CHAPTER IX.
There was joy in the superb hotel at Frankfort-sur-Maine which served as the temporary residence of Lord St. Eval's family, domestic joy, for the danger which had threatened the young Countess in her confinement had passed away, and she and her beautiful babe were doing as well as the fond heart of a father and husband could desire. They had been at Frankfort for the last two months, at which place, however, Percy Hamilton had not been stationary, taking advantage of this pause in St. Eval's intended plans, by seeing as much of Germany as he could during that time; and short as it was, his energetic mind had derived more improvement and pleasure in the places he had visited, than many who had lingered over the same space of ground more than double the time. Intelligence that Caroline was not quite so well as her friends wished, aided perhaps by his secret desire to see again her gentle companion, Percy determined for a short time to return to Frankfort, till his sister's health was perfectly restored, and they might be again enabled to travel together. His almost unexpected arrival added to the happiness of the young Earl's domestic circle, and there was somewhat in his arch yet expressive glance, as he received his baby niece from the arms of Miss Manvers, and imprinted a light kiss on the infant's sleeping features, that dyed her cheek with blushes, and bade her heart beat quick with an indefinable sense of pleasure.
The sisterly friendship of Louisa Manvers had been a source of real gratification to both the Earl St. Eval and his Countess during their travels, more particularly now, when the health of the latter required such kindly tending. Mrs. Hamilton had deeply regretted the impossibility of her being with her child at such a time; the letter Lord St. Eval had despatched was, however, calculated to disperse all her anxiety, the danger appearing after the letter had gone, and not lasting sufficiently long to justify his writing again. They were sitting round the breakfast-table the morning after Percy's return, lengthening the usual time of the meal by lively and intelligent conversation; Miss Manvers was presiding at the table, and Percy did not feel the least inclined to move, declaring he would wait for his English despatches, if there were any, before he went out. The post happened to be rather late that morning, a circumstance, wonderful to say, which did not occasion Percy annoyance. It came in, however, at length, bringing several papers for Lord St. Eval and his wife, from the Malvern family, but only two from Oakwood, one, in the handwriting of Ellen, to Percy, and one for Robert Langford, evidently from Mr Hamilton.
"This is most extraordinary," Percy said, much surprised. "My mother not written to Caroline, and none from Herbert to me; his duties are increased, I know, but surely he could find time to write to me."
"Mrs. Hamilton has written to Caroline since her confinement, and so did all her family four or five days ago," said Lord St. Eval, but his words fell unheeded on the ear of Percy, who had hastily torn open his cousin's letter, and glanced his eye over its contents. Engaged in his own letters, the Earl did not observe the agitation of his friend, but Miss Manvers saw his hand tremble so violently, that he could scarcely hold the paper.
"Merciful heaven! Mr. Hamilton—Percy, what is the matter?" she exclaimed, suddenly losing all her wonted reserve, as she remarked his strange emotion, and her words, connected with the low groan that burst from Percy's heart, effectually roused the Earl's attention.
"Hamilton, speak; are there ill news from Oakwood? In mercy, speak!" he said, almost as much agitated as his friend.
"Herbert," was all Percy could articulate, "Herbert, my brother; oh God, he is dying, and I am not near him. Read, St. Eval, for pity; I cannot see the words. Is there yet time—can I reach England in time? or is this only a preparation to tell me he is—is dead?"
"He lives, Percy; there may be yet time, if you set off at once," exclaimed the Earl, who saw the necessity of rousing his friend to exertion, for the sudden blow had bewildered his every faculty. He started up wildly, and was darting from the room, when he suddenly paused—
"Keep it from Caroline—tell her not now, it will kill her," he cried. "May God in heaven bless you for those tears!" he continued, springing towards Louisa, and clasping her hands convulsively in his, as the sight of her unfeigned emotion caused the hot tears slowly to trickle down his own cheek, and his lip quivered, till he could scarcely speak the words of parting. "Oh, think of me; I go to the dying bed of him, whom I had hoped would one day have been to you a brother—would have joined—" He paused in overwhelming emotion, took the hand of the trembling girl, raised it to his lips, and darted from the apartment.
St. Eval hastily followed him, for he saw Percy was in no state to think of anything himself, and the letter Robert had received, telling him of the death of his mother, rendered him almost as incapable of exertion as his master; but as soon as he heard the cause of Percy's very visible but at first incomprehensible agitation, his own deep affliction was at once subdued; he was ready and active in Percy's service. That Mr. Hamilton should thus have written to him, to alleviate the blow of a parent's death, to comfort him when his own son lay on a dying bed, penetrated at once the heart of the young man, and urged him to exertion.
Day and night Percy travelled; but we must outstrip even his rapid course, and conduct our readers to Oakwood, the evening of the second day after Percy's arrival at Ostend.
Herbert Hamilton lay on his couch, the cold hand of Death upon his brow; but instead of robing his features with a ghastly hue, it had spread over them even more than usual beauty. Reduced he was to a mere shadow, but his prayers in his days of health and life had been heard; the delirium of fever had passed, and he met death unshrinkingly, his mind retaining even more than its wonted powers. It was the Sabbath evening, and all around him was still and calm. For the first two days after the delirium had departed, his mind had still been darkened, restless, and uneasy. Perseveringly as he had laboured in his calling, he had felt in those darker days the utter nothingness of his own works, how wholly insufficient they had been to secure his salvation; and the love of his God, the infinite atonement in which he so steadily believed, shone not with sufficient brightness to remove this painful darkness. Death was very near, and it no longer seemed the angel of light he had ever regarded it; but on the Saturday the mist was mercifully dispelled from his mind, the clouds dispersed, and faith shone forth with a brilliancy, a lustre overpowering; it told of heaven with an eloquence that banished every other thought, and Herbert's bodily sufferings were felt no longer; the confines of heaven were gained—but a brief space, one mortal struggle, and he would meet his Mary at the footstool of his God.
With solemn impressiveness, yet affecting tenderness, Archdeacon Howard had administered the sacrament to him, whom he regarded at once as pupil, friend, and brother; and the whole family of the dying youth, at his own particular request, had shared it with him. Exhausted by the earnestness in which he had joined in the solemn service, Herbert now lay with one hand clasped in his mother's, who sat by his side, her head bent over his, and her whole countenance, save when the gaze of her son was turned towards her, expressive of tearless, heart-rending sorrow, struggling for resignation to the will of Him, who called her Herbert to Himself. Emmeline was kneeling by her mother's side. Mr. Hamilton leaned against the wall, pale and still; it was only the agonized expression of his manly features that betrayed he was a living being. On the left side of the dying youth stood Arthur Myrvin, who, from the moment of his arrival at Oakwood, had never once left Herbert's couch, night and day he remained beside him; and near Arthur, but yet closer to her cousin, knelt the orphan, her eyes tearless indeed, but her whole countenance so haggard and wan, that had not all been engrossed in individual suffering, it could not have passed unobserved. The tall, venerable figure of the Archdeacon, as he stood a little aloof from the principal figures, completed the painful group.
"My own mother, your Herbert is so happy, so very happy! you must not weep for me, mother. Oh, it is your fostering love and care, the remembrance of all your tenderness from my infancy, gilding my boyhood with sunshine, my manhood with such refreshing rays—it is that which is resting on my heart, and I would give it words and thank and bless you, but I cannot. And my father, too, my beloved, my revered father—oh, but little have I done to repay your tender care, my brother and sisters' love, but my Father in heaven will bless—bless you all; I know, I feel He will."
"Percy," repeated the dying youth, a gleam of light kindling in his eye and flushing his cheek. "Is there indeed a hope that I may see him, that I may trace those beloved features once again?"
He closed his eyes, and his lips moved in silent yet fervent prayer, that wish was still powerful within; it was the only thought of earth that lingered.
"Tell him," he said, and his voice sounded weaker and weaker, "tell him, Herbert's last prayer was for him, that he was in my last thoughts; tell him to seek for comfort at the foot of that Throne where we have so often knelt together. Oh, let him not sorrow, for I shall be happy—oh, so happy!"
Again he was silent, and for a much longer interval; but when he reopened his eyes, they were fixed on Ellen.
"My sister, my kind and tender nurse, what shall I say to you?" he said, languidly, but in a tone that thrilled to her aching heart. "I can but commend you to His care, who can take from grief its sting, even as He hath clothed this moment in victory. May His spirit rest upon you, Ellen, and give you peace. May He bless you, not only for your affectionate kindness towards me, but to her who went before me. You will not forget, Ellen." His glance wandered from his cousin to his mother, and then returned to her. She bowed her head upon his extended hand, but her choking voice could speak no word. "Caroline, too, she will weep for me, but St. Eval will dry her tears; tell them I did not forget them; that my love and blessing is theirs even as if they had been around me. Emmeline, Arthur,—Mr. Howard, oh, where are you? my eyes are dim, my voice is failing, yet"—
"I am here, my beloved son," said the Archdeacon, and Herbert fixed a kind glance upon his face, and leaned his head against him.
"I would tell you, that it is the sense of the Divine presence, of love, unutterable, infinite, inexhaustible, that has taken all anguish from this moment. My spirit rises triumphant, secure of eternal salvation, triumphing in the love of Him who died for me. Oh, Death, well may I say, where is thy sting? oh, grave, where is thy victory? they are passed; heaven is opening. Oh, bliss unutterable, undying!" He sunk back utterly exhausted, but the expression of his countenance still evinced the internal triumph of his soul.
A faint sound, as of the distant trampling of horses, suddenly came upon the ear. Nearer, nearer still, and a flush of excitement rose to Herbert's cheek. "Percy—can it be? My God, I thank thee for this mercy!"
Arthur darted from the room, as the sound appeared rapidly approaching; evidently it was a horse urged to its utmost speed, and it could be none other save Percy. Arthur flew across the hall, and through the entrance, which had been flung widely open, as the figure of the young heir of Oakwood had been recognised by the streaming eyes of the faithful Morris, who stood by his young master's stirrup, but without uttering a word. Percy's tongue clove to the roof of his mouth; his eyes were bloodshot and haggard. He had no power to ask a question, and it was only the appearance of Myrvin, his entreaty that he would be calm ere Herbert saw him, that roused him to exertion. His brother yet lived; it was enough, and in another minute he stood on the threshold of Herbert's room. With an overpowering effort the dying youth raised himself on his couch, and extended his arms towards him.
"Percy, my own Percy, this is kind," he said, and his voice suddenly regained its wonted power. Percy sprung towards him, and the brothers were clasped in each other's arms. No word did Percy speak, but his choking sobs were heard; there was no movement in the drooping form of his brother to say that he had heard the sound; he did not raise his head from Percy's shoulder, or seek to speak of comfort.
"Speak to me, oh, once again, but once more, Herbert!" exclaimed Percy. Fearful agony was in his voice, but, oh, it could not rouse the dead: Herbert Hamilton had departed. His last wish on earth was fulfilled. It was but the lifeless form of his beloved brother that Percy held in the stern grasp of despairing woe. It was long ere the truth was known, and when it was, there was no sound of wailing heard within the chamber, no cry of sorrow broke the solemn stillness. For him they could not weep, and for themselves, oh, it was a grief too deep for tears.
* * * * *
We will not linger on the first few weeks that passed over the inmates of Oakwood after the death of one we have followed so long, and beheld so fondly and deservedly beloved. Silent and profound was that sorrow, but it was the sorrow of those who, in all things, both great and small, beheld the hand of a God of love. Could the faith, the truth, which from her girlhood's years had distinguished Mrs. Hamilton, desert her now? Would her husband permit her to look to him for support and consolation under this deep affliction, and yet not find it? No; they looked up to their God; they rejoiced that so peaceful, so blessed had been the death of their beloved one. His last words to them came again and again on the heart of each parent as soothing balm, of which nor time nor circumstance could deprive them. For the sake of each other, they exerted themselves, an example followed by their children; but each felt years must pass ere the loss they had sustained would lose its pang, ere they could cease to miss the being they had so dearly loved, who had been such a brilliant light in their domestic circle—brilliant, yet how gentle; not one that was ever sparkling, ever changing, but of a soft and steady lustre. On earth that light had set, but in heaven it was dawning never to set again.
For some few weeks the family remained all together, as far at least as Arthur's ministerial duties permitted. Mr. Hamilton wished much to see that living, now vacant by the death of his son, transferred to Myrvin, and he exerted himself towards effecting an exchange. Ere, however, Percy could return to the Continent, or Emmeline return to her husband's home, the sudden and alarming illness of Mrs. Hamilton detained them both at Oakwood. The fever which had been raging in the village, and which had hastened the death of Herbert, had also entered the household of Mrs. Hamilton. Resolved that no affliction of her own should interfere with those duties of benevolence, to exercise which was her constant practice, Mrs. Hamilton had compelled herself to exertion beyond the strength of a frame already wearied and exhausted by long-continued but forcibly-suppressed anxiety, and three weeks after the death of her son she too was stretched on a bed of suffering, which, for the first few days during the violence of the fever, her afflicted family believed might also be of death. In this trying time, it was to Ellen that not only her cousin but even her uncle turned, by her example to obtain more control and strength. No persuasions could induce her to leave the side of her aunt's couch, or resign to another the painful yet soothing task of nursing. Young and inexperienced she was, but her strong affection for her aunt, heightened by some other feeling which was hidden in her own breast, endowed her at once with strength to endure continued fatigue, with an experience that often made Mr. Maitland contemplate her with astonishment. From the period of Herbert's death, Ellen had placed her feelings under a restraint that utterly prevented all relief in tears. She was never seen to weep; every feature had indeed spoken the deep affliction that was hers, but it never interfered with the devoted care she manifested towards her aunt. Silently yet perseveringly she laboured to soften the intense suffering in the mother's heart; it was on her neck Mrs. Hamilton had first wept freely and relievingly, and as she clasped the orphan to her bosom, had lifted up her heart in thanksgiving that such a precious gift was yet preserved her, how little did even she imagine all that was passing in Ellen's heart; that Herbert to her young fancy had been how much dearer than a brother; that she mourned not only a cousin's loss, but one round whom her first affections had been twined with an intensity that death alone could sever. How little could she guess the continued struggle pressing on that young mind, the anguish of her solitary moments, ere she could by prayer so calm her bursting heart as to appear the composed and tranquil being she ever seemed before the family. Mrs. Hamilton could only feel that the comfort her niece bestowed in this hour of affliction, her controlled yet sympathising conduct, repaid her for all the care and sorrow Ellen once had caused. Never had she regretted she had taken the orphans to her heart and cherished them as her own; but now it was she felt the Lord had indeed returned the blessing tenfold in her own bosom; and still more did she feel this in the long and painful convalescence that followed her brief but severe attack of fever, when Ellen was the only one of her children remaining near her.
Completely worn out by previous anxiety, the subsequent affliction, and, finally, her mother's dangerous illness, Emmeline's health appeared so shattered, that as soon as the actual danger was passed, Myrvin insisted on her going with him, for change of air and scene, to Llangwillan, a proposal that both her father and Mr. Maitland seconded; trembling for the precious girl so lately made his own, Arthur resisted her entreaties to remain a little longer at Oakwood, and conveyed her at once to his father's vicarage, where time and improved tidings of her mother restored at length the bloom to her cheek and the smile to her lip.
It was strange to observe the difference of character which opposite circumstances and opposite treatment in their infant years had made in these two cousins. Emmeline and Ellen, had they been brought up from babes together, and the same discipline extended to each, would, in all probability, have in after years displayed precisely the same disposition; but though weak indulgence had never been extended to Emmeline, prosperity unalloyed, save in the affair with Arthur Myrvin, had been her portion. Affection and caresses had been ever lavished almost unconsciously upon her, but instead of cherishing faults, such treatment had formed her happiness, and had encouraged and led her on in the paths of virtue. Every thought and feeling were expressed without disguise; she had been so accustomed to think aloud to her mother from childhood, so accustomed to give vent to her little vexations in words, her sorrows in tears, which were quickly dried, that as years increased, she found it a very difficult task either to restrain her sentiments or control her feelings. Her mind could not be called weak, for in her affection for Arthur Myrvin, as we have seen, when there was a peremptory call for exertion or self-control, it was ever heard and attended to. Her health indeed suffered, but that very fact proved the mind was stronger than the frame; though when she marked Ellen's superior composure and coolness, Emmeline would sometimes bitterly reproach herself. From her birth, Ellen had been initiated in sorrow, her infant years had been one scene of trial. Never caressed by her mother or those around her, save when her poor father was near, she had learned to bury every affectionate yearning deep within her own little heart, every childish sentiment was carefully concealed, and her father's death, the horrors of that night, appeared to have placed the seal on her character, infant as she was. She was scarcely ten when she became an inmate of her aunt's family, but then it was too late for her character to become as Emmeline's. The impression had been made on the yielding wax, and now it could not be effaced. Many circumstances contributed to strengthen this impression, as in the first portion of this history we have seen. Adversity had made Ellen as she was, and self-control had become her second nature, long before she knew the meaning of the word.
The intelligence of Herbert's death, though deferred till St. Eval thought his wife enabled to bear it with some composure, had, however, so completely thrown her back, that she was quite unequal to travel to England, as her wishes had instantly dictated, and her husband was compelled to keep up a constant system of deception with regard to her mother's illness, lest she should insist, weak as she was, on immediately flying to her aid. As soon as sufficient strength returned for Mrs. Hamilton to express her wishes, she entreated Percy to rejoin his sister, that all alarm on her account might subside. The thought of her child was still uppermost in the mother's mind, though her excessive debility compelled her to lie motionless for hours on her couch, scarcely sensible of anything passing around her, or that her husband and Ellen hardly for one moment left her side. The plan succeeded, Caroline recovered soon after Percy's arrival; and at the earnest message Percy bore her from her mother, that she would not think of returning to England till her health was quite restored, she consented leisurely to take the celebrated excursion down the Rhine, ere she returned home.
It would have seemed as though no other grief could be the portion of Ellen, but another sorrow was impending over her, which, while it lasted, was a source of distress inferior only to Herbert's death. Entering the library one morning, she was rather surprised to find not only Mr. Maitland but Archdeacon Howard with her uncle.
The former was now too constantly a visitor at the Hall to occasion individually much surprise, but it was the expression on the countenances of each that created alarm. Mr. Hamilton appeared struggling with some strong and painful emotion, and had started as Ellen entered the room, while he looked imploringly towards the Archdeacon, as if seeking his counsel and assistance.
"Can we indeed trust her?" Mr. Maitland said, doubtingly, and in a low voice, as he looked sadly upon Ellen. "Can we he sure these melancholy tidings will be for the present inviolably kept from Mrs. Hamilton, for suspense such as this, in her present state of health, might produce consequences on which I tremble to think?"
"You may depend upon me, Mr. Maitland," Ellen said, firmly, as she came forward. "What new affliction can have happened of which you so dread my aunt being informed? Oh, do not deceive me. I have heard enough to make fancy perhaps more dreadful than reality, Mr. Howard. My dear uncle, will you not trust me?"
"My poor Ellen," her uncle said, in a faltering voice, "you have indeed borne sorrow well; but this will demand even a greater share of fortitude. All is not yet known, there may be hope, but I dare not encourage it. Tell her, Howard," he added, hastily, shrinking from her sorrowful glance, "I cannot."
"Is it of Edward you would tell me? Oh, what of him?" she exclaimed.
"Oh, tell me at once, Mr. Howard, indeed, indeed, I can bear it."
With the tenderness of a father, Mr. Howard gently and soothingly told her that letters had that morning arrived from Edward's captain, informing them that the young lieutenant had been despatched with a boat's crew, on a message to a ship stationed about twelve miles southward, towards the Cape of Good Hope; a storm had arisen as the night darkened, but still Captain Seaforth had felt no uneasiness, imagining his young officer had deemed it better remaining on board the Stranger all night, though somewhat contrary to his usual habits of promptness and activity. As the day, however, waned to noon, and still Lieutenant Fortescue did not appear, the captain despatched another boat to know why he tarried. The sea was still raging in fury from the last night's storm, but the foaming billows had never before detained Edward from his duty. With increasing anxiety, Captain Seaforth paced the deck for several hours, until indeed the last boat he had sent returned. He scanned the crew with an eye that never failed him, and saw with dismay, that neither his lieutenant nor one of his men were amongst them. Horror-stricken and distressed, the sailors related that, despite every persuasion of the captain of the Stranger, Lieutenant Fortescue had resolved on returning to the Gem the moment his message had been delivered and the answer given; his men had seconded him, though many signs denoted that as the evening advanced, so too would the impending storm. Twilight was darkening around him when, urged on by a mistaken sense of duty, the intrepid young man descended into the boat, and not half an hour afterwards the storm came on with terrific violence, and the pitchy darkness had entirely frustrated every effort of the crew of the Stranger to trace the boat. Morning dawned, and brought with it some faint confirmation of the fate which all had dreaded. Some spars on which the name of the Gem was impressed, and which were easily recognised as belonging to the long-boat, floated on the foaming waves, and the men sent out to reconnoitre had discovered the dead body of one of the unfortunate sailors, who the evening previous had been so full of life and mirth, clinging to some sea-weed; while a hat bearing the name of Edward Fortescue, caused the painful suspicion that the young and gallant officer had shared the same fate. Every inquiry was set afloat, every exertion made, to discover something more certain concerning him, but without any effect. Some faint hope there yet existed, that he might have been picked up by one of the ships which were continually passing and repassing on that course; and Captain Seaforth concluded his melancholy narration by entreating Mr. Hamilton not to permit himself to despair, as hope there yet was, though but faint. Evidently he wrote as he felt, not merely to calm the minds of Edward's sorrowing friends, but Mr. Hamilton could not share these sanguine expectations. Mystery had also enveloped the fate of his brother-in-law, Charles Manvers; long, very long, had he hoped that he lived, that he would yet return; but year after year had passed, till four-and-twenty had rolled by, and still there were no tidings. Well did he remember the heart-sickening that had attended his hopes deferred, the anguish of suspense which for many weary months had been the portion of his wife, and he thought it almost better for Ellen to believe her brother dead, than to live on in the indulgence of hopes that might have no foundation; yet how could he tell her he was dead, when there was one gleam of hope, however faint. Well did he know the devoted affection which the orphans bore to each other. He gazed on her in deep commiseration, as in unbroken silence she listened to the tenderly-told tale; and, drawing her once more to his bosom as Mr. Howard ceased, he fondly and repeatedly kissed her brow, as he entreated her not to despair; Edward might yet be saved. No word came from Ellen's parched lips, but he felt the cold shudder of suffering pass through her frame. Several minutes passed, and still she raised not her head. Impressively the venerable clergyman addressed her in tones and words that never failed to find their way to the orphan's heart. He spoke of a love and mercy that sent these continued trials to mark her as more peculiarly His own. He told of comfort, that even in such a moment she could feel. He bade her cease not to pray for her brother's safety; that nothing was too great for the power or the mercy of the Lord; that however it might appear impossible to worldly minds that he could be saved, yet if the Almighty's hand had been stretched forth, a hundred storms might have passed him by unhurt; yet he bade her not entertain too sanguine hopes. "Place our beloved Edward and yourself in the hands of our Father in heaven, my child; implore Him for strength to meet His will, whatever it may be, and if, indeed, He hath taken him in mercy to a happier world, He will give you strength and grace to meet His ordinance of love; but if hope still lingers, check it not—he may be spared. Be comforted, then, my child, and for the sake of the beloved relative yet spared you, try and compose your agitated spirits. We may trust to your care in retaining this fresh grief from her, I know we may."
"You are right. Mr. Howard; oh, may God bless you for your kindness!" said the almost heart-broken girl, as she raised her head and placed her trembling hands in his. Her cheeks were colourless as marble, but the long dark fringes that rested on them were unwetted by tears; she had forcibly sent them back. Her heart throbbed almost to suffocation, but she would not listen to its anguish. The form of Herbert seemed to flit before her and remind her of her promise, that her every care, her every energy should be devoted to his mother; and that remembrance, strengthened as it was by Mr. Howard's words, nerved her to the painful duty which was now hers to perform. "You may indeed trust me. My Father in heaven will support me, and give me strength to conceal this intelligence effectually, till my beloved aunt is enabled to hear it with composure. Do not fear me, Mr. Maitland; it is not in my own strength I trust, for that I feel too painfully at this moment is less than nothing. My dearest uncle, will you not trust your Ellen?"
She turned towards him as she spoke, and Mr. Hamilton felt the tears glisten in his eyes as he met the upturned glance of the afflicted orphan—now indeed, as it seemed, so utterly alone.
"Yes I do and ever will trust you, my beloved Ellen," he said, with emotion. "May God grant you His blessing in this most painful duty. To Him I commend you, my child; I would speak of comfort and hope, but He alone can give them."
"And He will," replied Ellen, in a low, steady voice; and gently withdrawing her hand from Mr. Howard's, she softly but quickly left the library. But half an hour elapsed, and Ellen was once more seated by her aunt's couch. The struggle of that half hour we will not follow; it was too sacred, too painful to be divulged, and many, many solitary hours were thus spent in suffering, known only to herself and to her God.
"You have been long away from me, my Ellen, or else my selfish wish to have you again near me has made me think so," Mrs. Hamilton said that eventful morning.
"Have you then missed me, my dear aunt? I am glad of it, for comfort as it is to be allowed to remain always with yon, it is even greater pleasure to think you like to have me near you," replied Ellen.
"Can I do otherwise, my own Ellen? Where can I find a nurse so tender, affectionate, and attentive as you are? Who would know so well how to cheer and soothe me as the child whose smallest action proves how much she loves me?"
Tears glistened in the eyes of Ellen as her aunt spoke, for if she had wanted fresh incentive for exertion, those simple words would have given it. Oh, how much encouragement may be given in one sentence from those we love; how is every effort to please lightened by the consciousness it is appreciated; how is every duty sweetened when we feel we are beloved.
Mrs. Hamilton knew not how that expression of her feelings had fallen on the torn heart of her niece; she guessed not one-half Ellen endured in secret for her sake, but she felt, and showed she felt, the full value of the unremitting affectionate attentions she received.
Days, weeks passed by; at length, Mrs. Hamilton's extreme debility began to give place to the more restless weariness of convalescence. It was comparatively an easy task to sit in continued silence by the couch, actively yet quietly to anticipate her faintest wish, and attend to all the duties of nurse, which demanded no exertion in the way of talking, and other efforts at amusement; there were then very many hours that Ellen's saddened thoughts could dwell on the painful past.
She struggled to behold heaven's mercy in affliction, and rapidly, more rapidly than she was herself aware of, was this young and gentle girl progressing in the paths of grace. Had Herbert and Mary both lived and been united, Ellen would, in all probability, have at length so conquered her feelings, as to have been happy in the marriage state, and though she could not have bestowed the first freshness of young affection, she would ever have so felt and acted as to be in very truth, as Lord St. Eval had said, a treasure to any man who had the felicity to call her his. Had her cousin indeed married, Ellen might have felt it incumbent on her as an actual duty so to conquer herself; but now that he was dead she felt it no sin to love, in devoting herself to his parents in their advancing age, partly for his sake, in associating him with all she did for them, and for all whom he loved; there was no sin now in all this, but she felt it would be a crime to give her hand to another, when her whole heart was thus devoted to the dead. There was something peculiarly soothing to the grateful and affectionate feelings with which she regarded her aunt and uncle; that she perhaps would be the only one of all those who had—
"Played
Beneath the same green tree,
Whose voices mingled as they prayed
Around one parent knee"—
would remain with nothing to divert her attention from the pleasing task of soothing and cheering their advancing years, and her every effort was now turned towards making her single life, indeed, one of blessedness, by works of good and thoughts of love towards all with whom she might associate; but in these visions her brother had ever intimately mingled. She had pictured herself beholding and rejoicing in his happiness, loving his children as her own, being to them a second mother. She had fancied herself ever received with joy, a welcome inmate of her Edward's home, and so strongly had her imagination become impressed with this idea, that its annihilation appeared to heighten the anguish with which the news of his untimely fate had overwhelmed her. He was gone; and it seemed as if she had never, never felt so utterly desolate before; as if advancing years had entirely lost the soft and gentle colouring with which they had so lately been invested. It seemed but a very short interval since she had seen him, the lovely, playful child, his mother's pet, the admiration of all who looked on him; then he stood before her, the handsome, manly boy she had parted with, when he first left the sheltering roof of Oakwood, to become a sailor. Then, shuddering, she recalled him when they had met again, after a lapse of suffering in the young life of each; and her too sensitive fancy conjured up the thought that her fault had not yet been sufficiently chastised, that he was taken from her because she had loved him too well; because her deep intense affection for him had caused her once to forget the mandate of her God. In the deep agony of that thought, it seemed as if she lived over again those months of suffering, which in a former pages we have endeavoured to describe.
Humbled to the dust, she recognised the chastising hand of her Maker, and as if it had only now been committed, she acknowledged and repented the transgression a moment's powerful temptation had forced her to commit. Had there been one to whom she could have confessed these feelings, whose soothing friendship would have whispered it was needless and uncalled-for to enhance the suffering of Edward's fate by such self-reproach, Ellen's young heart would have been relieved; but from that beloved relative who might have consoled and alleviated her grief, this bitter trial she must still conceal. Mr. Hamilton dared not encourage the hope which he had never felt but his bosom swelled with love and almost veneration for the gentle being, to whose care Mr. Maitland had assured him the recovery of his beloved wife was, under Providence, greatly owing. He longed to speak of comfort; but, alas! what could he say? he would have praised, encouraged, but there was that about his niece that utterly forbade it; for it silently yet impressively told whence that sustaining strength arose.
It was when Mrs. Hamilton was beginning to recover, that still more active exertions on the part of Ellen were demanded. Every effort was now made to prevent her relapsing into that despondency which convalescence so often engenders, however we may strive to resist it. She was ready at a minute's notice to comply with and often to anticipate her aunt's most faintly-hinted wishes; she would read to her, sing her favourite airs, or by a thousand little winning arts unconsciously entice the interest of her aunt to her various pursuits, as had been her wont in former days. There was no appearance of effort on her part, and Mrs. Hamilton insensibly, at first, but surely felt that with her strength her habitual cheerfulness was returning, and fervently she blessed her God for this abundant mercy. No exertion on her side was wanting to become to her husband and household as she had been before the death of her beloved son; she felt the beauteous flower was transplanted above; the hand of the reaper had laid it low, though the eye of faith beheld it in perfect undying loveliness, and though the mother's heart yet sorrowed, 'twas a sorrow now in which no pain was mingled.
One evening they had been speaking, among other subjects, of Lilla Grahame, whose letters, Mrs. Hamilton had observed, were not written in her usual style. Too well did Ellen guess the reason; once only the poor girl had alluded to Edward's supposed fate, but that once had more than sufficiently betrayed to Ellen's quickly-excited sympathy the true nature of her feelings towards him. As Lilla had not, however, written in perfect confidence, but still as if she feared to write too much on emotions she scarcely understood herself, Ellen had not answered her as she would otherwise have done. That her sympathy was Lilla's was very clearly evident, but as the secrecy preserved towards Mrs. Hamilton had been made known to her by Emmeline, she had not written again on the subject, but yet Ellen was not deceived; in every letter she received she could easily penetrate where Lilla's anxious thoughts were wandering. Of Cecil Grahame there were still no tidings, and, all circumstances considered, it did not seem strange she should often be sorrowful and anxious. On dismissing this subject, Mrs. Hamilton had asked Ellen to sing to her, and selected, as a very old favourite, "The Graves of the Household." She had always forgotten it, she said, before, when Ellen wished her to select one she preferred. She was surprised that Ellen had not reminded her of it, as it had once been an equal favourite with her. For a moment Ellen hesitated, and then hastened to the piano. In a low, sweet, yet unfaltering voice, she complied with her aunt's request; once only her lip quivered, for she could not sing that verse without the thought of Edward.
"The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one,
He lies where pearls lie deep;
He was the loved of all, yet none
O'er his low bed may weep."
Mr. Hamilton unobserved had entered the room, and now stood with folded arms and mournful glance, alternately regarding his wife and niece. Mr. Maitland had that morning told him there was not now the slightest danger remaining, and he rather advised that Mrs. Hamilton should be informed of what had passed, lest the painful intelligence should come upon her when quite unprepared. He had striven for composure, and he now entered expressly to execute this painful task; he had marked the suffering imprinted on his niece's face, and he could continue the deception no longer. On the conclusion of her song, Ellen reseated herself on the stool she had occupied at her aunt's feet, her heart too full to speak.
"Why are you so silent, my dear husband?" Mrs. Hamilton said, addressing him, and who almost started at her address. "May I know the subject of such very deep thought?"
"Ellen, partly," he replied, and he spoke the truth. "I was thinking how pale and thin she looks, and how much she has lately had to distress and cause her anxiety."
"She has, indeed, and therefore the sooner we can leave Oakwood for a few months, as we intended, the better. I have been a long and troublesome patient, my Ellen, and all your efforts to restore me to perfect health will he quite ineffectual unless I see the colour return to your cheek, and your step resume its elasticity."
"Do not fear for me, my beloved aunt; indeed I am quite well," answered
Ellen, not daring to look up, lest her tears should be discovered.
"You are right, my Emmeline," suddenly exclaimed Mr. Hamilton, rousing himself with a strong effort, and advancing to the couch where his wife sat, he threw his arms around her. "You do not yet know all that our Ellen has in secret borne for your sake. You do not yet know the deep affliction which is the real cause of that alteration in her health, which only now you are beginning to discover. Oh, my beloved wife, I have feared to tell you, but now that strength is returning, I may hesitate no longer; for her sake you will bear these cruel tidings even as she has done. Will you not comfort her? Will you—" The sudden opening of the door arrested the words upon his lips. Touched by indefinable alarm, Mrs. Hamilton's hand grasped his without the power of speech. Ellen had risen, for she felt she could not hear those sad words again spoken.
It was James the footman who entered, and he placed a letter in her hand. She looked at the direction, a faint cry broke from her lips; she tore it open, gazed on the signature, and sunk senseless on the floor. She who had borne suffering so well, who had successfully struggled to conceal every trace of emotion, when affliction was her allotted portion, was now too weak to bear the sudden transition from such bitter grief to overwhelming joy. Mr. Hamilton sprung forward; he could not arrest her fall, but his eye had caught the well-known writing of him he had believed lay buried in the ocean, and conquering her own extreme agitation, Mrs. Hamilton compelled herself to think of nothing but restoring the still senseless girl to life. A few, very few words told her all. At first Mr. Hamilton's words had been almost inarticulate from the thankfulness that filled his heart. It was long ere Ellen awoke to consciousness. Her slight frame was utterly exhausted by its continued conflict with the mind within, and now that joy had come, that there was no more need for control or sorrow, her extraordinary energy of character for the moment fled, and left her in very truth the weak and loving woman. Before she could restore life to Ellen's inanimate form, Mrs. Hamilton had time to hear that simple tale of silent suffering, to feel her bosom glow in increasing love and gratitude towards the gentle being who for her sake had endured so much.
"Was it but a dream, or did I not read that Edward lived, was spared,—that he was not drowned? Oh, tell me, my brain seems still to swim. Did they not give me a letter signed by him himself? Oh, was it only fancy?"
"It is truth, my beloved; the Almighty mercifully stretched forth His arm and saved him. Should we not give Him thanks, my child?"
Like dew upon the arid desert, or healing balm to a throbbing wound, so did those few and simple words fall on Ellen's ear; but the fervent thanksgiving that rose swelling in her heart, wanted not words to render it acceptable to Him, whose unbounded mercy she thus acknowledged and adored.
Mrs. Hamilton pressed her closer to her bosom, again and again she kissed her, and tried to speak the words of affectionate soothing, which seldom failed to restore Ellen to composure.
"You told me once, my Ellen, that you never, never could repay the large debt of gratitude you seemed to think you owed me. Do you remember my saying you could not tell that one day you might make me your debtor, and are not my words truth? Did I not prophesy rightly? What do I not owe you, my own love, for sparing me so much anxiety and wretchedness? Look up and smile, my Ellen, and let us try if we can listen composedly to our dear Edward's account of his providential escape. If he were near me I would scold him for giving you such inexpressible joy so suddenly."
Ellen did look up and did smile, a bright beaming smile of chastened happiness, and again and again did she read over that letter, as if it were tidings too blessed to be believed, as if it could not be Edward himself who had written. His letter was hasty, nor did he enter into very many particulars, which, to render a particular part of our tale intelligible, we must relate at large in another chapter. This epistle was dated from Rio Janeiro, and written evidently under the idea that his sister had received a former letter containing every minutiae of his escape, which he had forwarded to her, under cover to Captain Seaforth, only seven days after his supposed death. Had the captain received this letter, all anxiety would have been spared, for as he did not write to Mr. Hamilton for above a week after Edward's disappearance, it would have reached him first; it was therefore very clear it had been lost on its way, and Edward fearing such might be the case, from the uncertain method by which it had been sent, wrote again. He had quite recovered, he said, all ill effects from being so long floating in the water on a narrow plank; that he was treated with marked kindness and attention by all the crew of the Alma, a Spanish vessel bound to Rio Janeiro and thence to New York, particularly by an Englishman, Lieutenant Mordaunt, to whose energetic exertions he said he greatly owed his preservation; for it was he who had prevailed on the captain to lower a boat, to discover what that strange object was floating on the waves. He continued, there was something about Lieutenant Mordaunt he could not define, but which had the power of irresistibly attracting his respect, if not affection. His story he believed was uncommon, but he had not yet heard it all, and had no time to repeat it, as he was writing in great haste. Affectionately he hoped no alarm amongst his friends had been entertained on his account, that it would not be long before he returned home; for as soon as the slow-sailing Spaniard could finish her affairs with the ports along the coast of Spanish America and reach New York, Lieutenant Mordaunt and himself had determined on quitting her, and returning to England by the first packet that sailed. A letter to New York might reach him, but it was a chance; therefore he did not expect to receive any certain intelligence of home—a truth which only made him the more anxious to reach it.
Quickly the news that Edward Fortescue lived, and was returning home in perfect health, extended far and wide, and brought joy to all who heard it. A messenger was instantly despatched to Trevilion Vicarage to impart the joyful intelligence to Arthur and Emmeline, and the next day saw them both at Oakwood to rejoice with Ellen at this unexpected but most welcome news. There was not one who had been aware of the suspense Mr. Hamilton and Ellen had been enduring who did not sympathise in their relief. Even Mrs. Greville left her solitary home to seek the friends of her youth: she had done so previously when affliction was their portion. She had more than once shared Ellen's anxious task of nursing, when Mrs. Hamilton's fever had been highest; kindly and judiciously she had soothed in grief, and Mrs. Greville's character was too unselfish to refuse her sympathy in joy.
A few weeks after the receipt of that letter, Mr. Hamilton, his wife, and Ellen removed to a beautiful little villa in the neighbourhood of Richmond, where they intended to pass some of the winter months. A change was desirable, indeed requisite for all. But a short interval had passed since the death of their beloved Herbert, and there were many times when the parents' hearts yet painfully bled, and each felt retirement, the society of each other, and sometimes of their most valued friends, the exercise of domestic and religious duties, would be the most efficient means of acquiring that peace of which even the greatest affliction cannot deprive the truly religious mind. At Christmas, St. Eval had promised his family should join them, and all looked forward to that period with pleasure.