Home Influence Part 34

Hamilton made several attempts without any apparent interference on her part, to get her to sit occasionally with her and Miss Harcourt, and her cousins, but she seemed to shrink from them all. Emmeline, indeed, when once aware of the terrible trial she was enduring, would sit with her, drawing or working as if nothing had occurred to estrange them, and try to cheer her by talking on many topics of interest. Caroline would speak to her kindly whenever she saw her. Miss Harcourt alone retained her indignation, for no suspicion of the real cause of her silence ever entered her mind.

Poor Ellen felt that she dared not indulge in the comfort this change in her aunt's and cousins' manner produced. She wanted to wean herself quite from them, that the pang of separation might be less severe, but she only seemed to succeed in loving them more. One thought, indeed, at length took such entire possession of her mind, as to deaden every other:--it was the horrible idea that as she had sinned to save Edward, perhaps, from merited disgrace, he would be taken from her; she never breathed it, but it haunted her night and day. Mr. Maitland saw her continually, but he plainly told Mrs. Hamilton, while the cause of anxiety and mental suffering lasted he could do her no good. It was a constant alternation of fearful excitement and complete depression, exhausting the whole system. Repose and kindness--alas! the latter might be given, but the former, in the present position of affairs, how could it be insured?

The month of grace was waning; only two days remained, and Edward had not arrived, and how could Mrs. Hamilton obey her husband--whose every letter reiterated his hope that she had not been prevailed on to alter his sentence, if Ellen still remained silent--and send her niece from her? She came at length to the determination, that if another week pa.s.sed and still there were no tidings, not to let this fearful self-sacrifice, if it really were such, last any longer, but gently, cautiously, tenderly as she could, prevail on Ellen to confide all to her, and promise, if Edward really had been erring and in difficulties, all should be forgiven for her sake, and even his uncle's anger averted.

Once her determination taken, she felt better enabled to endure an anxiety which was injuring her almost as much as Ellen; and she turned to Ellis's room, which she had lately very often frequented, for she scarcely felt comfortable when Ellen was out of her sight, though she had full confidence in Ellis's care.

Ellen was asleep on a sofa, looking so wan, so haggard--so altered from the Ellen of five short months back, that Mrs. Hamilton sat down by her side, pondering whether she was doing right to wait even another week, before she should try to bring relief by avowing her suspicions--but would it bring relief? and, after all, was it for Edward? or, had she been allowing affection and imagination to mislead and soften, when sternness might still be needed?

Ellen woke with a start as from some fearful dream, and gazed at Mrs.

Hamilton for a full minute, as if she did not know her.

"My dear Ellen, what is it? You have been sleeping uncomfortably--surely you know me?"

"I thought I was at--at--Seldon Grange--are you sure I am not? Dear aunt Emmeline, do tell me I am at Oakwood, I know I am to go, and very soon; but I am not there now, am I?" and she put one hand to her forehead, and gazed hurriedly and fearfully round her, while, with the other, she held tightly Mrs. Hamilton's dress. There was something alarming both in her look and tone.

"No, love, you are with me still at Oakwood, and you will not go from me till you have been with Edward some little time. You can not think I would send you away now, Ellen?"

The soothing tone, her brother's name, seemed to disperse the cloud, and bursting into tears, she exclaimed--

"He will never come--I know he will never come--my sin has killed him!"

"Your sin, Ellen, what can that have to do with Edward?"

"Because," the words "it was for him" were actually on her lips; but they were checked, and, in increasing excitement, she continued--"Nothing, nothing, indeed, with him--what could it have? But if he knows it--oh, it will so grieve him; perhaps it would be better I should go before he comes--and then, then, he need not know it; if, indeed, he ever comes."

"I do not think you quite know what you are saying, my dear Ellen; your uncomfortable dream has unsettled you. Try and keep quiet for an hour, and you will be better. Remember, suffering as this dreadful suspense is, your brother is still in a Father's gracious keeping; and that He will listen to your prayers for his safety, and if it be His good pleasure, still restore him to you."

"My prayers," answered Ellen, fearfully. "Mr. Howard said, there was a barrier between Him and me, while I would not confess; I had refused His mercy."

"Can you confess before G.o.d, Ellen? Can you lay your whole heart open before Him, and ask Him in his infinite mercy, and for your Saviour's sake, to forgive you?"

"I could, and did do so," answered Ellen, returning Mrs. Hamilton's earnestly inquiring look, by raising her large, expressive eyes, steadily and fearlessly, to her face; "but Mr. Howard told me it was a mockery and sin to suppose G.o.d would hear me or forgive me while I refused to obey Him, by being silent and obdurate to you. That if I wished His forgiveness, I must prove it by telling the whole to you, whom His commandments desired me to obey, and--and--as I dared not do that, I have been afraid to pray." And the shudder with which she laid her head again upon the pillow, betrayed the misery of the fear.

"And is it impossible, quite impossible that you can confide the source of your grief and difficulty to me, Ellen? Will you not do so, even if I promise forgiveness, not merely to you, but to _all_ who may have erred?

Answer me, my sweet child; your silence is fearfully injuring your mind and body. Why do you fancy you dare not tell me?"

"Because, because I have promised!" answered Ellen, in a fearful tone of returning excitement, and, sitting upright, she clasped her hands convulsively together, while her cheek burned with painful brilliancy.

"Aunt Emmeline--oh, do not, pray do not speak to me in that kind tone!

be harsh and cold again, I can bear it better. If you did but know how my heart and brain ache--how they long to tell you and so rest--but I can not--I dare not--I have promised."

"And you may not tell me whom you have promised?" replied Mrs. Hamilton, every former thought rendered apparently null and vain by these words, and painfully disappointing her; but the answer terrified her.

"Mamma--I promised her, and she stands by me so pale, so grieved, whenever I think of telling you," answered Ellen, clinging to Mrs.

Hamilton, but looking with a strained gaze of terror on vacancy. "I thought I must have told you, when you said I was to go--to go to Seldon Grange--but she stood by me and laid her hand on my head, and it was so cold, so heavy, I don't remember any thing more till I found you and Ellis leaning over me; but I ought not to tell you even this. I know I ought not--for look--look, aunt Emmeline!--don't you see mamma--there--quite close to me; oh, tell her to forgive me--I will keep my promise," and shuddering convulsively, she hid her face in her aunt's dress.

Mrs. Hamilton was dreadfully alarmed. Whatever the foundation, and she had no doubt that there was some, and that it really had to do with Edward and his poor mother's mistaken partiality, Ellen's imagination was evidently disordered. To attempt obtaining the truth, while she was in this fearful state of excitement, was as impossible as cruel, and she tried only to soothe her to composure; speaking of her mother as happy and in Heaven and that Ellen had thought of her so much, as was quite natural in her sorrow, that she fancied she saw her.

"It is not reality, love; if she could see and speak to you, I am sure it would be to tell you to confide all your sorrow to me, if it would make you happier."

"Oh, no, no--I should be very wicked if it made me happier; I ought not even to wish to tell you. But Mr. Myrvin told me, even when mamma went to Heaven, she would still see me, and know if I kept my promise, and tried to win her love, by doing what I know she wished, even after she was dead; and it was almost a pleasure to do so till now, even if it gave me pain and made me unhappy; but now, now, aunt Emmeline, I know you must hate me; you never, never can love me again--and that--that is so hard to bear."

"Have you forgotten, my dear Ellen, the blessed a.s.surance, there is more joy in Heaven over one sinner that repenteth, than over ninety-and-nine who have not sinned? and if our Father in Heaven can so feel, so act, are His creatures to do less? Do you think, because you have given me pain, and trouble and disappointment, and compelled me to use such extreme severity, and cause you so much suffering, that it will be quite impossible for me to love you again, if I see you do all you can to win back that love?"

Ellen made no answer; but the alarming excitement had so far subsided, as to raise the hope that quietness would subdue it altogether. Mrs.

Hamilton remained with her till she seemed quite calm, and would not have left her then, but he had promised Caroline to drive with her into T---- that afternoon, to make some purchases; Emmeline and Miss Harcourt were spending the day at Greville Manor, and her daughter depending on her, she did not like to disappoint her. But the difficulty to think of other things, and cheerfully converse on comparatively indifferent topics, was greater than she had ever found it. That Ellis's surmise was correct, she had no longer the smallest doubt. Ellen was sacrificing herself, not merely for the love she bore her brother, but from some real or imaginary promise to her poor mother. What its exact nature was, she could not indeed satisfy herself, but that it had something to do with concealing Edward's faults seemed to flash upon her, she hardly knew how. Ellis's words "that she had seen enough of that work when they were children," returned to her, and various incongruities in Ellen's character and conduct which she had been unable to reconcile at the time, all seemed connected with it. But to arrive at the truth was much more difficult than ever; still, how could she send Ellen away? and yet, if still silent, would mere surmise satisfy her husband? There was but one hope, one ray of light--Edward's own honor, if indeed he were permitted to return; and even while driving and talking with Caroline, her heart was one fervent prayer that this might be, and the fearful struggle of her devoted Ellen cease.

Her aunt's gentle and unexpected kindness had had such a beneficial effect on Ellen, that, after her early dinner, about three o'clock, she told Ellis she would go in the school-room, and try and read there for an hour; she knew all the family were out, and therefore would be quite undisturbed. Ellis willingly acquiesced, rejoicing that she should seek any change herself, and advised her, as it was such a mild, soft afternoon, after the late storms, to take a turn on the terrace, on which a gla.s.s-door from the school-room opened; it would do her good.

Ellen meant to take her advice, but as she looked out from a window over a well-remembered landscape, so many painful thoughts and recollections crowded on her, that she lost all inclination to move. She had not stood there for many weeks, and it seemed to her that the view had never looked so very lovely. The trees all had the last glories of autumn--for it was early in November--the gra.s.s was of that beautiful humid emerald which always follows heavy rain, and though the summer-flowers had all gone, the sheltered beds of the garden, lying beneath the terrace, presented many very beautiful still. The end of the terrace, a flight of stone steps, overlooked the avenue, leading from the princ.i.p.al lodge to the main entrance, and where Ellen stood, she could distinguish a few yards of the path where it issued from some distant trees. She gazed at first, conscious only that she was banished from it all, and that, however long her departure might be deferred, she must go at last, for her uncle's mandate could not be disobeyed; but gradually her eye became fixed as in fascination. A single figure was emerging from the trees, and dressed in the uniform of a mids.h.i.+pman--she was sure it was! but it was a figure so tall, so slim, his step so lingering, it could not be Edward, most likely some one of his messmates come to tell his fate. He was taller even than Percy, but so much slighter, so different to the boy from whom she had parted, that, though her heart bounded and sunk till faintness seemed to overpower her, she could not convince herself it was he. With an almost unconscious effort she ran out, through the gla.s.s-door, to the steps of the terrace; she could now see him distinctly, but not his face, for his cap was low over his forehead; but as he approached, he paused, as if doubting whether to go up to the hall door, or the well-known terrace, by which he had always rushed into the school-room, on his daily return from Mr. Howard's; and as he looked hastily up, his cap fell back, and his eyes met Ellen's. A wild but checked scream broke from her lips, and all was an impenetrable mist till she found herself in her brother's arms, in the room she had quitted, his lips repeatedly pressing her cheek and forehead, and his voice, which sounded so strange--it did not seem like Edward's, it was so much more deep and manly--entreating her to speak to him, and tell him why she looked so ill; but still her heart so throbbed she could not speak. She could only cling close to him and look intently in his face, which was so altered from the happy, laughing boy, that had he not been, from his extreme paleness and attenuation of feature, still more like their mother when she was ill, his sister would scarcely have known him.

"Dearest Ellen, do speak to me; what has been the matter, that you look so pale and sad? Are you not glad to see me?"

"Glad! oh, Edward, you can not know how glad; I thought you would never, never come, the storms have been so terrible; I have been ill, and your sudden appearance startled me, for I had thought of such dreadful things, and that was the reason I could not speak at first; but I am sure you are as pale as I am, dear, dear Edward; you have been wounded--have you not recovered them yet?"

"My wounds, Ellen! oh, they were slight enough; I wished and tried for them to be severer, to have done for me at once, but they would not, they only bought me praise, praise which maddened me!"

"Sir Edward," murmured Ellen, in a low, fearful voice, "how did he part with you?"

"As he has always treated me, a kind, too kind father! oh, Ellen, Ellen, if he did but know the deceiving villain that I am!"

"Would he indeed not forgive, Edward, if he so loves you? not if he knew all, the temptation, the--"

"Temptation, Ellen! what excuse ought there to be in temptation? Why was I such a fool, such a madman, to allow myself to be lured into error again and again by that villain, after I had discovered his double face, and I had been warned against him, too? Why did I so madly disregard Mr.

Howard's and my uncle's warning letters, trusting my self-will and folly, instead of their experience? Brave! I am the veriest coward that ever trod the deck, because I could not bear a sneer!"

"And he? are you still within his power?" inquired Ellen, shrinking in terror from the expression of her brother's face.

"No, Ellen, no; G.o.d forgive me--I have tried not to rejoice; the death was so terrible, so nearly my own, that I stood appalled, and, for the first time these two years, knelt down to my G.o.d for pardon, mercy to repent. The lightning struck him where he stood, struck him beside me, leaving the withering smile of derisive mockery, with which he had that moment been regarding me, still on his lips. Why, and where had he gone?

he, who denied G.o.d and his holy Word, turned the solemn service into mockery, and made me like himself--and why was I spared? Oh, Ellen, I have no words to describe the sensation of that moment!" He stopped, and shuddered, then continued, hurriedly, "Changed as I am in appearance, it is nothing to the change within. I did not know its extent till now that I am here again, and all my happy boyhood comes before me; aunt Emmeline's gentle lessons of piety and goodness--oh, Ellen, Ellen, what have been their fruits? For two years I have given myself up to pa.s.sion, unrestrained by one word, one thought of prayer; I dared, sinful madman as I was, to make a compact with my own conscience, and vow, that if I received the relief I expected from you, and was free from Harding, I would reform, would pray for the strength to resist temptation, which I had not in myself; and when, when the man that was dispatched by Sir Edward from the sh.o.r.e, with the letters for the crew, sunk beneath the waves, bearing every dispatch along with him, I cursed him, and the Fate, which had ordained his death. Ellen, Ellen! why was I saved, and Harding killed!"

"And you never received my letter, Edward? Never knew if I had tried to relieve you from Harding's power?" answered Ellen, becoming so deadly pale, that Edward forced himself to regain composure; the nature of his information causing such a revulsion of feeling in his sister as to deaden her to the horror of his words. For what had all this suffering been?

"I was sure you had, Ellen, for you always did, and I could trust you as I could myself. A sudden squall had upset the boat, and the man was so enc.u.mbered by a large great-coat, every pocket filled with letters and papers, that he sunk at once though every help was offered. I threw myself into the sea to save him, and Lieutenant Morley praised my courage and benevolence--little did he know my motive! Besides, Sir Edward told me there was an inclosure for me in my uncle's to him, and regretted he had not kept it to give it me himself--would to Heaven he had! Till Harding's death I was in his power; and he had so used it, that I had vowed, on our arrival in England, to abscond, hide myself forever, go I cared not where, nor in what character! But he is dead, and I am free: my tale need be told to none, and if I can I will break from this fatal spell, and redeem the past; but it seems, as if fiends urged me still to the path of evil! Would that I had but courage to tell all to Mr. Howard, I should be safer then; but I can not--can not--the risk is too great. Carriage wheels!" he added, starting up--"my aunt and Caroline; oh, how I rejoiced when they told me at the lodge that my uncle was not here!" And in his extreme agitation at the thought of meeting his aunt, he forgot his sister, or he might have been startled at the effect of his words.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE STRUGGLE.

Mrs. Hamilton had been told at the lodge of her nephew's arrival, and so powerful was her emotion, that she leaned back in the carriage, as it drove rapidly from the lodge to the Hall, without the power of uttering a word. Caroline was surprised, for his return seemed to her only a cause of rejoicing; she had no idea of the mingled dread and joy, the trembling, lest Edward had indeed deceived them all, and, if he had not, the redoubled mystery of Ellen's conduct. While he was absent she could think calmly on him as the cause of all, but now that he was returned, her heart seemed to turn sick with apprehension, and she had hardly strength to inquire where he was, and great was her surprise when she found his arrival was still unknown. Caroline's joyful exclamation as she ran into the school-room to put away some of her purchases, drew her there at once; and for the first five minutes the intense thankfulness that he was indeed safe and comparatively well--that whatever might be the secret change, his affection for her, to judge by the warmth, and agitation of his embrace, was unchanged, and she had that to work on, alone occupied her mind and enabled her to regain her calmness.

"You do indeed look as if you wanted English air and home nursing, my dear boy," she said, after some little time had elapsed, and Edward had seated himself by her, his hand still clasped in hers; "Sir Edward was quite right to invalid you. Emmeline does nothing but talk of your wounds as making you a complete hero; I am unromantic enough to wish that you had brought me home more color and more flesh, and less glory; but, I suppose from being so pale, you are more like your poor mother than ever;" and she looked at him so earnestly, that Edward's eyes, spite of all his efforts, sunk beneath hers. He answered gayly, however, and, in reply to Caroline's numerous queries, entered into an animated description of their voyage home and the causes of their detention, in their being so often compelled to put into port from the fearful storms they had encountered, and time slipped away so fast that the dinner-bell rung before any one was prepared.

That Ellen should look paler than even when she had left her in the morning, and be still more silent, did not astonish Mrs. Hamilton; the agitation of meeting her brother was quite enough to occasion it; and she advised her to remain quiet while they were at dinner, that she might rejoin them afterward. She looked as if she had been so very lately ill, that Edward was not surprised at her having dined already; but many little things that occured during the evening--her excessive quietness, the evident restraint between her and Caroline, and, he at first fancied, and then was quite certain, between her and his aunt, startled and perplexed him. She seemed restrained and shy, too, with him, as if in constant terror. Poor child! her aunt had advised quietness while alone, and her brother's words rung in her ears, till repose seemed farther off than ever. After all she had suffered before, and after the sending that fatal letter, it had never reached him: she had utterly failed in her attempt to save him. If she had, indeed, confided at first in Mrs. Hamilton, measures would have been taken, she was sure, to have secured him the necessary relief, for whenever her uncle had sent him his allowance it was through Sir Edward, not encountering the risk of the loss of the letter. There had been times when, in the midst of her sufferings, Ellen could realize a sort of comfort in the idea that she had saved Edward and kept his secret; but where was this comfort now? All she had endured all she was still to endure, was for nothing, worse than nothing; for if Edward knew her sin, feeling that it had brought him no good, and given up, as she felt he must be, to unrestrained pa.s.sion, or he could not have given vent to such fearful sentiments, she actually trembled for its effect upon him and his anger on herself. She had sometimes fancied that, perhaps, his errors were not so great as he believed them, that he would confess them when he found only his kind, indulgent aunt at home, and so peace and hope gradually dawn for both him and her. All her wish, her hope now was that Mrs. Hamilton could be prevailed upon not to tell him what she had done, for whether it made him think he ought to confess himself its cause or not, its effect on him would be so terrible, that she felt any additional suffering to herself could be better borne.

With these thoughts, no wonder she was silent, utterly unable to subdue them as she wished, and evince natural interest in all that had occurred to Edward; and tell him all that had happened to herself during their long separation. Caroline, however, was so animated; and when Emmeline and Miss Harcourt returned, unable to comprehend what they could possibly be sent for, a full hour earlier than usual, the astonishment and delight at seeing Edward, prevented any thing like a pause in conversation, or unnatural restraint. His cousins found so much to tell as well as to listen to, about Percy and Herbert, as well as themselves; and Emmeline made Edward tell her such minute particulars of their engagements with the pirates, and how he was wounded, and what Sir Edward said to him, that Mrs. Hamilton, anxious as she was--for the longer she was with her nephew, the more convinced she was that he could not meet her eye, and that his gayety was not natural--could not help being amused in spite of herself.