drive from the door with a feeling of release from bitter thraldom. How long it might last she knew not, but certainly for some weeks. She read her own books —her father's books—so long concealed at the bottom of her chest. She opened the piano, and sang the hymns of the church. She took out her sketch-book, and reviewed the seems she had visited with her father.
At once her spirits rose, her eyes sparkled, her animation returned, and at the close of the day she retired to rest, for the first time in that house, with a light and joyous spirit. The next morning she was up with the lark. She opened her window to inhale the balmy air, and a gush of joy came over her as she felt that she was secure from annoyance at least for a time. A hasty breakfast was soon despatched, and the fragrant, breeze driving in at the window, attracted her attention to the flowery meadows. Her spirits were too keen to permit her to sit still, and as the bright sunshine poured in upon her, she asked herself why she should not enjoy it out of doors; she had been imprisoned so long, and now there was no one to rebuke or find fault with what she did. She could not withstand the temptation. "I will go and sketch the ruins of the abbey," she said, "and meditate on the times the good old monks were there." Sketch-book in hand she sallied forth. The streets of the city were soon traversed, and the avenues leading to the ruins more slowly paced. The morning was one of most glorious beauty. The birds sang in the new-leafing groves, the busy bees hummed, and the dew-drops clinging to the tips of the fresh-springing grass, presented a most dazzling appearance as, waving in the sunshine, they reflected hues of every color, and freshened with new life the whole creation. Ellen's spirits were at their height; yet with somewhat of a solemn step she approached the hallowed solitudes. None was there save herself—at least she perceived none. Long she wandered within the precincts trodden by holy feet of old, and at length sat down on a fallen tree to begin her sketch.
The ruin had formerly been surrounded by a moat; even now one side of this remained, and communicated with the river. By the side of this, our heroine took her seat on the fallen tree. How long she sat she knew not. It was a great delight to her once more to handle the pencil so long laid aside. She worked as if inspired, and the main features were at length described with taste and accuracy. In her eagerness she had untied her bonnet, (which was a close one, covering her face, after the fashion of those days,) and pushed it slightly back, {194} thus displaying her animated features, unconscious the while that a stranger was gazing at her, and that for upward of an hour he had been tracing her features in his gratified imagination.
At length she rose to depart, but as she was putting up her sketch, her bonnet fell from her head, and would have rolled into the river had not the stranger caught it, as it reached the brink, and gracefully restored it to her. He was older than herself and wore an officer's uniform. Could there be any harm in thanking him, and in unfolding, at his request, the sketch which had occasioned the accident? Ellen thought not of harm. She was unversed in the world's ways, and had experienced more of its annoyances than its dangers. Insensibly a conversation was entered into. It was prolonged until the shadows proclaimed that the sun was verging to the west. The stranger was evidently pleased and surprised at Ellen's keen sense of natural and artistic beauty, and at the simple yet poetic manner in which she clothed her ideas. The themes dilated on touched exactly his favorite hobby, and it was evidently a gratification to him to find one fresh in feeling, endowed with genius and beauty, who could appreciate his feelings and sympathize with his artistic tastes.
Reluctantly he parted with his companion, and on the morrow he seemed intuitively to know where he should find her, to renew the enjoyment of the previous day. Another day came, and another, until at length it became a matter of course that the two should meet. And still it was only poetry, or music, or painting, that occupied them. Why, then, did Ellen half surmise that the meeting was wrong? One day she did keep away, and thought she would try to do so always, but the hours hung heavily on her hands, and her resolution failed; so the walks continued.
At length the period for her aunt's return arrived, and not only must she expect to be virtually imprisoned as before, but the dread of what her aunt would say when she heard (as surely from some kind, gossiping neighbor she would hear) of her daily interviews with a strange gentleman, broke upon her. Why had she not thought of this before? Why had she yielded to the temptation? All too late those questions now, and those only who know what it is to live amid insult and neglect can appreciate her feelings or estimate the temptations to which she was exposed.
The stranger, who called himself Colonel Ellwood, had travelled much; he spoke to her of Italy, of Spain, of France; he had brought her a rosary which the Pope had blessed, and had described to her in glowing terms many of the ceremonies which he has witnessed. Why should she distrust him? With tears in her eyes she told him that in two days her aunt was expected home, and that these interviews must cease. "Indeed," she added, "I am afraid my aunt will half-kill me when she finds they have ever taken place."
"Then why not forestall her return by your own departure?"
"And to what quarter of the world should I go?' asked Ellen.
"If, sweet lady, you would trust yourself with me," said Colonel Ellwood.
Ellen started and shrank back, but the colonel followed her, saying: "Nay, do me not the injustice to suppose that I would wrong you; the impression you have made upon me is for life; your happiness, your honor, are as dear to me as my own soul. It is marriage I offer you—a bona fide marriage, though a private one. My circumstances at this moment are peculiar. But fly with me, and a Catholic priest shall bless our union; I swear it on my honor."
Ellen hesitated, but her very hesitation encouraged hope. The day passed. Another came. Again Colonel Ellwood urged flight. Again the fear beset her lest her aunt should hear of these clandestine meetings. Love, too, for the stranger, who, although {195} unknown, was evidently refined, cultivated, and well versed in all human learning, grew rapidly since he had declared his love. To lose him was to lose everything; for who save he had shown kindness to the poor, friendless orphan girl? The time passed:—the day was at hand—a restless day—sleepless night—haunted by the sound of carriage wheels bringing back her tyrant to her home. Ellen's resolution gave way: two hours before her aunt's arrival she quitted that dwelling of strife for ever.
Colonel Ellwood appeared to keep his promise. One in the dress of a Catholic priest united them in marriage, and to Ellen's fancy that there was someone of informality in the ceremony, came the ready reply that it was necessitated by the anomalous position of a Catholic priest in England. [Footnote 37]
She knew little or nothing of the law, and for some time afterward she resided on the Continent with her husband. Here no doubt harassed her; love for him excluded doubt, and that love at times nearly reached the height of adoration. On the other hand, the happiness of geniality, combined with the high mental culture which her husband loved to promote, added so intellectual, nay so ethereal an expression to her naturally handsome features, that his love and reverence increased as time wore on, and he dared not tell the being who thus fondly loved him for himself alone, how foully he had deceived her. In his eyes she was an angel of light; and far from offering impediments to her fulfilling her religious duties, he delighted in her constancy; though there were times when a cloud came over him, and he felt as if he were but he demon of darkness by her side, destined to become the destroyer of her happiness. At such moments, Ellen, who was in mute amazement at the paroxysms which assailed him would strive by every endearing art to charm away his melancholy, and by so doing sometimes nearly drove him to frenzy; and alarmed her for his sanity, without decreasing her affection. But these fitful moments passed away. Continental troubles drove them back to England, and here Colonel Ellwood's difficulty in keeping his incognito increased. Sometimes he took an abode for her in the North of Scotland, sometimes in the mountains of Wales; his restlessness and anxiety distressed and puzzled her, he was not the same man in England he had seemed on the Continent. He was often absent, too, for weeks, nay for months together; but this he accounted for so plausibly on the score of army duties and the like, that Ellen tried to be satisfied, especially as he carried on a constant correspondence with her, and always sent her regular and plentiful remittances. But one circumstance puzzled her even in this—it was that she had to address all her answers to him under cover to his lawyer. This person, who knew nothing of Ellen, believed it was a sort of affair common among the nobility, young and old, and performed the business part of the transaction faithfully as regarded transmitting money and letters, while he gave himself no further trouble about the matter.
The time of discovery arrived but too soon. Ellen's child had been ill, and she had taken him to the seacoast to restore his health. It was the first time that she had ever left the residence appointed for her by her husband without his sanction and permission, and it was the urgency of the case that prompted her to deviate from this settled plan. She thought to be gone only a few days, and his last letter had bidden her not to expect him for a month or two, as pressing business was to be imperatively attended to; so there was little chance of his being displeased at the proceeding, indeed he had never been really displeased with her. She went, then, and on the beach she was recognized by a lady she did not remember, but {196} who chanced to have a better memory than Ellen. The lady appeared to be somewhat of a morose and malignant disposition, and entered into conversation apparently to gratify some ill-natured feeling. Ellen was annoyed and would have avoided her, but the other evidently had an object in view. At last she blurted out:
"So the Duke of Durimond is to be married soon, I hear."
"I do not know," said Ellen, "I have no acquaintance among the great."
"No acquaintance with the Duke of Durimond, madam? Why, surely I saw you at——Hotel in Inverness-shire with him three years ago."
"In Inverness-shire I was with my husband, but I saw no duke there."
"Your husband, ma'am! the gentleman was called Colonel Ellwood, was he not? Well, then, madam, the world believes Colonel Ellwood and the Duke of Durimond to be the same person. But, to be sure, you ought to know best. I can only say I was told so, often, in Inverness-shire, and now the duke is gone to marry Miss Godfrey of Estcourt Hall; is that a secret also to you?"
The woman evidently gloated in the pain she inflicted, and stood gazing at the victim. Ellen replied not—she was thunderstruck. Then she deemed it impossible. She turned back to the house, gave up the lodgings, and returned to her former home. There, making necessary arrangements, she left her child in the care of trustworthy servants, and ordering a post-chaise, was driven, as fast as horses could carry her, to the house of the London lawyer, travelling night and day till she reached her destination.
The lawyer, Mr. Reynolds, would not reply to her questions. He begged the lady to go home, saying that Colonel Ellwood would soon be with her, and that he would be the best person to explain all mysteries. He, Mr. Reynolds, really was not in a position to satisfy her.
What an answer to an anxious heart! mystery upon mystery! Why, since they came to England, did these long absences take place? Why did she not know his address? Why—a long list of whys that sorely oppressed her heart. What was she to do now? Being thus far, she thought at least she would go down to Estcourt Hall and try to catch a glimpse of the Duke of Durimond; she would know then if the report that identified him with her husband was based on truth.
She turned suddenly on the lawyer: "Where is the Duke of Durimond at this instant?" Her manner, so unlike her usual calm demeanor, startled Mr. Reynolds, and put him off his guard.
"I believe, madam, the duke is at the mansion of the Hon. Mr. Godfrey, at Estcourt."
"What is he doing there?"
"The world reports him as about to be married."
Ellen turned in a resolute manner to the door—the lawyer followed her. "Be persuaded, ma'am, go home in peace; all will be right in time, believe me."
Ellen got into the post-chaise, and ordered the driver to proceed to Sussex without delay. That night she was at Estcourt. The next day, as we have seen, she approached the carriage, recognized the duke to be Colonel Ellwood, followed him in his bridal tour, spoke with him, and then returned, as best she might, to her now dreary home.
The duke sent to her—she received not his messages; he wrote—she returned his letters unopened; he called on a Roman Catholic prelate to confess the transaction, and beg of him to take care that Ellen was suitably provided for; but the bishop, after seeing Ellen and becoming interested in the story, would not receive any money from the duke on Ellen's account. He said she refused it, and he could but acquiesce in her decision. The duke was utterly perplexed.
TO BE CONTINUED.
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