Ellen Percy; or, The Memoirs of an Actress — page 17: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

4 ELLEN PERCY; OR, THE MEMOIRS OF AN ACTRESS. ng shut-up chambers; and on the appointed day my , is truly remarkable—and she is very fond of learn- aunt and cousin arrived. A pale, pretty, lady-like woman, with the sweetest and most amiable ex- pression of countenance,—and a tall, genteel, slender lad, looking two years older than he really was, with a profile of remarkable classic beauty and large brown eyes shaded by ebon lashes,— these were the relatives to whom I was now intro- duced, and who received me in their arms. I wept for very joy. The old cheerless house seemed irra- diated with their presence; and there was the ex- quisite charm of novelty in the excitement attend- ing their arrival. And then too, it was so sweet for me, who had never known any other relation than my old, withered, cadaverous grandfather, to be clasped in the arms of those who appeared per- fectly beautiful in my eyes. My aunt treated me as one whom she had long yearned to behold, but from whom circumstances had kept her apart. She smiled and wept upon me, pressing me again and again to her bosom. As for my cousin,—with the natural frankness of his truly generous heart, he seemed determined to become intimate with me at once: there was no cold ceremony, no awkward shyness nor reserve on his part—and we were soon * Cousin Harry” and “Cousin Nelly” to one an- other. How happily passed that week! It constituted one of those periods which are marked with golden letters in the existence of mortals. It was in the middle of summer, during the vacation of Mrs. Kelly’s school; and therefore I was enabled to de- vote all my time to my aunt Wakefield and my cousin Harry. I liked Harry from the very first moment: there was something so cordial without absolute forwardness in his manner—something so frank and open-hearted that it was impossible to help being pleased with him—almost fascinated, if I may apply such a term to the feelings of a girl of ten years of age, as I was at that time. One day I found myself alone with my aunt Wakefield—Mr. Forsyth having gone with Henry to visit the master of the free-school in a neigh- bouring town. My aunt questioned me upon a variety of subjects; and though I was too young and inexperienced at the time to comprehend the considerate delicacy with which her queries were put,—yet at later periods, when I have recalled to mind the particulars of that interview, I have seen and appreciated all which I was then unable to understand. She evidently strove to glean whether I was happy with my grandfather—whether Mrs. Parks was kind to me—and whether I had a suffi- ciency of necessaries and comforts. I wore my best apparel all the time my aunt and Henry were at the house: and I did not like to tell Mrs. Wake- field that ordinarily in the week-days I felt that I was shabby and that I had even been taunted with that shabbiness by my sckoolfellows. I endea- voured to give the most satisfactory answers to all questions; for indeed I was naturally of a con- tented, but shy and timid disposition. I spoke highly of Mrs. Kelly; and my aunt went with me to call upon this lady, that she might personally thank her for all her goodness towards me. “T can assure you, my dear madam,” said the kind-hearted dame, “ Ellen is quite a pet of mine: but she deserves it. She is very pretty, though I ought not to say so in her presence: but what ip far better, she is good. As for her intelligence, i- ing.” : **Do you not think she is rather delicate?” I heard my aunt ask in a whisper, but which was nevertheless just audible to my ears. “No—her health is good,” replied Mrs. Kelly. ‘She has attended my school for the last four years, and has never had a day’s illness. She is tall for her age—she is only ten, you know—and she looks twelve. Her figure is slender—but so genteel! In short, my dear madam, she is the genteelest looking as well as the prettiest and the best girl in my school. Iam very much mistaken if she will not grow up to be a most lovely creature. Did you ever see such silky black hair, with such a raven gloss upon it— such superb dark eyes—such sweet features, espe- cially those vermilion lips of her’s, with that beau- tiful smile !” ““Yes—she is all that,” answered Mrs. Wake- field: “and I hope 7 But here she stopped short, and heaved a pro- found sigh. “You hope that her grandpapa,” added Mrs. Kelly, “ will make such provisions as shall place her under proper guardianship at his death. But you yourself, my dear madam, will doubtless be- come her guardian ?” Mrs. Wakefield gave some response, which did not reach my ears. I was sitting in the window: recess of the little parlour where this discourse took place; and I could not help overhearing it. But I was looking through the window—or rather my face was turned that way; and therefore neither the schoolmistress nor my aunt had any reason to suspect that I did overhear them. The conver- sation made a deep impression on my mind; and therefore I have recorded it here. It was the first time I ever knew that I had the slightest claim to good looks. Mrs. Parks had been wont to praise my proficiencies in study—but never my personal beauty. It would be a miserable affectation to pres tend that I was not pleased on learning that I was considered pretty: but the knowledge thereof did not instil the faintest tincture of vanity in my mind. All the value which, according to the girlish notions of my naturally shy disposition, I attached to the beauty of personal appearance, was centred in the hope that it might render me more pleasing to those whose good opinion I esteemed. On returning with my aunt to the house, we continued to discourse together ; and I at length timidly ventured to ask some question relative to my parents. I say timidly—because I had noticed that my grandfather was invariably either annoyed or afflicted whenever I had questioned him on the same subject. i mow perceived that Mrs. Wake- field averted her countenance ; and, as I continued to gaze upon her, I observed that the tears were trickling down her pale cheeks. I threw myself into her arms, beseeching her to forgive me for having touched upon a topic which made her weep. ) “You have no forgiveness to ask, my dear child,” she responded : “ the question was natural equally natural too is it that I should weep on account of your parents. They are lost to you, my poor child they were lost to you in your infancy ! Would that it had been permitted to me to supply the place of your mother: but cir- cumstances prevented it |” Eomichook com