Short Fiction · The Elder Son (3/4)

“Ellen,” he said, “I have not been a wise but I am a fond father. I have done Clinton many injuries, of which he, poor fellow, is wholly unconscious; and I have wished to compensate for all in giving him a wife worthy of him. His temper is generous; his spirit clear and noble. By my soul, I think he has every virtue under heaven; and you alone deserve him. Do not interrupt me, I beseech you; hear me this once. I confess that ever since you became my ward this has been my favourite project. There have been several obstacles; but the most serious ones seem to vanish. You have seen each other, and I flatter myself have each discovered and appreciated the good qualities of the other. Is it so, Ellen? I know not whence my fears arise, and yet they intrude themselves. I fear, while I have been endeavouring to secure my boy’s happiness, I may have been adding to the ruin already heaped on his head by my means. I have talked with him today. He has no disguise in his nature, and he avows that he loves you. I know that this confession would come better from himself; but your fortune, your beauty, make him fear to be misinterpreted. Do not mistake⁠—he is wholly unaware of my intention of speaking to you. I see your distress, dear Ellen; have patience but for one word more⁠—do not trifle with Clinton’s feelings, as sometimes⁠—forgive me⁠—it has appeared to me that you have trifled with Vernon’s⁠—do not foster hopes not to be fulfilled. Be frank, be honest, despite the bashfulness and coquetry of your sex.”

After these words, fearful of having offended⁠—overcome by more agitation than I could have imagined him capable of feeling⁠—my uncle drew me towards him, pressed me convulsively to his bosom, and then rushed from the room.

I cannot describe the state in which he left me⁠—a spasm of pain passed through my frame; I became sick and faint, till a flood of tears relieved my bursting heart. I wept long⁠—I sobbed in agony⁠—I felt the veriest wretch that ever trod the earth.

My uncle had rent the veil that concealed me from myself. I loved Clinton⁠—he was the whole world to me⁠—all the world of light and joy, and I had shut myself out from him forever. And he also was my victim. I beheld his dear face beaming with hope; I heard his thrilling voice harmonized by love; and saw the fearless cordiality of his manners, which bespoke his confidence in my sympathy; while I knew that I held a poisoned dagger which I was about to plunge into his heart. Sometimes I thought to treat him coldly, sometimes⁠—oh! I cannot tell the various imaginations that haunted me⁠—some self-sacrificing, others wicked and false⁠—all ended in one way. My uncle departed; we were left together, our full hearts beating to respond to each other without any division or reserve. I felt that every moment might cause Clinton to open his soul to me, and to seek in mine for a feeling too truly and too fondly alive there, but which was sinful and fatal to both. To prevent his confession, my own preceded it. I revealed to him my engagement to Vernon, and declared my resolve not to swerve from my faith. He commended me. I saw despair at losing me painted in his countenance, mingled with horror at supplanting his brother; and alarm that he, the elder born, gifted by fortune with every blessing, should be suspected of the intention of stealing the sole remaining good, which Vernon had won by his diligence, perhaps by his deserts. Forbid it, Heaven! I saw in the clear mirror of his expressive countenance the struggle of passion and principle, and the triumph of honour and virtue exalted over the truest love that ever warmed man’s breast.

Our gaiety was flown; our laughter stilled. We talked sadly and seriously together, neither lamenting our fate nor acknowledging our sufferings; tamed to endurance, and consoling each other by such demonstrations of affection as were permitted to our near relationship. We read clearly each other’s hearts, and supported each other in the joint sacrifice; and this without any direct acknowledgment. Clinton talked of returning to the Continent; I of my seclusion and tranquillity at Beech Grove. The time was distant⁠—two years was an eternity at our age⁠—before Vernon could claim my hand; and we did not advert to that fatal consummation. We gave up each other; and that single misery sufficed without a more cruel addition. I was calm, pale, and tearless. I had brought it all on myself, and must submit. I could not cast aside the younger son to select the elder; and if in my secret thoughts I cherished a hope to induce Vernon to forego his claims, that very circumstance would the more entirely divide me from Clinton. As my brother-in-law, I might see him⁠—in some sort, our fortunes were shared; but as a rival to Vernon, a stream of blood separated us forever.

The hours of sad sympathy which we passed were very dear to us. We knew that they were brief. Clinton had fixed the day and hour of his departure⁠—each moment it drew nearer. We should never meet again till after my marriage; but till the hour of separation, for two short days, we were all in all to each other, despite the wall of adamant which was raised between us. We tried each to pretend to think and talk of indifferent subjects; and we never spoke of that nearest our hearts;⁠—but how superfluous are words as interpreters between lovers! As we walked or rode, and spent hours in each other’s society, we exchanged thoughts more intimately during long periods of absolute silence, than Vernon with his vehemence and eloquence could have conceived. Had we spoken folio volumes, we could have said no more. Our looks⁠—the very casting down of our eyes and mutual tacit avoidance, told our resolve to fulfil our duties and to conquer our love; and yet how, by a glance or a faltering word, when the future was alluded to, did we promise never to forget, but to cherish mutual esteem and tenderness as all that was left of the paradise from which we were so ruthlessly driven! Now and then a playful expression on his part, or a blush on mine, betrayed more feeling than we considered right; the one was checked by a sigh, the other by an assumption of indifference.

I had been spending many hours in tears and anguish, when, resolved to overcome my weakness, and to recover an appearance of serenity before my cousin returned from his ride, I went into Marianne’s schoolroom and took up a book. The exhaustion of weeping had calmed me; and I thought of my kinsman⁠—his endearing qualities, and of the tie between us, with softened feelings. As I indulged in reverie, my head resting on my hand, my book falling from my fingers, my eyes closed, I passed from the agitated sense of life and sorrow into the balmy forgetfulness of sleep. Clinton had wished to make a portrait of me, yet had not ventured to ask me to sit⁠—he came in at this moment; Marianne, whispering, told him not to disturb me. He took her drawing materials, and made a hasty sketch, which genius and love united to render a perfect likeness. I awoke and saw his work; it was beyond our contract; I asked him for it; he felt that I was right, and gave it. This sacrifice on his part proved that he did not palter with his sense of right. On the morrow we were to part; and he would preserve no memorial beyond a remembrance which he could not destroy.

That morrow came. Clinton asked me and his sister to walk through the park with him, to join his chariot at the farther lodge. We consented; but, at the moment of going, Marianne, who knew nothing certainly, but who darkly guessed that all was not right, excused herself. I joined him alone. There was something in his person and manner that so promised protection and tenderness, that I felt it doubly hard to be torn from him. A dignified reserve, foreign to his usual nature, founded on a resolve to play only the brother’s part, checked me somewhat; yet I loved him the more for it; while I would have laid down my existence so that it had only been permitted us to throw aside the mask but for one short hour, and to use the language of nature and troth. It could not be; and our conversation was upon indifferent subjects. When we approached the lodge, we found that the chariot had not come, and we retreated a little, and sat down on a turfy bank; then Clinton said a few words, the only ones that at all revealed the agitation he was enduring.

“I have a little more experience than you, Ellen,” he said; “and, besides, I am haunted by strange presentiments; we seem to know what we ought to do, and what we are to do, and act accordingly⁠—yet life is a strange, wild thing. I wish to ensure for you a friend more willing and active than Sir Richard. I have a sister to whom I am fondly attached; she is now on the Continent, but I shall hasten to her, and entreat her to afford you a friendship you so richly deserve. You will love Lady Hythe for her own sake as well as for mine.”

I was desirous of thanking him for this mark of kindness, but my voice failed me, and I burst into tears, overcome by the excess of anguish that deluged my heart I tried to conceal my tears⁠—I could not.

“Do not, Ellen, dear Ellen, I beseech you⁠—command yourself.”

Clinton spoke in a voice so broken, so full of misery, that he inspired me at once with fear and courage. The tread of a horse roused us⁠—a horse at swift gallop. I raised my eyes, and uttered a shriek; for, reining in the animal with a sudden strong pull, Vernon halted close to us. The most violent passions convulsed his countenance. He threw himself from the horse, and, casting the bridle from him, came up. What he meant to say or do I cannot tell; perhaps to conceal the workings of his heart⁠—and the quick departure of Clinton would have smoothed all; but I saw the barrel of a pistol peep from the pocket of his coat. I was seized with terror⁠—I shrieked aloud. Clinton, terrified at my alarm, would have supported me, but Vernon pushed him rudely away.

“Dare not to approach or touch her, as you value your life!” he cried.

“My life! you talk idly, Vernon. I value her security⁠—one moment of peace to her⁠—far more.”

“You confess it!” exclaimed Vernon; “and you, too, false and treacherous girl! Ha! did you think to betray me, and be unpunished? Do you think, if I so chose it, that I would not force you to look on till the blood of one of the brothers flowed at your feet? But there are other punishments in store for you.”

The expressions of menace used towards myself restored my courage, and I exclaimed, “Beware that you do not break the tie that binds us⁠—at least, that bound us a moment ago⁠—perhaps it is already broken.”

“Doubtless,” he cried, grinding his teeth with rage, “it is broken, and a new one created to bind you to the elder son. Oh yes! you would fain cast aside the poor, miserable beggar, who has vainly fawned on you, and madly loved⁠—you would take the rich, the honourable, and honoured Sir Clinton! Base, hollow-hearted fool!”

“Vernon,” said Clinton, “whatever your claims are on our cousin, I cannot stand by and see her insulted. You forget yourself.”

“The forgetfulness, sir, is on your part; proud in your seniority, to rival your brother, to drive him from his all, has been a May-game for you; but know, proud fool, or villain⁠—take which name you will⁠—your hour is passed by⁠—your reign at an end! Your station is a fiction, your very existence a disgrace!”

Clinton and I both began to think that Vernon was really mad⁠—a suspicion confirmed by his violent gestures. We looked at each other in alarm.

“Stay!” exclaimed the infuriated man, seizing my arm with a fierce grasp; while, fearful to induce Clinton’s interference, I yielded. “Stay, and listen to what your lover is⁠—or shall I wound your delicate ears? There are soft phrases and silken words to adorn that refuse of the world⁠—a bastard!”

“Vernon, dare not!⁠—beware, sir, and begone!”

Clinton’s face crimsoned; his voice, his majestic indignation almost forced the ruffian to quail; he threw my arm from him.

“Take him, fair Ellen! it is true you take what I say⁠—a natural son. Do you think that my information is not correct? Ask our father, for he is yours, Clinton, and our mother is the same; you are the firstborn of Richard Gray and Matilda Towers; but I am the eldest son of Mr. and Mrs. Gray.”

It could not have been that Vernon would have acted this cowardly and foolish part had he not been driven by a kind of madness. In truth, Sir Richard had, to quench his hopes forever, with that carelessness of truth⁠—his fatal propensity⁠—affirmed that Clinton and I were acknowledged lovers; and he came goaded by worse than jealousy⁠—by a spirit of hatred and revenge. Seeing us together, obviously engaged by the most engrossing feelings, his temper, which had been worked into fury during his journey, burst forth beyond the bounds he had prescribed for himself. I have called him a serpent, and such he was in every respect; he could crawl and coil, and hide his wily advance; but he could erect his crest, dart out his forked tongue, and infix the deadly venom, when roused as he now was. Clinton turned alternately pale and red.

“Be it as you will,” he said; “my fortunes and yours are of slight moment in comparison to Ellen’s safety. If there is any truth in this tale of yours, there will be time enough to discover it and to act upon it. Meanwhile, dear cousin, I see they have brought my chariot to the lodge. You cannot walk home⁠—get into it; it will drive you to the house, and come back for me.”

I looked at him inquiringly.

“Do not fear to be deserted by me,” he said, “or that I shall do anything rashly. Vernon must accompany me to town⁠—to our father’s presence, there to expiate this foul calumny, or to prove it. Be assured he shall not approach you without your leave. I will watch over him, and guard you.”

Clinton spoke aloud, and Vernon became aware that he must yield to this arrangement, and satisfied that he had divided us. Clinton led me to his carriage.

“You will hear soon from some one of us, Ellen,” he said; “and let me implore you to be patient⁠—to take care of yourself⁠—to fear nothing. I can make no remark⁠—affirm, deny nothing now; but you shall not be kept in suspense. Promise me to be patient and calm.”

“And do you,” I said at last, commanding my trembling voice, “promise not to be rash; and promise not to leave England without seeing me again.”

“I promise not to leave England for any time without your leave. Oh, trust me, my dear cousin; it is not in such storms as these that you shall be ashamed of me; one sentiment may subdue me, but poverty, disgrace, and every angry passion I can master.”

Vernon did not dare interrupt us. He felt that he had destroyed his carefully woven web through his own rashness, and gnawed his lips in silent rage. I looked at him once, and turned away my eyes in contempt. I got into the chariot; it drove me to the house, and went back to take Clinton up to town. Thus we were separated, as we intended; and yet, how differently! Hope was reborn in my heart, out of the very ashes of its despair.

Two mortal days passed, and I was still in my solitude, receiving no intelligence, except, indeed, such as was contained in a letter from Vernon. In this he demanded me as a right, and fiercely insisted that I should keep my faith with him; but he did not allude to the scene in the park, nor to his strange assertions there. I threw the letter from me as unworthy of notice or thought. The third morning brought me one from my uncle. I tore it open with uncontrollable impatience: these were the contents:⁠—