Part 7

Mordaunt the next day made his application for Powis's consent to his marrying Ellen. His surprize at the proposal was such as evidently shewed it had never entered his imagination. After expressing his astonishment, he hesitated, and then replied: "Why, look ye, Mr. Mordaunt, you appear to be a gentleman, and I dare say have a good income. I can give Ellen a few hundreds now, and a few at my death; and I only want to be sure that you can maintain her in some sort of comfort.--You must tell me a little more of your situation in life; and though I like you very well, I should be glad to know from somebody who knows you what sort of a character you bear. Now don't be angry--I am a plain spoken man, and no more suspicious than another: but when you come and ask me for my only child, and to take her away, God knows where, into strange parts, I had need know whether you are likely to be kind to her."

Mordaunt seemed a little confused at this harangue; but replied: "You are very right, my good friend; I have already explained myself, my situation in life, and all circumstances, to Mr. Ross, who is of opinion I may marry your daughter, without doing her any injury in point of fortune--for your farther satisfaction, however, I refer you to the Rev. Doctor Montague, domestic chaplain to the Earl of St. Aubyn, at St. Aubyn Castle, Northamptonshire--his Lordship is at present not in England. That gentleman will give you every necessary detail respecting me; and should his account be satisfactory, I may then hope all obstacles are removed."

"You speak very handsomely, and like a gentleman, as I doubt not you are: but you will excuse my being a little anxious about my child--truth, to say, I do not like the notion of her going so far from me; but if she likes you (and I suppose you are pretty well agreed, or you would not come to me), I will never let my own comfort hinder her happiness; yet I tell you honestly, I had rather she had married Charles Ross, as I thought likely." At these words Mordaunt's countenance was overcast: he feared there had been some attachment between the young people; and such was the delicacy of his sentiments, that had he been certain of it, all his love for Ellen, passionate as it certainly was, would not have induced him to marry her; on this head, therefore, he was determined to be satisfied. He wrote Doctor Montague's address for Powis, and then went directly to the Parsonage, where Ellen still remained. He found her alone; and though he looked delighted to see her, she yet fancied she saw a little alteration in his manner, which disturbed her. He told her he had seen her father, and a part of what passed, omitting the mention of money concerns, which he thought would distress her.

When he was silent, she said: "Tell me, Mr. Mordaunt, am I mistaken in supposing you out of spirits to-day? I fear my father's rough manner has vexed you."--"No, Ellen, not that." "Then there is something, I am sure." "And do you already know me so well?" said Mordaunt. "I am ashamed to confess how unreasonable I am when you are so good and so confiding: but it is true--your father dropt a hint which alarmed me. He spoke of Charles Ross in terms that--forgive me, Ellen--that led me to fear, whatever might now be the case, he had not always been indifferent to you."

Ellen blushed a little, and said, with a calm smile, "It is certainly true, that Charles Ross professed a great attachment to me; and I believe his friends and my father earnestly wished we should at some time or other be married. Joanna, in particular, was very anxious, and has within a few months been quite uneasy on this subject, and indeed made me so too--for it was impossible----" She paused: then added, "I certainly felt the regard of a sister for Charles, but never more. If I had not--if you had never----" She hesitated, blushed, and said, with some warmth, "I never could have loved him enough to marry him."

Charmed, and with every suspicion laid at rest by this frank avowal, Mordaunt now was truly happy--for, till now, though hardly known to himself, a lurking doubt of Charles had at times hung about him. Mordaunt's former knowledge of the world had had the effect upon his heart, which it too often has, of repressing its confidence, and making it distrustful and suspicious. Great indeed had been his reasons for hardly believing the existence of real virtue, till he knew Ellen: her perfect innocence, her sweet simplicity, blended with the tenderest sensibility and acutest discernment, had once more restored his faith, and he now hoped and believed no future jealousies would cross his path. Yet surely he was venturing on doubtful ground. Great indeed must have been his risk in transplanting so fair a flower from the wildest part of Wales into the polished interior of England, and, probably, into a situation widely different from that she had hitherto filled! What could have implanted in the mind of a man so prone to jealousy as Mordaunt certainly was, so perfect a confidence in Ellen's veracity and virtue? It was, that he had observed in her an exalted, though not enthusiastic _piety_. Mordaunt, though a man of the world, was also a religious man; and in conversing, as he had done, frequently with Ellen on the subject of religion, he found her principles so fixed, and her mind so decidedly made up, and on such reasonable grounds, that he hesitated not in pronouncing her a Christian upon principle, and as such entitled to the firm confidence he felt in her sincerity and virtue.

Mordaunt now told her he should be absent all the next day, for it was necessary to write to one or two of his friends of the intended change in his prospects; and that, as he did not like to trust his letters to any common messenger, and indeed expected there were some of consequence lying for him at Carnarvon, he should go thither himself to fetch them; that as the distance was rather beyond what he liked to walk, especially now the days were so much shortened, he should borrow Ross's pony, and hoped to return in the evening. This scheme he executed accordingly; and Ross, understanding from Powis the mode proposed for his gaining farther intelligence of Mordaunt, thought, as Ellen was now returned to the Farm, it would be as well if Mordaunt absented himself in those little excursions he used so much to delight in, and restrained his visits to her in some degree, till her father's scruples were finally removed. To this, however, reluctantly they agreed; and Mordaunt accordingly spent the greatest part of the next week in viewing the face of the country, returning to his lodgings in the evening. Impatient of this vexatious restraint, Mordaunt, after three or four days, proposed to Ross and the girls an excursion to Snowdon, which, though he had seen, they had not, though living within ten or twelve miles of it. Mrs. Ross, who had of late greatly relaxed her vigilance respecting Ellen's industry, gave her consent; and mounted on their little Welsh ponies, the happy party set out with the day-break, a full moon promising to assist them on their return.

Leaving their horses at Dolbaden Castle, and taking guides with refreshments, each being armed with a spiked stick, they began the toilsome ascent. Ross, being fatigued, remained half way seated on an immense stone, till they should return. As they ascended the mountain, they perceived that its summit was covered with clouds, though, when they set out, it was perfectly clear, and the guides had assured them the day would be favourable. They now, however, began to apprehend that the thick clouds would prevent them from enjoying the reward of their labours, by depriving them of the view from the top of the mountain. The guides, notwithstanding, had still hopes that the day would ultimately clear up, and the event justified their expectations; for when within about half a mile of the summit, a fine breeze arose, and rolled the clouds like a curtain "down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side," gradually disclosing its hollow apertures and broken precipices, with every variety of mountain, valley, lake, and stream; and below them, in every direction, a map of exquisite beauty, containing Carnarvon, the county of Chester, part of the North of England and Ireland, the Isle of Anglesea, and the Irish coast.

Here Mordaunt, sitting down with his fair companions, one on each side, on a low wall, which was probably built by shepherds for the safety of their flocks, but which now serves as a resting-place to travellers, expatiated with rapture on this amazingly sublime prospect. The "Bard" of Gray, and many of the beautiful passages of Mason's Elfrida and Caractacus were familiar to him; and these, with every grace of voice and action, he repeated, till the charmed and enthusiastic Ellen almost fancied she saw the white-robed druids with their crowns of mistletoe and golden harps pass in review before her. After having sufficiently rested, and taken some refreshment, they cautiously descended; and joining Ross, pursued the downward course of a mountain-stream of great beauty, which was frequently hurried over low rocks, forming numerous small but elegant cascades, till they reached the Castle, where they had left their ponies, and then returned by moonlight to Llanwyllan.

The next four or five days were employed in similar excursions. Not having been able on the day of their visit to Snowdon to extend their ride to Beth-gelert, their next object was to see the grave of the greyhound, and the romantic pass between Merioneth and Carnarvonshire, called Pont Aberglaslyn. At the grave of the greyhound Mordaunt repeated to his fair companions the interesting legend connected with it, and Spencer's elegant poem on the subject:--that little tale is so affecting, that, even at this remote period of time, no tender heart can hear it without lamenting the fate of the faithful and ill-requited Gelert. Ellen was not ashamed to drop a tear at the recital[1]. "Alas!" cried Mordaunt: "such is too frequently the fatal consequence of trusting to _appearances_! This excellent and unfortunate animal fell a sacrifice to circumstances, which, however apparently conclusive, were fallacious." He sighed, and fell for a few minutes into a gloomy silence, from which the soft voice of Ellen alone had power to rouse him.

[Footnote 1: It is probable most of my readers have heard the little pathetic tale here alluded to, and which Mr. Spencer has told very sweetly in his little poem, entitled Beth-gelert. For the advantage of those who have not met with it, we insert the following account:

The tradition says, that Llewelyn the Great had a house at the place now called Beth-gelert, and that being once from home, a wolf entered it. On Llewelyn's return, his favourite greyhound, Gelert, came to meet him, wagging his tail, but covered with blood. The prince was much alarmed, and on entering the house, found the cradle of his infant overturned, and the floor stained with blood. Imagining the dog had killed the child, he instantly drew his sword, and killed the greyhound; but turning up the cradle, found the babe asleep, and the wolf dead by its side. Llewelyn deeply repented his rage, and built a tomb over his ill-fated greyhound. Mr. Spencer has thus beautifully described the event:

The hound all o'er was smear'd with gore, His lips, his fangs, ran blood! Llewelyn gazed with fierce surprize, Unused such looks to meet: His fav'rite check'd his joyful guise, And crouch'd and lick'd his feet. Onward in haste Llewelyn pass'd--

O'erturn'd his infant's bed he found, With blood-stained covert rent! And all around the walls and ground With recent blood besprent! He called his child, no voice replied; He search'd with terror wild; Blood, blood, he found on every side, But no where found his child.

Llewelyn then passionately accuses and kills the greyhound.

Aroused by Gelert's dying yell, Some slumbers waken'd nigh; What words the parent's joy could tell, To hear his infant's cry!

Conceal'd beneath a tumbled heap, His hurried search had miss'd; All glowing from his rosy sleep, The cherub boy he kiss'd.

No scratch had he, nor harm, nor dread; But the same couch beneath, Lay a gaunt wolf, all torn and dead, Tremendous still in death.

Ah! what was then Llewelyn's pain? For then the truth was clear, His gallant hound the wolf had slain, To save Llewelyn's heir.

Vain, vain, was all Llewelyn's woe: "Best of thy kind, adieu! The frantic blow which laid the low, This heart shall ever rue." ]

They next visited Pont Aberglass-lyn, the wild and sublime scenery of which inspired them with awe. Its high grotesque rocks, surrounding like an amphitheatre the romantic bridge (consisting of a single arch thrown from one rough precipice to another), to which they approached by a road winding along a narrow stony valley, where the rocks on each side scarcely leave room for the road; and the dark impetuous stream, which rolls at the side of it, filled them with astonishment at the grandeur of the scene.

They visited also the little romantic village of Llanberis, with its beautiful vallies and lakes, surrounded by bold and prominent rocks, ascending almost abruptly from the edge of the water, and returned in the evening to Llanwyllan, delighted with an excursion which had afforded them so many beautiful views, and yet delightedly contrasting their own native village, with the dirty hovels, and miserable accommodations they had met with in their progress; for the exertions of Ross and his wife, who were both English, and had in the early part of their lives resided wholly in England, had introduced a degree of neatness and comfort both in the houses and apparel of their parishioners, which gave Llanwyllan the appearance of a comfortable English village, and rendered it totally distinct from those near it; where, as is often the case in Wales, extreme poverty, and its too frequent concomitants, a total carelessness of comfort abound.

They also visited Carnarvon, which the girls found much altered since they had seen it some years before, and were quite surprized at the carriages, and smartly drest people in the streets. Of course they went to the Castle, and saw the chamber where, it is said, the weak and unfortunate Edward II. was born; though that fact, from the meanness of its appearance, and inconvenient situation, appears extremeful doubtful, if not improbable. In short, they seemed in a new world, so very different were the scenes around them from those to which they were accustomed.

"Ah, Ellen!" said Joanna, "all this will soon be as nothing to you: you will see so many fine houses and great cities, you will wonder how you could ever fancy Carnarvon a large place: and I shall remain in our little quiet village, which, when you are gone, I shall think stupid, and never go beyond it!"--"Do not think so," replied Ellen: "I hope, if indeed I do leave Llanwyllan (for I consider nothing settled till Mr. Montague's letter arrives), I hope it will not be long before I shall have you with me--it will be one of my first wishes as soon as I find myself at all accustomed to the change In my situation." Joanna seemed much delighted with this promise; they slept that night at Carnarvon, and returned the next day to Llanwyllan.

In the course of these journies much conversation took place between Mordaunt and Ellen; but he with great generosity forbore as much as possible from all particular topics, as he wished to leave her as much unfettered as was now in his power till the arrival of Montague's letter; for though he had no doubt of what the contents would be, yet till he had obtained Powis's free consent, he could not exactly consider her as his affianced bride; but for conversation they were never at a loss--literary subjects furnished them with an inexhaustible fund of delight; for Mordaunt's mind and memory were so well stored with poetical and classical treasures, he scarcely needed books of reference; the beautiful views which they also obtained of the heavenly bodies, in their mountainous excursions, inspired Ellen with a desire to know something of astronomy, and Mordaunt was thoroughly capable of being her instructor. In this Ross assisted him; and two hours in the latter part of the evening were sweetly past in this delightful study. Mordaunt was also, though not a finished artist, yet very capable of taking sketches from the surrounding country; and already Ellen began to use her pencil also in slight attempts, which he both encouraged and directed--so happy indeed was the life they now led, that the slight restraint thrown upon their feelings seemed rather to give a zest to their meetings than to destroy their pleasure: gladly, most gladly, would both have relinquished all change of station, and remained for the rest of their lives in the peaceful shades of Llanwyllan.

----What was the world to them? Its pomp, its pleasure, and its nonsense all? Who, in each other, saw whatever fair, High fancy forms, or lavish hearts can wish: Something than beauty dearer, should they look; Or on the mind, or mind illumined face, Truth, goodness, honour, harmony, and love, The richest bounty of indulgent Heaven.

CHAP. X.

Now go with me, and with this holy man, Into the chantry by; there, before him, And underneath that consecrated roof, Plight me the full assurance of your faith.

TWELFTH NIGHT.

At length, for in this remote village letters were not speedily exchanged, the answer from Doctor Montague arrived: it contained the following lines.

Sir,

I receive Mr. Mordaunt's reference to me as a favour, and hasten to reply to your's of the 5th inst. by saying that I have had the happiness of knowing that gentleman from his youth, and am entirely convinced of his being a man of the most perfectly honourable and excellent character. As you have been obliging enough to account for this application, I can only add that your daughter will in my opinion have reason to esteem herself the most fortunate of women in becoming his wife. Mr. Mordaunt's fortune is sufficiently ample to enable him to live with perfect ease and comfort.

I am, Sir, With great respect, Your's, obediently, GEORGE MONTAGUE.

St. Aubyn Castle, Sep. 18th, 18--.

Nothing could be more satisfactory than this honourable testimony to the good qualities of Mr. Mordaunt; and Powis began to feel half ashamed of having doubted for an instant the honour of a man so highly estimated: he hastened with the letter in his hand to Ellen, who, with Joanna for her inmate, was now at home, and exclaiming, "There, child, read that," gave her the letter: the emotions of his affectionate heart, bursting out from time to time while she was reading it, in words pronounced at intervals, and with some difficulty, such as, "Well!--so I must lose her--the pride of my life! but she will be happy I hope, dear soul! This seems to be a man of some consequence: why, she will be quite a lady; not above her old friends, though, I hope, Joanna!"

When Ellen had finished the letter, she rose, and throwing herself into her father's arms, wept with mingled emotions of sorrow and gladness; for sincerely as she rejoiced in such a character of her beloved Mordaunt, she greatly regretted the certainty that if she married him, she must immediately leave her father. Powis's heart was melted by the same consideration, and the tears running down his rough face fell on Ellen's bosom: at last she articulated, "Oh, my dear father, I cannot leave you!" Powis, half sobbing half smiling, said, "Why indeed, my child, I know not how to bear the thoughts of parting from you, but if not _now_, I must some time or other; and I will not prepare a pain for my death-bed so terrible as that would be which should tell me I had preferred my own selfish happiness to thine." At this tender, this affecting thought, the tears of Ellen redoubled, and Joanna's accompanied them. Just then Mordaunt, who had seen the boy who brought letters to Llanwyllan, pass towards the farm, came in impatient to know if Montague's answer had arrived: he was surprized and almost alarmed at the scene before him. Powis lifted up his head, and rubbing his eyes, said, "I am ashamed of myself to be such a child!--here, Mr. Mordaunt, is your friend's letter, and here, if you will accept of her, is your wife." He disengaged himself from Ellen's clasping arms, and gently placed her in those which Mordaunt eagerly extended to receive her.

All was now soon settled; for Powis, though an unlearned was not an unwise man; and seeing the necessity of Mordaunt's return to his own abode before the season changed, he would not suffer any selfish considerations of his own comfort to divide the lovers during a dreary winter, which would now quickly overtake them. He left every thing respecting money matters to Mr. Ross. Mordaunt gave that gentleman a bond, expressed in such terms as fully convinced him Ellen's pecuniary concerns would be amply considered; and generously refused to accept of any money with his bride, gaily telling Powis, that now he was robbed of his daughter, he hoped he would look out for a wife himself, and retain Ellen's intended portion to encrease his future means of ease and comfort; or, that if he really did not know what to do with the money, he should give it to Joanna when she married. "Well," said Powis, "you are either very rich or very proud, Mr. Mordaunt." "I shall be both when Ellen is my wife," answered Mordaunt.

Mordaunt requested that Ellen would furnish herself with no more cloaths on the occasion than were absolutely necessary, till they should reach Bristol: "Where," he said, "I hope, my dear girl, to find some fashionable mantua-maker, who will at least give you a more modern wardrobe than you could meet with here." "You are determined, I see," said Ellen, "that I shall be obliged to no one but yourself." "For Heaven's sake, Ellen!" replied Mordaunt, hastily, "do not talk of such a paltry concern as a few cloaths, as an obligation: how shall I ever repay those I owe to your confidence and kindness?"

Few were the preparations requisite for the marriage of Mordaunt and Ellen. He with some difficulty procured a chaise from Carnarvon on the morning of their marriage, for the roads between that place and Llanwyllan were in some parts almost impassable for a carriage, and had not the autumn been uncommonly fine and dry, would have been entirely so. On the third of October, at a very early hour, the little party met at Powis's house, and from thence proceeded to the village church, where, from her father's hand, Mordaunt received his lovely bride. Mr. Ross performed the ceremony, and at the end of it added an extempore and most eloquent prayer for the happiness of friends so dear to him, with a fervency of devotion that drew tears into every eye. When all the party had quitted the vestry, after having registered the marriage of Constantine Frederick Mordaunt and Ellen Powis, Ross and Mordaunt stepped back an instant, as if something had been forgotten: as they returned, Ellen heard Ross say, "I rely implicitly upon it, and let me beg it may be done as soon as possible." "Depend upon my sacred honour," answered Mordaunt, impressively: "or, if you wish it, on my most solemn oath." "It needs not that," said Ross; "I am satisfied." "Then so am I," thought Ellen, "for strange as such frequent mysteries appear, Ross, I am sure, would never partake of one, which was not perfectly innocent."