"I hope so, too, dearest. But Mr. Grahame is waiting for you; and, by-the-by, begged me to ask you for some lines you promised to copy out for a print in Lady Helen's album. You may do just as you like about going, because you are quite old and wise enough to decide for yourself. Ill-temper always brings such suffering with it, that if pleasure must recall it, you will be wiser not to go; but if you can resist it—if you think you can return to your quiet daily routine as forbearing and gentle and happy as you are now, go, my love, and enjoy yourself as much as you can."
"I will try and remember all you said about prayer when we think we are most secure, dear mamma," answered Caroline, in a very earnest and somewhat lowered voice. "I know, whenever I have been to Moorlands before, I have felt so elated, so sure I should never be in an ill-temper, so proud from being made so much of, that I fear I have very often relaxed even in my daily prayers, and never thought it necessary to pray against ill-temper. Do you think if I watch myself, and still pray against it, it will save me from being cross and unkind on my return?"
"It will undoubtedly help you, my dear child, very considerably, and render your trial very much easier, but I can not promise you that it will entirely prevent the inclination to feel pettish and unhappy. I have no doubt that in time it will prevent even that; but now, you know, it is very early days, and you have not yet forgotten the bitter pain of last week; still I think you may venture to go, love, and if I do see you happy and gentle on your return, it will do much toward convincing me you are striving in earnest. Make haste and get ready, and do not forget the poem. I will send over your things. Tell Lady Helen I shall expect all her family next Monday evening, to join Edward's little farewell-party, and you can return with them."
With the most delighted alacrity Caroline hastened to get ready, and in her hurry forgot the poem till she re-entered the school-room, which was still untenanted.
"What shall I do for some writing-paper?" she thought; "the desks are all put away, and it will detain me so long to go up again for the keys, and the volume is too large to carry—oh, I will tear out a blank page from this book, it will not be very elegant, but I can recopy it at Moorlands."
And she hastily tore out a page from an exercise-book which lay open on the table; not perceiving that by doing so, a fellow-leaf, which was written on, was loosened, and fell to the ground, mingling with some torn papers which had been put in a heap to be cleared away. She had just finished it, when Fanny came to tell her Mr. Grahame could not wait any longer, and asking if all the papers on the ground were to be removed, Caroline hastily answered in the affirmative, without looking at them, and the girl bore them off in her apron, the written leaf among them.
Now it so happened that this written leaf had already occasioned trouble. Miss Harcourt had been so displeased with Ellen's careless performance of a French exercise that morning, that she had desired her to write it again. It was very difficult, and had materially shortened the time which she had promised to devote to Edward, who was this week released from his attendance on Mr. Howard, to permit him and Ellen to be as much together as possible. Hurried by him, she left her book open on the table to dry, and, finding it closed on her return, put it away, without looking at it. The following day Miss Harcourt, of course, requested to see it, and, to Ellen's utter astonishment, her exercise was not there; only the faulty and blotted theme, with no sign to explain its disappearance. Now we know Miss Harcourt was rather prejudiced against Ellen, and, as she had unhappily failed in truth more than once (perhaps she was not so unjust and harsh as poor Ellen felt her to be), she refused to believe her assurance that she had written it. No one had been in the school-room at the time to whom she could refer: if Ellen had never disobeyed or deceived, of course her word would be sufficient, as her brother's and cousins' would.
"That you have failed again, both in obedience and truth, Ellen, I can not for a moment doubt, and it certainly would be my duty to inform your aunt directly; but as I know it would cause her real suffering to be compelled to punish you just this last week that Edward will be with us for some time, I shall say nothing about it to her, nor inflict any penalty on you to attract her notice, but it is entirely for her sake I forbear. One so hardened in falsehood as you must be, so soon to forget her kind indulgence after your fault only a few weeks ago, can deserve nothing but harshness and contempt. I shall certainly, after this week, warn her not to trust too implicitly in your artful professions of repentance."
Poor Ellen felt too bewildered and too miserable even to cry. That she had written her exercise, she was as positive as that she had been told to do so; but if she had—what had become of it? Harsh as Miss Harcourt seemed, appearances were certainly very much against her. She had not a single proof that she had obeyed, and her word was nothing; even Emmeline looked at her doubtingly, and as if she could scarcely even pity her. It was very little comfort to think her aunt was not to be told. Her own impulse was to go to her, and tell her at once; but how could she be believed? and Mrs. Hamilton's words—"If I ever discover another untruth, you will compel me to adopt still severer measures, pain as it will be to myself," the remembrance of all she had suffered, the disappointment it would be to her aunt to think all she had said and read to her were forgotten, when in reality she was constantly thinking of and trying to act on them, all checked the impulse, and terrified her into silence.
Miss Harcourt was not an acute physiognomist; she could only read in Ellen's face hardihood and recklessness. We rather think Mrs. Hamilton would have read something very different; but she was very much engaged with Edward, and if she did think Ellen looked much more out of spirits, she attributed it to natural feeling at the rapid approach of the day of separation. For her brother's sake, to prove to him she could enter into his joy, she tried very hard not to evince the least symptom of depression, and never to cry before him at least; though every night, that told her another day had gone, and brought before her all sorts of vague feelings and fancies of dread, she either cried herself to sleep, or laid awake, still more unhappy. The suspicion attached to her seemed to double the severity of the trial of parting. Edward was her own; Edward must love her, with all her faults; but even her aunt, her kind, dear, good aunt, must cease to have any affection for her, if so constantly believed guilty of a sin so terrible as falsehood. And she seemed to love her brother still more than ever, every day that brought the hour of parting nearer—sometimes as if she could not bear the pain of not being able to look at his bright face, and listen to his glad laugh and dear voice for three, perhaps six long years. Her aunt's gentle kindness seemed to increase her unhappiness, for though she knew she was innocent, still she felt, if Miss Harcourt had told Mrs. Hamilton, she could not be so caressed and cared for and she was receiving that which she was believed to have forfeited. Miss Harcourt's face certainly seemed to ask her as distinctly as words, how she could be so artful—so deceitful—as to permit her aunt to take such notice of her; and so she often shrunk away, when she most longed to sit by and listen to her.