And that very evening after prayers, when the whole household were assembled in the library, Mr. Hamilton addressed them simply and briefly, mentioning that Robert Langford had himself told his tale to him, and that it was his own opinion, and that of their mistress, that he did not deserve the suspicions attached to him, and that his fellow-servants would all be acting more charitably and religiously if they believed his story, until they had had some strong proof to the contrary; he could not of course, interfere with private opinion; he could only tell them his own and their lady's. He acknowledged it was a very unpleasant occurrence, but he begged them all to dismiss the idea that suspicion could be attached to either of them; he felt too convinced that had any one of his household chanced to find the missing notes, they would at once have mentioned it to the steward or housekeeper, more especially, since Robert's loss had been known among them only a few days after it had occurred. Appropriation, he need not tell them, in such a case was theft, and of that sin, he was perfectly certain, not one present would be guilty. He allowed that it would be much more satisfactory to have the tangible proof of Robert's innocence by discovering some trace of them but it was not unlikely the heavy wind and rain had destroyed the thin material of the notes or borne them into the brambly brushwood, where it was scarcely possible they could be found.
If the attention of Mrs. Hamilton, her daughters, and Miss Harcourt had not been naturally riveted on Mr. Hamilton's address, and its effect on the servants, especially Robert, whose emotion was almost overpowering, they must have remarked that Ellen had shrunk into the shade of the heavy curtains falling by one of the windows, and had unconsciously grasped the oaken back of one of the massive chairs; lips, cheek, and brow, white and rigid as sculptured marble. An almost supernatural effort alone enabled her to master the crushing agony, sending the blood up to her cheeks with such returning violence, that when she wished her aunt and uncle good night, she might have been thought more flushed than pale; but it passed unnoticed Mrs. Hamilton too much annoyed on Mrs. Langford's account, to think at that moment of any thing but how she could best set the poor mother's heart at rest. It was very evident that though some of the domestics after their master's address came up to Robert, shook hands with him and begged his pardon, the greater number still sided with Morris, and retained their own less favorable opinion, and she could well imagine what Mrs. Langford's sufferings must be. It only wanted five days to that fixed for Mr. Hamilton's departure, wind permitting; and there were so many things to think of and do for him, that his family could have little thought of any thing else; but Mrs. Hamilton, assured her husband she would leave no means untried to prove Robert's innocence.
For nearly an hour that same night did Ellen, after her attendant had left her, sit crouched by the side of her bed as if some bolt had struck and withered her as she sat. One word alone sounded and resounded in her ears; she had known it, pronounced it to be such to herself numbers of times, but it had never mocked and maddened her as when spoken in her uncle's voice, and in his deepest, most expressive tone—"theft!" And she was the guilty one—and she must see the innocent bearing the penalty of her crime, suspicion, dislike, avoidance, for she dared not breathe the truth. Again came the wild, almost desperate, resolve to seek Mrs. Hamilton that very moment, avow herself the criminal, implore her to take back every trinket belonging to her, to replace it, and do with her what she would. But if she did confess, and so draw attention to her, how could she keep her brother's secret? Could she have firmness to bear all, rather than betray it? What proof of her inward wretchedness and remorse could there be in the mere confession of appropriation, when the use to which she had applied that money and all concerning it, even to the day it was found, must be withheld, lest it should in any way be connected with her letter to her brother. She must be silent; and the only prayer which, night and morning, ay, almost every hour, rose, from that young heart, was for death, ere it was too late for God's forgiveness.
CHAPTER IV.
THE BROKEN DESK
The many secret wishes for an unfavorable wind, that Mr. Hamilton might stay at Oakwood still a little longer, were not granted, and he left his family the very day he had fixed, the 14th of July, just three weeks after his summons, and about ten days before his sons were expected home. Without him Oakwood was strange indeed, but with the exception of Emmeline, all seemed determined to conquer the sadness and anxiety, which the departure of one so beloved, naturally occasioned. Emmeline was so unused to any thing like personal sorrow, that she rather seemed to luxuriate in its indulgence.
"Do you wish to both disappoint and displease me, my dear Emmeline?" her mother said, one day, about a week after her husband had gone, as she entered the music-room, expecting to find her daughter at the harp, but perceiving her instead, listless and dispirited, on the sofa. "Indeed, you will do both, if you give way to this most uncalled-for gloom."
"Uncalled for," replied Emmeline, almost pettishly.
"Quite uncalled for, to the extent in which you are indulging it; and even if called for, do you not think you would be acting more correctly, if you thought more of others than yourself, and tried to become your own cheerful self for their sakes? It is the first time you have ever given me cause to suspect you of selfishness; and I am disappointed."