Edward's spirits never sobered, except now and then, when he thought of leaving Mrs. Hamilton, to whom he had given the same love he had lavished on his mother, perhaps to a still greater extent, for reverence was largely mingled with it. Mr Howard, too, was another whom he grieved to leave, and Mrs. Hamilton so trusted in these apparently strong affections and his good disposition, as to feel but little anxiety; merely sorrow that she was to lose him for a profession of danger. She did not know, nor did Mr. Howard, nor Edward himself, that he was one who would be guided more by the influence of those with whom he was intimately thrown, than by any memory of the absent, or judgment of his own.
Ellen's manner on Monday evening annoyed and prejudiced Miss Harcourt still more; Mrs. Greville and Mary, Lady Helen and all her family, bringing Caroline home with them, Mr. Howard, and some of Edward's favorite companions, all assembled at Oakwood, and every one was determined to be gay and cheerful, and Edward's voice was the merriest, and his laugh the happiest there; and Ellen, though her head ached with the effort, and the constant struggle of the preceding week, was quite cheerful too, and talked to Mary Greville, and Lilla and Cecil Grahame, and even to Mr. Howard, as Miss Harcourt felt she had no right to do; and as must prove her to be that which she had always fancied her. Mrs. Hamilton, on the contrary, saw that in the very midst of a laugh, or of speaking, her niece's eye would rest upon Edward, and the lip quite quiver, and her smile become for the moment so strained, that she was satisfied Ellen's cheerfulness proceeded from no want of feeling; she wondered, indeed, at so much control at such an early age, but she loved her for it, notwithstanding. Once only Ellen was nearly conquered. Mary had begged her to sing a little Hindoo air, of which she was particularly fond, and Edward, hearing the request, said eagerly—
"Do sing it, dear Ellen; I am quite as fond of it as Mary is, for it seems to make me think of India and poor mamma, and it will be such a long time before I hear it again."
She had never in her whole life felt so disinclined to sing, so as if it were quite impossible—as if she must cry if she did; but Edward would think it so unkind if she refused, for she did not know herself why his very words should have increased the difficulty, and what reason could she give him? Mary went and asked Mrs. Hamilton to accompany her; and Ellen did her very best, but her voice would tremble, and just before the end of the second verse it failed entirely; but still she was glad she had tried, for on Mrs. Hamilton saying, very kindly, and in a voice that only she and Mary could hear, "I was half afraid you would not succeed to-night, my dear Ellen, but you were quite right to try," Mary seemed to understand at once why it had been so difficult for her to oblige her, and to be quite sorry she had pressed it so much, and Edward had thanked her, and told her he should sing it in idea very often. She tried to be merry again, but she could not succeed as before, and so she kept as near her aunt as she could, all the remainder of the evening, as if she were only safe there.
Edward, too, had a hard battle with himself, as one by one his favorite companions took leave of him with a hearty shake of the hand, and eager—but in some, half-choked wishes for his health and prosperity; and when all had gone, and Mr. Howard, who had remained for prayers, took him in his arms, and solemnly prayed God to bless him, and save him from danger and temptation, and permit him to return to his family, improved in all things that would make him an affectionate guardian to his orphan sister, and repay all the love and care of his aunt and uncle, it was a desperate effort that prevented him from sobbing like a child; but he had his midshipman's uniform on for the first time, and he was quite resolved he would not disgrace it; therefore he only returned Mr. Howard's embrace very warmly, and ran out of the room. But when his aunt went into his room an hour afterward, it appeared as if he had put off his pride and his uniform together, for, though he was fast asleep, his pillow was quite wet with tears.
The next morning was a very sad one, though Percy and his father did all they could to make it cheerful (we ought to have said before that Percy and Herbert were both going with Mr. Hamilton and Edward). No one liked the idea of losing Edward for so long a time. He had made himself a favorite with all, even with every one of the servants, who, when the carriage was ready at eleven o'clock, thronged into the hall to take a last look at him. He was so altered, that he had that morning, actually of his own accord, shaken hands with every one of them who had ever done any thing for him, especially Ellis and Morris, and Robert, to whom he had given a very handsome present, and thanked him for all his attention.
He kept up very manfully till he came to his aunt, whose emotion, as she held him in a close embrace, was so unusually visible, and for the moment he seemed so to love her, that the idea of the sea lost half its delight, and he felt as if he could almost have liked to remain with her. But Percy's joyous voice—
"Come, Master Edward, I thought you were a sailor, not a school-boy. Off with you; you will not give me time or room for one kiss from mamma before we go," roused him, and he tried to laugh in the midst of his tears, gave Ellen another kiss, and ran into the carriage, where he was quickly followed by his uncle and cousins, and in a very few minutes Oakwood, dear, happy Oakwood, as his whole heart felt it at that moment, was hidden from his sight.
Ellen remained by the window, looking after the carriage, long after it was impossible to see or hear it, very pale, and her eyes very heavy, but not in tears; and as her aunt went to her, and put her arm round her, and began talking to her very cheerfully of all Edward would have to write to her about, and how soon they might hear from him, and that Ellen should answer him as often and as fully as she liked, and that she would not even ask to see her letters to him, or all his to her, as they might have many little affectionate things to say to each other, that they might not care about any one else seeing, and she would trust them both—Ellen seemed as if one pain was soothed, and if indeed she heard often from him, she might bear his departure. But there was still the other source of unhappiness, recalled every time she met Miss Harcourt's cold suspicious look, which had not changed even then. Still she tried to join her cousins, and get her work, for there were no studies that morning, and so some little time passed, by Mrs. Hamilton's exertions, almost cheerfully; but then Ellen left the room to get something she wanted, and, in seeking her own, passed Edward's room, the door of which stood half open. She could not resist entering, and every thing spoke of him so vividly, and yet seemed so to tell her he had gone, really gone, and she was quite alone, that all the pain came back again worse than ever, and she laid her head on his pillow, and her long-checked tears flowed with almost passionate violence.
"My dear Ellen, I have been looking for you every where," said her aunt's kind voice, full an hour afterward; "Emmeline went into your room and could not find you, and I could not imagine what had become of you. It was not wise of you to come here just this morning, love. You have been so brave, so unselfish all this week, that I must not let you give way now. Try and think only that Edward will be happier as a sailor than he would be remaining with you; and though I know you must miss him very, very painfully, you will be able to bear it better. Poor Alice Seaton, of whom you have heard me speak, has no such comfort; her brother could not bear the idea of a sea life, and is scarcely strong enough for it; and yet, poor fellow, it is the only opening his uncle has for him, and his poor sister had not only that pain to bear—for you can fancy how dreadful it would be, if Edward had left us for a life in which he thought he should be miserable—but is obliged to leave the aunt she loves, as much, I think, as you love me, Ellen, and go as a teacher in a school, to bear her accumulated sorrow quite alone. Sad as your trial is, you have still many things to bless God for, dearest, as I am sure you will acknowledge, if, when the pain of the present moment has subsided, you think of Alice, and try to put yourself in her place."