In about half an hour, Mrs Howel’s maid came to enquire whether Miss Ellis would have any thing brought up stairs for supper; Mrs Howel having broken up the usual evening party, in order to induce Lady Aurora, who was extremely fatigued, to go to rest.
Not to rest went Ellis, after such a message, though to that bed which had brought to her, of late, the repose of peace and contentment, and the alertness of hope and pleasure. A thousand schemes crossed her imagination, for averting the desertion which she saw preparing, and which her augmenting attachment to Lady Aurora, made her consider as a misfortune that would rob her of every consolation. But no plan occurred that satisfied her feeling without wounding her dignity: the first prompted a call upon the tender heart of Lady Aurora, by unlimited confidence; the second, a manifestation how ill she thought she merited the change of treatment that she experienced, by resentfully quitting the house: but this was no season for the smallest voluntary hazard. All chance of security hung upon the exertion of good sense, and the right use of reason, which imperiously demanded active courage with patient forbearance.
She remitted, therefore, forming any resolution, till she should learn that of Mrs Howel.
It was now the first week of February, and, before the break of day, a general movement in the house gave her cause to believe that the family was risen. She hastened to dress herself, unable to conjecture what she had to expect. The commotion continued; above and below the servants seemed employed, and in haste; and, in a little time, some accidental sounds reached her ears, from which she gathered that an immediate journey to London was preparing.
What could this mean? Was she thought so intruding, that by change of abode alone they could shake her off? or so dangerous, that flight, only, could preserve Lady Aurora from her snares? And was it thus, she was to be apprized that she must quit the house? Without a carriage, without money, and without a guide, was she to be turned over to the servants? and by them turned, perhaps, from the door?
Indignation now helped to sustain her; but it was succeeded by the extremest agitation, when she saw, from her window, Lord Melbury mounting his horse, upon which he presently rode off.
And is it thus, she cried, that all I thought so ingenuous in goodness, so open in benevolence, so sincere in partiality, subsides into neglect, perhaps forgetfulness?—And you, Lady Aurora, will you, also, give me up as lightly?
She wept. Indignation was gone: sorrow only remained; and she listened in sadness for every sound that might proclaim the departure which she dreaded.
At length, she heard a footstep advance slowly to her chamber, succeeded by a tapping at her door.
Her heart beat with hope. Was it Lady Aurora? had she still so much kindness, so much zeal?—She flew to meet her own idea—but saw only the lady of the house.
She sighed, cruelly disappointed; but the haughty distance of Mrs Howel’s air restored her courage; for courage, where there is any nobleness of mind, always rises highest, when oppressive pride seeks to crush it by studied humiliation.
Mrs Howel fixed her eyes upon the face of Ellis, with an expression that said, Can you bear to encounter me after this discovery? Then, formally announcing that she had something important to communicate, she added, ‘You will be so good as to shut the door,’ and seated herself on an arm-chair, by the fire side; without taking any sort of notice that her guest was still standing.
Ellis could far better brook behaviour such as this from Mrs Maple, from whom she had never experienced any of a superiour sort; but by Mrs Howel she had been invited upon equal terms, and, hitherto, had been treated not only with equality but distinction: hard, therefore, she found it to endure such a change; yet her resentment was soon governed by her candour, when it brought to her mind the accusation of appearances.
Mrs Howel then began an harangue palpably studied: ‘You cannot, I think, young woman—for you must excuse my not addressing you by a name I now know you to have assumed;—you cannot, I think, be surprised to find that your stay in this house is at an end. To avoid, however, giving any publicity to your disgrace, at the desire of Mrs Maple, who thinks that its promulgation, in a town such as this, might expose her, as well as yourself, to impertinent lampoons, I shall take no notice of what has passed to any of my people; except to my housekeeper, to whom it is necessary I should make over some authority, which you will not, I imagine, dispute. For myself, I am going to town immediately with Lady Aurora. I have given out that it is upon sudden business, with proper directions that my domestics may treat you with civility. You will still breakfast, therefore, in the parlour; and, at your own time, you will ask for a chaise, which I have bespoken to carry you back to Lewes. To prevent any suspicion in the neighbourhood, I shall leave commands that a man and horse may attend you, in the same manner as when you came hither. No remark, therefore, will follow your not having my own carriage again, as I make use of it myself. Lord Melbury is set off already. We shall none of us return till I hear, from Mrs Maple, that you have left this part of the country; for, as I can neither receive you, nor notice you where I might happen to meet with you, such a difference of conduct, after this long visit, might excite animadversion. The sooner, therefore, you change your quarters, the better; for I coincide in the opinion of Mrs Maple, that it is wisest, for all our sakes, that this transaction should not be spread in the world. And now, young woman, all I ask of you in return for the consideration I shew you, is this; that you will solemnly engage to hold no species of intercourse with Lady Aurora Granville, or with Lord Melbury, either by speech, or writing, or message. If you observe this, I shall do you no hurt; if not,—expect every punishment my resentment can inflict, and that of the noble family, involved in the indignity which you have made me suffer, by a surreptitious entrance into my house as a young lady of fashion.’
No sort of answer was offered by Ellis. She stood motionless, her eyes fixed, and her air seeming to announce her almost incredulous of what she heard.
‘Do you give me,’ said Mrs Howel, ‘this promise? Will you bind yourself to it in writing?’
Ellis still was silent, and looked incapable of speaking.
‘Young woman,’ said Mrs Howel, with increased austerity, ‘I am not to be trifled with. Will you bind yourself to this agreement, or will you not?’
‘What agreement, Madam?’ she now faintly asked.
‘Not to seek, and even to refuse, any sort of intercourse with Lady Aurora Granville, or with her brother, either by word of mouth, or letter, or messenger? Will you, I say, bind yourself, upon your oath, to this?’
‘No, Madam!’ answered Ellis, with returning recollection and courage; ‘no peril can be so tremendous as such a sacrifice!’
Mrs Howel, rising, said, ‘Enough! abide by the consequence.’
She was leaving the room; but Ellis, affrighted, exclaimed, ‘Ah, Madam, before you adopt any violent measures against me, deign to reflect that I may be innocent, and not merit them!’
‘Innocent?’ repeated Mrs Howel, with an air of inexorable ire; ‘without a name, without a home, without a friend?—Innocent? presenting yourself under false appearances to one family, and under false pretences to another? No, I am not such a dupe. And if your bold resistance make it necessary, for the safety of my young friends, that I should lodge an information against you, you will find, that people who enter houses by names not their own, and who have no ostensible means of existence; will be considered only as swindlers; and as swindlers be disposed of as they deserve.’
Ellis, turning pale, sunk upon a chair.
Mrs Howel, stopping, with a voice as hard as her look was implacable, added; ‘This is your last moment for repentance. Will you give your promise, upon oath?’
‘No, Madam! again no!’ cried Ellis, starting up with sudden energy: ‘What I have suffered shall teach me to suffer more, and what I have escaped, shall give me hope for my support! But never will I plight myself, by willing promise, to avoid those whose virtuous goodness and compassion offer me the only consolation, that, in my desolate state, I can receive!’
”Tis well!’ said Mrs Howel, ‘You have yourself, then, only, to thank for what ensues.’
She now steadily went on, opened the door, and left the room, though Ellis, mournfully following her, called out: Ah, Madam!—ah, Mrs Howel!—if ever you know more of me—which, at least, is not impossible,—you will look back to this period with no pleasure!—or with pleasure only to that part of it, in which you received me at your house with politeness, hospitality, and kindness!’
Mrs Howel was not of a nature to relent in what she felt, or to retract from what she said: the distress, therefore, of Ellis, produced not the smallest effect upon her; and, with her head stiffly erect, and her countenance as unmoved as her heart, she descended the stairs, and issued, aloud, her commands that the horses should immediately be put to the chaise.
Ellis shut herself in her room, almost overpowered by the shock of this attack, so utterly unexpected, from a lady in whose character the leading feature seemed politeness, and who always appeared to hold that quality to be pre-eminent to all others. But the experience of Ellis had not yet taught her, how distinct is the politeness of manner, formed by the habits of high life, to that which springs spontaneously from benevolence of mind. The first, the product of studied combinations, is laid aside, like whatever is factitious, where there is no object for acting a part: the second, the child of sympathy, instructs us how to treat others, by suggesting the treatment we desire for ourselves; and this, as its feelings are personal, though its exertions are external, demands no effort, waits no call, and is never failingly at hand.
The gloomy sadness of Ellis was soon interrupted, by enquiries that reached her from the hall, whether the trunks of Lady Aurora were ready. Is she so nearly gone? Ellis cried; Ah! when may I see her again?—To the hall, to wait in the hall, she longed to go herself, to catch a last view, and to snatch, if possible, a kind parting word; but the tremendous Mrs Howel!—she shrunk from the idea of ever seeing her again.
Soon afterwards, she heard the carriages drive up to the house. She now went to the window, to behold, at least, the loved form of Lady Aurora as she mounted the chaise. Perhaps, too, she might turn round, and look up. Fixt here, she was inattentive to the opening of her own room-door, concluding that the house-maid came to arrange her fire, till a soft voice gently articulated: ‘Miss Ellis!’ She hastily looked round: it was Lady Aurora; who had entered, who had shut herself in, and who, while one hand covered her eyes, held out the other, in an attitude of the most inviting affection.
Ellis flew to seize it, with joy inexpressible, indescribable, and would have pressed it to her lips; but Lady Aurora, flinging both her arms round the neck of her new friend, fell upon her bosom, and wept, saying, ‘You are not, then, angry, though I, too, must have seemed to behave to you so cruelly?’
‘Angry?’ repeated Ellis, sobbing from the suddenness of a delight which broke into a sorrow nearly hopeless; ‘O Lady Aurora! if you could know how I prize your regard! your goodness!—what a balm it is to every evil I now experience, your gentle and generous heart would be recompensed for all the concern I occasion it, by the pleasure of doing so much good!’
‘You can still, then, love me, my Miss Ellis?’
‘Ah, Lady Aurora! if I dared say how much!—but, alas, in my helpless situation, the horror of being suspected of flattery—’
‘What you will not say, then,’ cried Lady Aurora, smiling, ‘will you prove?’
‘Will I?—Alas, that I could!’
‘Will you let me take a liberty with you, and promise not to be offended?’
She put a letter into her hand, which Ellis fondly kissed, and lodged near her heart.
The words ‘Where is Lady Aurora?’ now sounded from the staircase.
‘I must stay,’ she said, ‘no longer! Adieu, dear Miss Ellis! Think of me sometimes—for I shall think of you unceasingly!’
‘Ah, Lady Aurora!’ cried Ellis, clinging to her, ‘shall I see you, then, no more? And is this a last leave-taking?’
‘O, far from it, far, far, I hope!’ said Lady Aurora: ‘if I thought that we should meet no more, it would be impossible for me to tell you how unhappy this moment would make me!’
‘Where is Lady Aurora?’ would again have hurried her away; but Ellis, still holding by her, cried, ‘One moment! one moment!—I have not, then, lost your good opinion? Oh! if that wavers, my firmness wavers too! and I must unfold—at all risks—my unhappy situation!’
‘Not for the world! not for the world!’ cried Lady Aurora, earnestly: ‘I could not bear to seem to have any doubt to remove, when I have none, none, of your perfect innocence, goodness, excellence!’
Overpowered with grateful joy, ‘Angelic Lady Aurora!’ was all that Ellis could utter, while tears rolled fast down her cheeks; and she tenderly, yet fervently, kissed the hand of the resisting Lady Aurora, who, extremely affected, leant upon her bosom, till she was startled by again hearing her name from without. ‘Go, then, amiable Lady Aurora!’ Ellis cried; ‘I will no longer detain you! Go!—happy in the happiness that your sweetness, your humanity, your kindness bestow! I will dwell continually, upon their recollection; I will say to myself, Lady Aurora believes me innocent, though she sees me forlorn; she will not think me unworthy, though she knows me to be unprotected; she will not conclude me to be an adventurer, though I dare not tell her even my name!’
‘Do not talk thus, my dear, dear Miss Ellis! Oh! if I were my own mistress—with what delight I should supplicate you to live with me entirely! to let us share between us all that we possess; to read together, study our musick together, and never, never to part!’
Ellis could hardly breathe: her soul seemed bursting with emotions, which, though the most delicious, were nearly too mighty for her frame. But the melting kindness of Lady Aurora soon soothed her into more tranquil enjoyment; and when, at length, a message from Mrs Howel irresistibly compelled a separation, the warm gratitude of her heart, for the consolation which she had received, enabled her to endure it with fortitude. But not without grief. All seemed gone when Lady Aurora was driven from the door; and she remained weeping at the window, whence she saw her depart, till she was roused by the entrance of Mrs Greaves, the housekeeper.
Her familiar intrusion, without tapping at the door, quickly brought to the recollection of Ellis the authority which had been vested in her hands. This immediately restored her spirit; and as the housekeeper, seating herself, was beginning, very unceremoniously, to explain the motives of her visit, Ellis, without looking at her, calmly said, ‘I shall go down stairs now to breakfast; but if you have time to be so good as to make up my packages, you will find them in those drawers.’
She then descended to the parlour, leaving the housekeeper stupified with amazement. But the forms of subordination, when once broken down, are rarely, with common characters, restored. Glad of the removal of a barrier which has kept them at a distance from those above them, they revel in the idea that the fall of a superiour is their own proper elevation. Following, therefore, Ellis to the breakfast-room, and seating herself upon a sofa, she began to discourse with the freedom of addressing a disgraced dependent; saying, ‘Mrs Maple will be in a fine taking, Miss, to have you upon her hands, again, so all of the sudden.’
This speech, notwithstanding its grossness, surprised from Ellis an exclamation, ‘Does not Mrs Maple, then, expect me?’
‘How should she, when my lady never settled what she should do about you herself, till after twelve o’clock last night? However, as to sending you back without notice, she had no notion, she says, of standing upon any ceremony with Mrs Maple, who made so little of popping you upon her and Lady Aurora in that manner.’
Ellis turned from her with disdain, and would reply to nothing more; but her pertinacious stay still kept the bosom letter unopened.
Grievously Ellis felt tormented with the prospect of what her reception might be from Mrs Maple, after such a blight. The buoyant spirit of her first escape, which she had believed no after misfortune could subdue, had now so frequently been repressed, that it was nearly borne down to the common standard of mortal condition, whence we receive our daily fare of good and of evil, with the joy or the grief that they separately excite; independently of that wonderful power, believed in by the youthful and inexperienced, of hoarding up the felicity of our happy moments, as a counterpoise to future sorrows and disappointments. The past may re-visit our hearts with renewed sufferings, or our spirits with gay recollections; but the interest of the time present, even upon points the most passing and trivial, will ever, from the pressure of our wants and our feelings, predominate.
Mrs Greaves, unanswered and affronted, was for some minutes silenced; but, presently, rising and calling out, ‘Gemini! something has happened to my Lady, or to Lady Aurora? Here’s My Lord gallopped back!’ she ran out of the room.
Affrighted by this suggestion, Ellis, who then perceived Lord Melbury from the window, ran herself, after the housekeeper, to the door, and eagerly exclaimed, as he dismounted, ‘O, My Lord, I hope no accident—’
‘None!’ cried he, flying to her and taking and kissing both her hands, and drawing, rather than leading, her back to the parlour, ‘none!—or if any there were,—what could be the accident that concern so bewitching would not recompense?’
Ellis felt amazed. Lord Melbury had never addressed her before in any tone of gallantry; had never kissed, never touched her hand; yet now, he would scarcely suffer her to withdraw it from his ardent grasp.
‘But, My Lord,’ said Mrs Greaves, who followed them in, ‘pray let me ask Your Lordship about my Lady, and My Lady Aurora, and how—’
‘They are perfectly well,’ cried he, hastily, ‘and gone on. I am ridden back myself merely for something which I forgot.’
‘I was fearful,’ said Ellis, anxious to clear up her eager reception, ‘that something might have happened to Lady Aurora; I am extremely happy to hear that all is safe.’
‘And you will have the charity, I hope, to make me a little breakfast? for I have tasted nothing yet this morning.’
Again he took both her hands, and led her to the seat which she had just quitted at the table.
She was extremely embarrassed. She felt reluctant to refuse a request so natural; yet she was sure that Mrs Howel would conclude that they met by appointment; and she saw in the face of the housekeeper the utmost provocation at the young Lord’s behaviour: yet neither of these circumstances gave her equal disturbance, with observing a change, indefinable yet striking, in himself. After an instant’s reflection, she deemed it most advisable not to stay with him; and, saying that she was in haste to return to Lewes, she begged that Mrs Greaves would order the chaise that Mrs Howel had mentioned.
‘Ay, do, good Greaves!’ cried he, hurrying her out, and, in his eagerness to get her away, shutting the door after her himself.
Ellis said that she would see whether her trunk were ready.
‘No, no, no! don’t think of the trunk,’ cried he: ‘We have but a few minutes to talk together, and to settle how we shall meet again.’
Still more freely than before, he now rather seized than took her hand; and calling her his dear charming Ellis, pressed it to his lips, and to his breast, with rapturous fondness.
Ellis, struck, now, with terrour, had not sufficient force to withdraw her hand; but when she said, with great emotion, ‘Pray, pray My Lord!—’ he let it go.
It was only for a moment: snatching, it then, again, as she was rising to depart, he suddenly slipt upon one of her fingers a superb diamond ring, which he took off from one of his own.
‘It is very beautiful, My Lord;’ said she, deeply blushing; yet looking at it as if she supposed he meant merely to call for her admiration, and returning it to him immediately.
‘What’s this?’ cried he: ‘Won’t you wear such a bauble for my sake? Give me but a lock of your lovely hair, and I will make myself one to replace it.’
He tried to put the ring again on her finger; but, forcibly breaking from him, she would have left the room: he intercepted her passage to the door. She turned round to ring the bell: he placed himself again in her way, with a flushed air of sportiveness, yet of determined opposition.
Confounded, speechless, she went to one of the windows, and standing with her back to it, looked at him with an undisguised amazement, that she hoped would lead him to some explanation of his behaviour, that might spare her any serious remonstrance upon its unwelcome singularity.
‘Why, what’s this?’ cried he gaily, yet with a gaiety not perfectly easy; ‘do you want to run away from me?’
‘No, my lord,’ answered she, gravely, yet forcing a smile, which she hoped would prove, at once, a hint, and an inducement to him to end the scene as an idle and ill-judged frolic; ‘No; I have only been afraid that your lordship was running away from yourself!’
‘And why so?’ cried he, with quickness, ‘Is Harleigh the only man who is ever to be honoured with your company tête-à-tête?’
‘What can your lordship mean?’
‘What can the lovely Ellis blush for? And what can Harleigh have to offer, that should obtain for him thus exclusively all favour? If it be adoration of your charms, who shall adore them more than I will? If it be in proofs of a more solid nature, who shall vie with me? All I possess shall be cast at your feet. I defy him to out-do me, in fortune or in love.’
Ellis now turned pale and cold: horrour thrilled through her veins, and almost made her heart cease to beat. Lord Melbury saw the change, and, hastily drawing towards her a chair, besought her to be seated. She was unable to refuse, for she had not strength to stand; but, when again he would have taken her hand, she turned from him, with an air so severe of soul-felt repugnance, that, starting with surprise and alarm, he forbore the attempt.
He stood before her utterly silent, and with a complexion frequently varying, till she recovered; when, again raising her eyes, with an expression of mingled affliction and reproach, ‘And is it, then,’ she cried, ‘from a brother of the pure, the exemplary Lady Aurora Granville, that I am destined to receive the most heart-rending insult of my life?’
Lord Melbury seemed thunderstruck, and could not articulate what he tried to say; but, upon again half pronouncing the name of Harleigh, Ellis, standing up, with an air of dignity the most impressive, cried, ‘My lord, Mr Harleigh rescued me from the most horrible of dangers, in assisting me to leave the Continent; and his good offices have befriended me upon every occasion since my arrival in England. This includes the whole of our intercourse! No calumny, I hope, will make him ashamed of his benevolence; and I have reaped from it such benefit, that the most cruel insinuations must not make me repent receiving it; for to whom else, except to Lady Aurora, do I owe gratitude without pain? He knows me to be indigent, my lord, yet does not conclude me open to corruption! He sees me friendless and unprotected,—yet offers me no indignity!’
Lord Melbury now, in his turn, looked pale. ‘Is it possible—’ he cried, ‘Is it possible, that—’ He stammered, and was in the utmost confusion.
She passed him, and was quitting the room.
‘Good Heaven!’ cried he, ‘you will not go?—you will not leave me in this manner?—not knowing what to think,—what to judge,—what to do?’
She made no answer but by hastening her footsteps, and wearing an aspect of the greatest severity; but, when her hand touched the lock, ‘I swear to you,’ he cried, ‘Miss Ellis, if you will not stay—I will follow you!’
Her eyes now shot forth a glance the most indignant, and she resolutely opened the door.
He spread out his arms to impede her passage.
Offended by his violence, and alarmed by this detention, she resentfully said, ‘If you compel me, my lord, to summon the servants—’ when, upon looking at him again, she saw that his whole face was convulsed by the excess of his emotion.
She stopt.
‘You must permit me,’ he cried, ‘to shut the door; and you must grant me two minutes audience.’
She neither consented nor offered any opposition.
He closed the door, but she kept her place.
‘Tell—speak to me, I beseech you!’ he cried, ‘Oh clear the cruel doubts—’
‘No more, my lord, no more!’ interrupted Ellis, scorn taking possession of every feature; ‘I will neither give to myself the disgrace, nor to your lordship the shame, of permitting another word to be said!’
‘What is it you mean?’ cried he, planting himself against the door; ‘you would not—surely you would not brand me for a villain?’
She determined to have recourse to the bell, and, with the averted eyes of disdain, resolutely moved towards the chimney.
He saw her design, and cast himself upon his knees, calling out, in extreme agitation, ‘Miss Ellis! Miss Ellis! you will not assemble the servants to see me groveling upon the earth?’
Greatly shocked, she desisted from her purpose. His look was aghast, his frame was in a universal tremour, and his eyes were wild and starting. Her wrath subsided at this sight, but the most conflicting emotions rent her heart.
‘I see,’ he cried, in a tremulous voice, and almost gnashing his teeth, ‘I see that you have been defamed, and that I have incurred your abhorrence!—I have my own, too, completely! You cannot hate me more than I now hate—than I shrink from myself! And yet—believe me, Miss Ellis! I have no deliberate hardness of heart!—I have been led on by rash precipitance, and—and want of thought!—Believe me, Miss Ellis!—believe me, good Miss Ellis!—for I see, now, how good you are!—believe me—’
He could find no words for what he wished to say. He rose, but attempted not to approach her. Ellis leant against the wainscoat, still close to the bell, but without seeking to ring it. Both were silent. His extreme youth, his visible inexperience, and her suspicious situation; joined to his quick repentance, and simple, but emphatic declaration, that he had no hardness of heart, began not only to offer some palliation for his conduct, but to soften her resentment into pity.
He no sooner perceived the touching melancholy which insensibly took place, in her countenance, of disgust and indignation, than, forcibly affected, he struck his forehead, exclaiming, ‘Oh, my poor Aurora!—when you know how ill I have acted, it will almost break your gentle heart!’
This was an apostrophe to come home quick to the bosom of Ellis: she burst into tears; and would instantly have held out to him her hand, as an offering of peace and forgiveness, had not her fear of the impetuosity of his feelings checked the impulse. She only, therefore, said, ‘Ah, my lord, how is it that with a sister so pure, so perfect, and whose virtues you so warmly appreciate, you should find it so difficult to believe that other females may be exempt, at least, from depravity? Alas! I had presumed, my lord, to think of you as indeed the brother of Lady Aurora; and, as such, I had even dared to consider you as a succour to me in distress, and a protector in danger!’
‘Ah! consider me so again!’ cried he, with sudden rapture; ‘good—excellent Miss Ellis! consider me so again, and you shall not repent your generous pardon!’
Ellis irresistibly wept, but, by a motion of her hand, forbad his approach.
‘Fear, fear me not!’ cried he, ‘I am a reclaimed man for the rest of my life! I have hitherto, Miss Ellis, been but a boy, and therefore so easily led wrong. But I will think and act, now, for myself. I promise it you sincerely! Never, never more will I be the wretched tool of dishonourable impertinence! Not that I am so unmanly, as to seek any extenuation to my guilt, from its being excited by others;—no; it rather adds to its heinousness, that my own passions, violent as they sometimes are, did not give it birth. But your so visible purity, Miss Ellis, had kept them from any disrespect, believe me! And, struck as I have been with your attractions, and charmed with your conversation, it has always been without a single idea that I could not tell to Aurora herself; for as I thought of you always as of Aurora’s favourite, Aurora’s companion, Aurora’s friend, I thought of you always together.’
‘Oh Lord Melbury!’ interrupted Ellis, fresh tears, but of pleasure, not sorrow, gushing into her eyes; ‘what words are these! how penetrating to my very soul! Ah, my lord, let this unhappy morning be blotted from both our memories! and let me go back to the morning of yesterday! to a partiality that made,—and that makes me so happy! to a goodness, a kindness, that revive me with heart-consoling gratitude!’
‘Oh, incomparable—Oh, best Miss Ellis!’ cried Lord Melbury, in a transport of joy, and passionately advancing; but retreating nearly at the same instant, as if fearful of alarming her; and almost fastening himself against the opposite wainscoat; ‘how excessive is your goodness!’
A sigh from Ellis checked his rapture; and she entreated him to explain what he meant by his allusion to ‘others.’
His complexion reddened, and he would have evaded any reply; but Ellis was too urgent to be resisted. Yet it was not without the utmost difficulty that she could prevail upon him to be explicit. Finally, however, she gathered, that Ireton, after the scene produced by the letter for L.S., had given vent to the most sneering calumnies, chiefly pointed at Harleigh, to excite the experiment of which he had himself so shamefully, yet foolishly, been the instrument. He vowed, however, that Ireton should publicly acknowledge his slanders, and beg her pardon.
Ellis earnestly besought his lordship to let the matter rest. ‘All public appeals,’ cried she, ‘are injurious to female fame. Generously inform Mr Ireton, that you are convinced he has wronged me, and then leave the clearing of his own opinion to time and to truth. When they are trusted with innocence, Time and Truth never fail to do it justice.’
Lord Melbury struggled to escape making any promise. His self-discontent could suggest no alleviation so satisfactory, as that of calling Mr Ireton to account for defamation; an action which he thought would afford the most brilliant amends that could be offered to Miss Ellis, and the best proof that could blazon his own manliness. But when she solemnly assured him, that his compliance with her solicitation was the only peace-offering she could accept, for sinking into oblivion the whole morning’s transaction, he forbore any further contestation.
Mrs Greaves now brought information, that a chaise was at the door, and that a groom was in readiness. Lord Melbury timidly offered Ellis his hand, which she gracefully accepted; but neither of them spoke as he led her to the carriage.
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