PAIN AND PENITENCE.—TRUTH IMPRESSED, AND RECONCILIATION.—THE FAMILY TREE.
In feverish dreams of her parents, recalling both their deaths, and with alternate wakefulness, fraught with those deadly incomprehensible terrors which some poor children of strong imagination know so well, Ellen's night passed; and the next morning she rose, with that painful throbbing in her throat and temples, which always ended with one of those intense and exhausting headaches to which which she had been so subject, but which her aunt's care and Mr. Maitland's remedies had much decreased, both in frequency and violence. She went to church, however with the family, as usual.
"Remain out, Edward!" Percy exclaimed, as they neared the house; "the old year is taking leave of us in such a glorious mood, that Tiny and I are going to ruralize and poetize till dinner—will you come with us?—and you, Ellen?"
Ellen withdrew her arm from her brother's, saying, as she did so—
"Go, dear Edward, I am very tired, and would rather not."
"Tired, and with this short walk; and you really do look as if you were—what is the matter, Ellen? you are not well."
His sister did not reply, but shrinking from the look which Mrs. Hamilton, who was passing at the moment, fixed earnestly upon her, she ran into the house.
Edward again felt uncomfortable; in fact, he had done so, so often since the Tuesday morning, that his temper was not half so good as usual. He did not choose to acknowledge, even to himself, that the uncomfortable feeling was self-reproach, and so he vented it more than once in irritation against Ellen, declaring it was so disagreeable she should be in disgrace just then.
It was Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton's custom always to dine on Sundays at half-past one, to allow those of their household who were unable to attend divine service in the morning to go in the afternoon. With regard to themselves and their children they pursued a plan, which many rigid religionists might, perhaps, have condemned, and yet its fruits were very promising. Their great wish was to make the Sabbath a day of love, divine and domestic; to make their children look to it with joy and anticipation throughout the week as a day quite distinct in its enjoyment from any other; and for this reason, while their children were young, they only went to church in the morning, the afternoons were devoted to teaching them to know and to love God in His works as well as word, and their evenings to such quiet but happy amusements and literature, as would fill their young hearts with increased thankfulness for their very happy lot. As they grew older, they were perfectly at liberty to do as they pleased with regard to the afternoon church. Herbert, whose ardent desire to enter the ministry increased with his years, generally spent the greater part of Sunday with Mr. Howard, with his parents' glad and full consent. The contemplation of serious things was his greatest happiness, but Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton did not expect that all their other children were to be like him. They were contented, and intensely thankful also, to perceive that diverse as were their characters, still the constant sense of God's presence and of His infinite love was active and earnest in them all, inciting love and reverence for Herbert, even though they could not sympathize with him entirely. Another peculiarity of Mr. Hamilton consisted in his permitting no Sunday schools at Aveling and his other villages. The Saturday afternoons were set apart instead of the Sunday. He wished his wife, and daughters when they were old enough, to superintend them, and help the children in preparing for the Sunday services and Sunday enjoyments; but he particularly disliked the system of overwork on a day of rest, which could not fail to be the case, if there were schools to attend to twice or three times a day, as well as church.
It being the last day of the old year, Mr. Howard had expressed a wish that Percy and Edward as well as Herbert should attend church that afternoon, and the lads, without the least reluctance, consented; Mr. Hamilton and Miss Harcourt were going too, and Caroline and Emmeline, of their own accord, asked permission to accompany them. Ellen's pale, suffering face had so haunted her aunt, that she could not think of any thing else, and remained for a very much longer time than was usual to her character in a state of indecision. The next night was her children's ball, and it was too, the first day of the new year—always in her happy circle a festival of joy and thankfulness. Ellen's face certainly looked as if she had suffered quite enough to prevent the recurrence of her fault, but so it had always done, and yet, before she could possibly have forgotten its consequences, she failed again. Mrs. Hamilton sat for some time, after her children had left her, in meditation, trying to silence the pleadings of affection, and listen only to reason, as to whether continued severity or returning kindness would be the more effective, and save both Ellen and herself any further pain.
To the child herself physical suffering was so increasing as gradually to deaden mental, till at last it became so severe, that she felt sick and faint. She knew the medicine she was in the habit of taking when similarly suffering, and the lotion which her aunt applied to her forehead, and which always succeeded in removing the excessive throbbing, were both in Mrs. Hamilton's dressing-room; but it seemed quite impossible that she could get at them, for she did not like to leave her room without permission, nor did she feel as if she could walk so far, her head throbbing with increased violence with every step she took. At length she summoned sufficient courage to ring the bell, and beg Fanny to ask Ellis to come to her. The girl, who had been already dreadfully concerned that Miss Ellen had eaten no dinner, and on Sunday too! gave such an account of her, that the housekeeper hastened to her directly, and begged her to let her go for her mistress—it was so lucky she had not gone to church—but Ellen clung to her, imploring her not.
"Dear, dear Ellis, get me the medicine, and bathe my forehead yourself; I shall get well then in an hour or two, without giving my aunt any trouble; pray, pray, don't tell her. I scarcely feel the pain when she is nursing and soothing me; but I do not deserve that now, and I am afraid I never shall."
"But indeed, Miss Ellen, she will be displeased if I do not. Why, only the other morning she was quite concerned that I had not told her Jane was ill directly, and went herself two or three times every day to see she had every thing proper and comfortable."
"But that is quite different, dear Ellis; do get the lotion; I feel as if I could not bear this pain much longer without crying; you can tell her afterward, if you think you ought."
And seeing that farther argument only increased the poor child's sufferings, Ellis promised, and left her. Ellen leaned her forehead against the side of her little bed, and held the curtain tightly clasped, as if so to prevent the utterance of the hysteric sob that would rise in her throat, though she did not know what it was. But the wholly unexpected sound of Mrs. Hamilton's voice saying, close by her, "I am afraid you have one of your very bad headaches, Ellen," so startled her, as to make her raise her head suddenly; and the movement caused such agony, that, spite of all her efforts, she could not prevent an almost convulsive cry of pain.
"My dear child! I had no idea of pain like this; why did you not send for me? We have always prevented its becoming so very violent by taking it in time, my Ellen."
"Miss Ellen would not let me go for you, madam," rejoined Ellis, who, to her mistress's inexpressible relief, was close at hand with the remedies she wanted, and she repeated what the child had said.
"Again your old mistake, Ellen. I would so much, so very much rather hear you say you were resolved to deserve my love, than that you did not merit it. Why should you not deserve it as well as your brother and cousins, if you determined with all your heart to try and not do any thing to lessen it? Nothing is so likely to prevent your even endeavoring to deserve it, as the mistaken fancy that you never shall; but you are too unwell to listen to me now; we must try all we can to remove this terrible pain, and then see if we can bring back happiness too."
And for above an hour did Mrs. Hamilton, with the most patient tenderness, apply the usual remedies, cheered by finding that, though much more slowly than usual, still by degrees the violence of the pain did subside, and the hysterical affection give way to natural and quiet tears. Exhaustion produced a deep though not very long sleep, and after watching her some few minutes very anxiously, Mrs. Hamilton sat down by her bed, and half unconsciously drew toward her Ellen's little Bible, which lay open on the table, as if it had been only lately used. Several loose papers were between the leaves; her eyes filled with tears as she read on one of them a little prayer, touching from the very childishness of the language and imperfect writing, beseeching her Father in Heaven in His great mercy to forgive her sin, and give her courage to speak the truth, to help her not to be so frightened, but to guide her in her difficult path. Mrs. Hamilton little guessed how difficult it was, but she hoped more from the effects of her present penitence than she had done yet. She had copied, too, several verses from the various parts of the Old and New Testament which were condemnatory of falsehood, and her aunt felt no longer undecided as to her course of action.
"You have employed your solitary hours so well, my dear Ellen," she said, as, when the child awoke and looked anxiously toward her—she kissed her cheek with even more than her usual fondness—"that I scarcely require your assurance of repentance or promises of amendment. When you have taken some coffee, and think you are well enough to listen to me, I will read you an illustration of the fearful sin of falsehood from the Old Testament, which I do not think I have yet pointed out to you. Ananias and Sapphira, I see you remember."
And when Ellen had taken the delicious cup of coffee, which her aunt had ordered should be ready for her directly she awoke, and sat up, though her head was still so weak it required the support of a pillow, yet she seemed so revived, so almost happy, from the mesmeric effect of that warm, fond kiss, that her aunt did not hesitate to continue the lesson she was so anxious to impress, while the mind and heart were softened to receive it. She turned to the fourth chapter of the second book of Kings, and after briefly relating the story of Naaman—for she did not wish to divert Ellen's attention from the one important subject, by giving any new ideas—she read from the 20th verse to the end, and so brought the nature of Gehazi's sin and its awful punishment, at the hand of God himself (for the prophet was merely an instrument of the Eternal, he had no power in himself to call the disease of leprosy on his servant) to Ellen's mind, that she never forgot it.
"Do you think Elisha knew where he had been, and what he had done, before he asked him?" she ventured timidly to inquire, as her aunt ceased; "Gehazi had told a falsehood already to Naaman. Do you think God punished that or his falsehood to Elisha?"
"Most probably he punished both, my love. Elisha no doubt knew how his servant had been employed in his absence, in fact he tells him so"—and she read the 26th verse again—"but he asked him whence he had come, to give him an opportunity for a full confession of his first sin, which then, no doubt would, after some slight rebuke, have been pardoned. It was a very great fault at first, but the mercy of God was then, as it is now, so infinite so forgiving, that, had Elisha's question recalled Gehazi to a sense of his great guilt and excited real repentance, his punishment would have been averted. But his aggravated and repeated falsehood called down on him a chastisement most terrible even to think about. Leprosy was not merely a dreadful disease in itself, but it cut him off, from all the blessings and joys not only of social life but of domestic; because, as God had said it should cleave to his seed as well as to himself, he could never find any one who would dare to love him, and he must have been compelled to lonely misery all his life."
"It was a very dreadful punishment," repeated Ellen, fearfully.
"It was, dearest; but it was merciful, notwithstanding. If, God had passed it by, and permitted Gehazi to continue his sinful course, without any check or chastisement that would recall him to a sense of better things, and a wish to pursue them, he might have continued apparently very happy in this life, to be miserable forever in the next; to be banished forever from God and His good angels; and would not that have been still more dreadful than the heaviest suffering here? In those times God manifested his judgments through His prophets directly. That is not the case now, but He has given us His word to tell us, by history as well as precept, those things that are pleasing to Him, and those which excite His anger; and which, if not corrected while we are in this world, will cause our condemnation when our souls appear before Him in judgment, and when we can not correct them if we would. Now children, and even young people, can not know those things as well as their parents and guardians can, and if we neglect to teach them right and wrong, God is more angry with us than with them, as He tells Ezekiel." She read from the 18th to the 22d verse of the third chapter, and explained it, so that Ellen could clearly understand it, and then said. "And now, my dear Ellen, can you quite understand and quite feel why I have caused you so much pain, and been, as I dare say you have felt, so very, very severe?"
Ellen's arms were round her neck in a moment, and her head cradled on her bosom, as her sole reply, for she felt she could not speak at first, without crying again.
"I wish I could remember that God sees me wherever I am," she said after a short pause, and very sadly. "I am so frightened when I think of any body's anger, even Caroline's, that I can not remember any thing else."
"Did you notice the Psalm we read the day before yesterday, my dear Ellen, in the morning lesson?"
The child had not; and her aunt turning to the 129th, read the first twelve and the two last verses carefully with her, adding—
"Suppose you learn one verse for me every morning, till you can repeat the whole fourteen perfectly, and I think that will help you to remember it, my Ellen, and prove to me that you really are anxious to correct yourself; and now one word more, and I think I shall have talked to you quite enough."
"Indeed, indeed I am not tired, dear aunt," replied Ellen, very earnestly; "I feel when you are talking to me as if I never could be naughty again. Oh! how I wish I never were."
"I am not so unconscionable as to expect you to have no faults, my dear child; all I wish you to attend to, is more obedience to my commands. I have not said any thing about your disobedience, because your untruth was of still more consequence, but that grieved me too, for disobedience to me is also disobedience to God, for He has commanded you to obey your parents and guardians; as you said you remembered I had told you not to move the flower-stand, I can not imagine what could have induced you so willfully to disobey me."
Ellen looked up in her face with such earnest, wistful eyes that Mrs. Hamilton felt puzzled; but as she did not speak, and laid her head again on its resting place, to hide the tears that rose, her aunt merely added—
"But as I do not wish to inflict any further pain, I will not say any thing more about it; only remember, that though I may be displeased if you disobey me again, an instant and full confession will soon gain my forgiveness; and that though I will never doubt your word, still, if I discover another untruth, it will and must oblige me to adopt still severer measures, painful as it will be to myself. Do not tremble so, my Ellen, you know you can prevent it; and remember too that whenever you fail in truth, you punish me as well as yourself;" and Mrs. Hamilton fondly kissed her as she spoke.
Light steps and a ringing laugh at that moment sounded in the passage, and Emmeline, though she certainly did ask if she might enter, scarcely waited for an answer, before she bounded in, the very personification of health and joy.
"Mamma, papa wants to know if we may not have tea to-night, and if we may not have Ellen's company too?"
"It is New Year's Eve," pleaded another joyous voice, and Percy's brown head just intruded itself through the half-opened door; "and our tree will not be half enjoyable unless we are all there."
"I had really forgotten your tree, my dear children, but I am glad papa and you all have remembered it. Come in, Percy; Ellen will, I dare say, admit you into her room."
"He raced me all round the gallery, mamma, declaring he would give you papa's message, or so take away my breath, that even if I outstripped him, I should not be able; but I have, you see, sir."
"Only because I did not know whether it was quite proper to enter a young lady's room. But do come, mamma; Mr. Howard is with us as usual, and we are all au desespoir for you and our little Ellen—she may come, I can read it in your eyes."
"Are you well enough, my love? Do you think this poor little head will permit you to join us?" asked Mrs. Hamilton, anxiously, for the sudden joy that gleamed in Ellen's eyes at the idea of joining the family, told what the disappointment would be if she could not.
"It does not hurt me at all if I can rest it, aunt; but I am afraid it will not let me walk," she added, sorrowfully, as the attempt to walk caused it to throb again.
"Never mind, Nelly, even if you can not walk; you shall make use of my pedestrian powers," replied Percy, joyously; "rest your head on my shoulder—that's it—I should make a capital nurse I declare; should I not, mamma?"
And gayly answering in the affirmative, his mother could scarcely prevent a throb of pride, as she looked on his fine manly face, beaming with benevolent kindness on his little cousin, whom he had tenderly lifted in his arms, and checked his boisterous mirth and rapid stride to accommodate her.
"You are not quite so light as Tiny, but she is all air; I expect she will evaporate some day: never mind your hair, it does very well."
"Stop, I will smooth it in a moment," exclaimed Emmeline, eagerly; "it is Sunday, Percy, she shall look well."
"You had better let me do it, Emmy," said her mother, smiling; "your cousin's head can only bear very tender handling to-night. There, that will do—and I am quite ready to attend you."
The lights, the joyous voices, even her uncle's kind greeting, almost overpowered poor Ellen; as Percy, still preserving his character of an admirable nurse, laid her carefully on a couch in the sitting-room, where not only tea was waiting, but the celebrated family tree, which Mrs. Hamilton's anxiety and Ellen's sorrow had caused them both to forget, was displayed with even more than usual taste and beauty.
Mr. Hamilton, when young, had been a great deal with his father in Germany, Denmark, and Sweden, and brought from the first and latter country certain domestic observances which had especially pleased him, as so greatly enhancing the enjoyments of home, and helping to a right understanding between parents and children, by increasing their mutual love and confidence. The family tree, or Christmas Tree, as it was called, was one of these, and from their earliest years it had been one of the children's greatest delights on New Year's Eve. Of course, as they grew older, and their taste improved, the tree itself, its suspended presents, and its surrounding decorations increased in beauty, and it had never been prettier than it was this year. The whole of the preceding afternoon had the young artists labored in preparing it, for of course, as the next day was Sunday, it was obliged to be all finished by the Saturday night; the servants, eager in all things to enhance the happiness of those whose parents made them so happy, did not care what trouble they took to help them. They always selected the room in which there was a very lofty and very deep oriel window, in the center of which recess (which was almost as large as a moderately sized room) they placed the tree, which was a very large, gracefully-cut spruce fir; it was placed in a tub filled with the same soil as that in which the tree grew, so that by watering and care it remained fresh for some time. The tub which contained it, was completely hidden by the flowering shrubs that were placed round it, rising in an expanding pyramid, by means of several flower-stands, till the recess seemed one mass of leaf and flower; among which the superb scarlet geranium, that in Devonshire grows so luxuriantly all through the winter, shining against its own beautiful leaf, the brilliant berries of the holly, with their dark glistening branches, the snow-berry and flowering myrtle, shone pre-eminent. Small lamps glittered through the flowers, and were suspended in sufficient profusion from the pendent branches of the tree to half reveal and half hide the various gifts and treasures that were there deposited; and altogether the effect, from every part of the room, was really striking.
The tree always remained till after their ball, but, the interchange of gifts which took place on New Year's Eve, causing so many peculiarly happy and home feelings, was confined to the family group; Mr. Howard always included. Many weeks before had each individual worked at his own secret undertaking. If it could not all be done in private, no questions were ever asked, and each helped the other to keep it at least from their parents till the eventful night itself. They formed so large a party altogether, as little tokens of affection between the brothers and sisters were also exchanged, that the tree was quite loaded, and many a time had Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton discovered some trait of character or some ruling fancy, even in such a simple thing as the manufacture and presentation of home gifts. Their own idea of family ties was so strong and so holy, that one great aim in the education of their children was to make them not only love each other, but have thought and attention for individual feelings and wishes, and so heighten feeling by action, not depend entirely on natural ties. Mrs. Hamilton had known many young persons who were lavish in attentions and even presents to friends, but never imagined that their own home circle had the first and strongest claim to kindness, whether of word or deed. She knew that affections and thought lavished on comparative strangers never radiated on home, but that when given to home first, they shed light and kindliness far and near.
Their tea was indeed a mirthful one; Ellen had been very fearful of meeting Mr. Howard, for she thought he must have been told how naughty she had been; but if he had, there was nothing in his manner to say so; for he shook hands with her, and even kissed her most kindly, and told her, laughingly, that she must be quite well by the next night, or how was she to dance? That he thought it would be a good thing if Emmeline could give her a little of her dancing mania, as she hardly ever only walked, even when she called herself quite sober. Edward, every passing thought of self-reproach banished by his sister's return to favor, was in the wildest spirits; Percy and Emmeline seemed to have laid a wager who could say the wittiest things and laugh the most. Herbert was very quiet, but looking as happy as the rest, and quite entering into their mirth, and showing all sorts of little gentle attentions to Ellen, who had seemed to shrink from his eye, more than from all the others. Caroline fully entered into the spirit of the evening, but neither she nor Miss Harcourt took the same notice of Ellen as the rest. The person who was to act the Wizard's part, and by means of a long wand detach the various treasures from the tree, and carry them to the owners whose names they bore, was always chosen by lot; and great was the delight of the young party, when this night the office fell on Mr. Howard. No one seemed more pleased than himself, performing it with such a spirit of enjoyment and originality, that a general vote declared him the very choicest wizard they had ever had. To enumerate all the contents of that marvelous tree would be impossible. Their parents' gifts to each of them were not in the tree, but always given afterward; but great was the delight, when, after a terrible tussle to detach a large roll of cloth, down it came, right on Mr. Howard's head, and almost enveloped him with its folds, and proved to be a beautiful cover, which he had long desired for a favorite table in his drawing-room at the embroidered border of which, not only the three girls, but Mrs. Hamilton and Miss Harcourt had all worked, as a joint offering of love and respect. This good man was so charmed, that he declared he would not use his wand again till he had full five minutes to admire it. Then there was a very pretty, comfortable pair of slippers, worked by Caroline and Emmeline for their father, and a pair of braces worked by Ellen, all accompanied by some most ludicrous, but very clever verses from Percy. Edward, who was very ingenious, had turned a very pretty stand for his uncle to put his watch in at night; and manufactured two little vessels out of cork for his aunt, so delicately, and neatly, that she promised him they should stand on the mantelpiece of her dressing-room, as long as they would last. Caroline had knitted her mother a very pretty bag, and Emmeline and Ellen had collected for her a variety of leaves throughout the year, and arranged them with great taste, both as to grouping and tinting, in a sort of small herbal, with two or three lines of poetry, selected and carefully written by each alternately, attached to each page. Mrs. Hamilton was excessively pleased, as she was also with a portfolio formed by drawings from both her boys, and tastefully made up by Miss Harcourt; and with their gifts to their father, a correct and most beautifully written out Greek poem, which Mr. Hamilton had several months, if not more than a year before, expressed a wish to possess, but the volume which contained it was so scarce, and so expensive from the quantity of uninteresting matter in which the gem was buried, that he had given up all thought of it. Herbert, however, had not, and never rested from the time his father spoke, till he had found and copied it—a task of no small difficulty, for the original was in many parts almost entirely effaced, and, if Herbert had not been an admirable Greek scholar, and a quick imaginator as to what it ought to be, Mr. Howard himself had said he could not have succeeded. The writing of the Greek character was most beautiful, and Percy, in imitation of the ancient missals, had designed and painted an elegant illuminated border round it, and a beautiful cover, forming a thin volume, so valuable, their father delighted them by saying, that he would not exchange it for twenty of the most precious volumes in his library. Such evidences of the home influence they had given, in permitting leisure for the cultivation of taste and imagination, teaching them the beautiful, and opening innumerable resources of enjoyment within themselves, and thence allowing them to enhance the pleasures of others, were indeed most gratifying to those earnest and affectionate guardians. From their earliest years they had been taught, that to give the greatest amount of pleasure to their parents, their gifts must be all, or at least have something in them, of their own workmanship, and to enable them to do this, the lads had been taught in their hours of recreation to use all sorts of tools, visiting and knowing something of a variety of handicrafts; and the girls to work and draw, and even bring the stores of Nature to their aid when needed, as in the present case, with Emmeline and Ellen's tasteful gift.
Our young readers must call upon their own imagination as to the other treasures of this valuable tree; for, as they would, no doubt, like to know what sort of New Year's gifts Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton had in store for their children (for Miss Harcourt too, for they never omitted her), we really must not linger round it any longer. Poor Ellen, indeed, had the pain of feeling that her fault and its consequences had prevented the completion of her purse for Percy, and a chain for Edward, and her cheek burned very painfully, when Mr. Howard, after exhausting the tree, exclaimed—
"Nothing from Ellen for Percy and Edward. Young gentlemen, have you been receiving any gifts in secret?—out with them if you have—it is against all law and propriety."
"We shall receive them next week, most potent conjuror, as you ought to have known without inquiring," answered Percy, directly; and bending over Ellen, by whom he chanced to be standing, he said, kindly, "Never mind, Nelly, you will have time to finish them both next week."
"Do not say 'never mind,' my dear boy, though I admire and sympathize in your kind care of your cousin's feelings," said his mother, in the same low tone, as only to be heard by him and Ellen. (Mr. Howard was very quick-sighted, and he took Percy's jest and turned off all farther notice of his words.) "Even such a little thing as this in Ellen's case is pain, and can only be felt as such; we do not lessen it by denying it, my Ellen, do we?"
"I would rather feel it, if it would help me to remember," was Ellen's earnest and humble reply; adding, "but I thank you, dear Percy—you are so kind."
"Not a bit," was his laughing answer. "Why, what in the world is this?" he added; "I thought the tree was exhausted."
"So it is, but this was hid at its root," replied Mr. Howard, "and though it is directed to Caroline, it is somewhat too heavy for my wand, and must reach her in a more natural way."
"Why, it is my flower, my own beautiful flower, or one exactly like it, at least," exclaimed Caroline, joyfully, as, removing a hollow pyramid of green and white paper, a myrtle was discovered of the same rare kind, and almost in as beautiful flower as the one whose death had caused such increased coldness in her feelings toward Ellen. "How did it come? who could have procured it for me?"
"Ellis sent for it at my request, dear Caroline," answered Ellen. "She said they were to be purchased from the gardener at Powderham, and if it were possible to send any one so far, she would endeavor to get one for me; she told me yesterday she had succeeded, and I thought she gave it you, as I begged her, directly; I had no opportunity to tell you before, but I was so very, very sorry I had hurt your flower."
"Ellis was very wise to put it among the pretty things of this evening, instead of obeying you," said her uncle, kindly; "and I really am glad that your great desire to replace it made her think of sending for it, for though I meant to have given Caroline another, I had so many things on my mind this week that it escaped me; and I know they are so much sought for, Wilson has scarcely ever one on hand."
"Indeed, papa, you were much too kind to think about it at all," said Caroline, very earnestly. "I am afraid, if you knew how very cross and unkind the loss of the other made me, you would have withdrawn your idea of such indulgence. I am very much obliged to you, Ellen," she continued much more cordially than she had yet spoken to her cousin; "I did not deserve it even from you, for I worked myself into such an ill-temper, as almost to believe you did it purposely, and I had no right to think that."
It did indeed bear out its language, that pretty flower, for, with this one coldness removed—though Mrs. Hamilton's trembling heart dared not hope it would be lasting—love now reigned pre-eminent. Every happy feeling increased when in the presents from their parents each recognized something that had been wished for, though they never remembered expressing it. Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton were always united in these New Year's gifts, though tokens of approval or occasional indulgences were often given separately. There were a set of most beautiful engravings for Percy, which for the last three or four months he had been most anxious to possess; but with the recollection of former folly very fresh in his memory, he had actually succeeded in driving them from his mind, and gave them up as unattainable, till he was richer, at least. For Herbert there was a fine edition of the Greek tragedians in their original, as beautiful a work of art, in its "getting up," as Percy called it, as its letter-press, which to Herbert was beyond all price. Edward was almost wild, as his uncle and aunt telling him he was fourteen next March, and might not be with them next New Year's eve, presented him with a treasure coveted beyond all other, a gold watch. (His father's had been given by his mother as a parting gift to Captain Cameron.) Mr. Howard declared that it was much too good for a sailor, and would be lost his first voyage; he had much better hand it over to the Rectory, promising to take every care of it; but looking so mischievous, Edward vowed it should not get near his hand. For Caroline was a most complete and elegantly fitted-up embroidery-box, which quite charmed her, for it was exactly like, if not more tasteful and complete, than one Annie Grahame had brought from London, and which she had wondered, Caroline could "exist" without. As Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton found that she could not only comfortably "exist," but much as she admired and had at first so coveted it, as to have a hard battle with discontent, she had never even hinted that it might be useful. As they perceived that her mind was so happily engrossed by the idea of the pleasure her gifts would bestow, as not to cast a thought upon Annie's superior box, they indulged themselves and their child, and were more than repaid by the beaming look of delight with which it was received. For Emmeline was a parcel almost as large as herself, Percy declared. "A drawing-box all to yourself, Tiny! Thank goodness! My chalks and pencils have some chance of being let alone; I really ought to thank mamma and papa quite as much, if not more, than you, considering that in giving you a new possession they have preserved me an old one, which I began to suspect would desert me piece by piece. What, more?" he continued, laughing at his sister's almost scream of delight, as she undid the covering of a book, and found it to be the complete poem of the "Lady of the Lake," extracts of which she had read in the reviews, and so reveled in them, child as she was, as to commit them all to memory, with scarce an effort, only longing to know the whole story.
"And now, Nelly, what is your secret? still larger than Tiny's; what can it be? Come, guess; I have you in my power, for you are not strong enough to race me as Em. would, and so I will be more merciful. What of all things would you like the best?—one, two, three guesses, and then I'll relieve you; I want to know if papa and mamma have looked into your secret chamber of wishes, as they have done in all of ours."
"Do not be afraid of guessing, Ellen; you are so very quiet, that your secret chamber of wishes, as Percy calls it, is more concealed than any of the others," said her uncle, smiling; "I am always obliged to refer to your aunt."
"Come, Nell, speak or I will indict you as unworthy of any thing. What did you say? a desk! Hurrah! then, there it is; and what a beauty—rosewood and mother-of-pearl—just fitted for an elegant young lady. How could mamma have found out so exactly? You have used the old shabby thing Herbert lent you, as quietly and contentedly as if there could not be a better. Do let us examine it!" and he dragged a table to her sofa, and displayed to the delighted child all its fittings-up, and its conveniences, and the pretty pen-holder and pencil-case, and fancy wafers, and sealing-wax, and a little gold seal with her own name, and every thing that could possibly be thought of. "And even a secret drawer," exclaimed Percy, quite proud of the discovery. "Do look, Ellen; why, you can keep all sorts of secrets there, for no one would be as clever as I am to find out the spring without being told, and of course I should not betray it:" and he laughingly sent away every body while he explained to Ellen the spring. For some little while longer did the young party examine and re-examine and talk of their own and each other's treasures. And then Mr. Hamilton bade them remember, that, though it was New Year's Eve, it was Sunday evening, too,[1] and that he had deferred the hour of evening prayer till ten, that they might have time to keep both, and so not lose the sacred music which was always part of their Sunday recreation, to put away their things, and adjourn to their music-room. And he was obeyed in a very few minutes; for though they might have preferred lingering and talking where they were, what exertion could be too great for those who so thought of, so cared for them?
Returning happiness had had such a beneficial effect, that, though Ellen still looked pale enough for her aunt not to feel quite comfortable about her, she could walk without any return of pain, and in one or two hymns even join her voice with her cousins', though it was weaker than usual. However small in appearance the talent for music, still Mrs. Hamilton cultivated it, in her boys as well as her girls, simply for the sake of giving them home resources and amusements that could be pursued together; she thought it such a mistaken notion in education to imagine that only perfection was worth attaining in the fine arts, and that, if there were not talent enough for that, it was better not attempted. Many a home might have envied the feelings with which old and young, to the lowest domestics, sought their pillows that night; for Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton, so lavish in their indulgence to their children, never forgot that for their domestics and retainers there were also claims on New Year's Eve; and the servants' hall, and every cottage which called Mr. Hamilton landlord, had vied in happiness with his own.
Mrs. Hamilton had visited Ellen the last thing, to see that she was quite comfortable, and that there was no return of pain; and she was almost startled, and certainly still more bewildered as to how such a depth of feeling could exist with such a real childish liability to error, and why it should be so carefully concealed, by the way in which Ellen clung to her, as she bent over her to wish her good night, with the same unrestrained affection as her own Emmeline did so often, with the only difference, that with the latter it seemed always to spring from the very exuberance of happiness, which could only be thus displayed. With Ellen, this night, it appeared like some deep, quiet feeling, almost of devotion, and as if—though Mrs. Hamilton's sober reason tried to persuade her imagination that it was too much meaning to attach to a mere embrace—she would thus tell her how intensely she felt, not only the indulgence of that evening, but the true kindness and watchful love which had caused the preceding sorrow. She might have thought, as no doubt many of our readers will, that Ellen was much too young and too childish, to contrast her system of treatment with her poor mother's; that she felt her soothing care in her hours of physical suffering—her indulgent love making no distinction between her and her cousins—still the more keenly and gratefully, from the recollection of her own mother's constant preference of Edward, and utter neglect of her; and that this contrast so deepened the love she bore her aunt, that it exceeded in intensity even that borne toward her by her own children.—Adults will think this all very fanciful, and perhaps interesting, but wholly improbable. Mrs. Hamilton herself would have banished the idea, as too imaginary to be entertained seriously for a moment, as any guide for her conduct. Ellen herself could not have explained or told herself that so she felt; and yet, notwithstanding, all we have written was there, and was the real prompter of that almost passionate embrace.
"Bless you, my darling!" was Mrs. Hamilton's fond reply, instead of permitting the child to perceive the surprise it excited in herself; and Ellen sunk to sleep, almost more happy than ever, in her little life, she had felt before.