"Then answer me, Ellen, this moment, and distinctly; for what purpose were you seeking Mrs. Langford's cottage by that forbidden path, and when?"
"I wanted money, and I went to ask her to take my trinkets—my watch, if it must be—and dispose of them as I had read of others doing, as miserable as I was; and the wind blew the notes to my very hand, and I used them. I was mad then—I have been mad since, I believe; but I would have returned the whole amount to Robert, if I could but have parted with my trinkets in time."
To describe the tone of utter despair, the recklessness as to the effect her words would produce, is impossible. Every word increased Mrs. Hamilton's bewilderment and misery. To suppose that Ellen did not feel was folly. It was the very depth of wretchedness which was crushing her to the earth, but every answered and unanswered question but deepened the mystery, and rendered her judge's task more difficult.
"And when was this, Ellen? I will have no more evasion—tell me the exact day."
But she asked in vain. Ellen remained moveless, and silent as the dead.
After several minutes, Mrs. Hamilton removed her hands from her face, and compelling her to lift up her head; gazed searchingly on her deathlike countenance for some moments in utter silence, and then said, in a tone that Ellen never in her life forgot—
"You can not imagine, Ellen, that this half-confession will either satisfy me, or in the smallest degree redeem your sin. One and one only path is open to you; for all that you have said and left unsaid but deepens your apparent guilt, and so blackens your conduct, that I can scarcely believe I am addressing the child I so loved—and could still so love, if but one real sign be given of remorse and penitence—one hope of returning truth. But that sign, that hope, can only be a full confession. Terrible as is the guilt of appropriating so large a sum, granted it came by the merest chance into your hand; dark as is the additional sin of concealment when an innocent person was suffering—something still darker, more terrible, must lie concealed behind it, or you would not, could not, continue thus obdurately silent. I can believe that under some heavy pressure of misery, some strong excitement, the sum might have been used without thought, and that fear might have prevented the confession of any thing so dreadful; but what was this heavy necessity for money, this strong excitement? What fearful and mysterious difficulties have you been led into to call for either? Tell me the truth, Ellen, the whole truth; let me have some hope of saving you and myself the misery of publicly declaring you the guilty one, and so proving Robert's innocence. Tell me what difficulty, what misery so maddened you, as to demand the disposal of your trinkets. If there be the least excuse, the smallest possibility of your obtaining in time forgiveness, I will grant it. I will not believe you so utterly fallen. I will do all I can to remove error, and yet to prevent suffering; but to win this, I must have a full confession—every question that I put to you must be clearly and satisfactorily answered, and so bring back the only comfort to yourself, and hope to me. Will you do this, Ellen?"
"Oh, that I could!" was the reply in such bitter anguish, Mrs. Hamilton actually shuddered. "But I can not—must not—dare not. Aunt Emmeline, hate me, condemn me to the severest, sharpest suffering; I wish for it, pine for it: you can not loathe me more than I do myself, but do not—do not speak to me in these kind tones—I can not bear them. It was because I knew what a wretch I am, that I have so shunned you, I was not worthy to be with you; oh, sentence me at once! I dare not answer as you wish."
"Dare not!" repeated Mrs. Hamilton, more and more bewildered, and, to conceal the emotion Ellen's wild words and agonized manner had produced, adopting greater sternness. "You dare commit a sin, from which the lowest of my household would shrink in horror, and yet tell me you dare not make the only atonement, give me the only proof of real penitence I demand. This is a weak and wicked subterfuge, Ellen, and will not pass with me. There can be no reason for this fearful obduracy, not even the consciousness of greater guilt, for I promise forgiveness, if it be possible, on the sole condition of a full confession. Once more, will you speak? Your hardihood will be utterly useless, for you can not hope to conquer me; and if you permit me to leave you with your conduct still clothed in this impenetrable mystery, you will compel me to adopt measures to subdue that defying spirit, which will expose you and myself to intense suffering, but which must force submission at last."
"You can not inflict more than I have endured the last seven weeks," murmured Ellen, almost inarticulately. "I have borne that, I can bear the rest."