Chapter 5 - Page 2

cause for the
blush that rose so proudly on Ellen's cheek; and his Quixotism had been
not a little mortified, because she did not immediately appeal to his
protection. He had, however, paid his usual visit the next day at Dr.
Melmoth's, expecting that, by a smile of more than common brightness, she
would make amends to his wounded feelings; such having been her usual mode
of reparation in the few instances of disagreement that had occurred
between them. But he was disappointed. He found her cold, silent, and
abstracted, inattentive when he spoke, and indisposed to speak herself.
Her eye was sedulously averted from his; and the casual meeting of their
glances only proved that there were feelings in her bosom which he did not
share. He was unable to account for this change in her deportment; and,
added to his previous conceptions of his wrongs, it produced an effect
upon his rather hasty temper, that might have manifested itself violently,
but for the presence of Mrs. Melmoth. He took his leave in very evident
displeasure; but, just as he closed the door, he noticed an expression in
Ellen's countenance, that, had they been alone, and had not he been quite
so proud, would have drawn him down to her feet. Their eyes met, when,
suddenly, there was a gush of tears into those of Ellen; and a deep
sadness, almost despair, spread itself over her features. He paused a
moment, and then went his way, equally unable to account for her coldness,
or for her grief. He was well aware, however, that his situation in
respect to her was unaccountably changed,--a conviction so disagreeable,
that, but for a hope that is latent even in the despair of youthful
hearts, he would have been sorely tempted to shoot himself.

The gloom of his thoughts--a mood of mind the more intolerable to him,
because so unusual--had driven him to Hugh Crombie's inn in search of
artificial excitement. But even the wine had no attractions; and his first
glass stood now almost untouched before him, while he gazed in heavy
thought into the glowing embers of the fire. His companion perceived his
melancholy, and essayed to dispel it by a choice of such topics of
conversation as he conceived would be most agreeable.

"There is a lady in the house," he observed. "I caught a glimpse of her in
the passage as we came in. Did you see her, Edward?"

"A lady!" repeated Edward, carelessly. "What know you of ladies? No, I did
not see her; but I will venture to say that it was Dame Crombie's self,
and no other."

"Well, perhaps it might," said the other, doubtingly. "Her head was turned
from me, and she was gone like a shadow."

"Dame Crombie is no shadow, and never vanishes like one,"