Ellis, who soon heard the carriage drive off for Lewes, waited in terrour to learn the result of this scene; almost equally fearful of losing the supporting kindness of Lady Aurora through timid acquiescence, as of preserving it through efforts to which her temper and gentle habits were repugnant.
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 ............