"Then you will not answer? You are resolved not to tell me the day on which you found that money, the use to which it was applied, the reason of your choosing that forbidden path, permitting me to believe you guilty of heavier sins than may be the case in reality. Listen to me, Ellen; it is more than time this interview should cease, but I will give you one chance more. It is now half-past seven,"—she took the watch from her neck, and laid it on the table—"I will remain here one half-hour longer: by that time this sinful temper may have passed away, and you will consent to give me the confession I demand. I can not believe you so altered in two months as to choose obduracy and misery, when pardon, and in time confidence and love, are offered in their stead. Get up from that crouching posture, it can be but mock humility, and so only aggravates your sin."
Ellen rose slowly and painfully, and seating herself at the table, some distance from her aunt, leaned her arms upon it, and buried her face within them. Never before, and never after did half an hour appear so interminable to either Mrs. Hamilton or Ellen. It was well for the firmness of the former, perhaps, that she could not read the heart of that young girl, even if the cause of its anguish had been still concealed. Again and again did the wild longing, turning her actually faint and sick with its agony, come over her to reveal the whole, to ask but rest and mercy for herself, pardon and security for Edward; but then clear as held before her in letters of fire she read every word of her brother's desperate letter, particularly "Breathe it to my uncle or aunt, for if she knows it he will, and you will never see me more." Her mother, pallid as death, seemed to stand before her, freezing confession on her heart and lips, looking at her threateningly, as she had so often seen her, as if the very thought were guilt. The rapidly advancing twilight, the large and lonely room, all added to that fearful illusion, and if Ellen did succeed in praying, it was with desperate fervor, for strength not to betray her brother. If ever there were a martyr spirit, it was enshrined in that young, frail form.
But how could Mrs. Hamilton imagine this? How could her wildest fancy bring Edward—the brave, happy, eager Edward, of whom captain, officers, and crew wrote in such terms of praise and admiration, who had never given cause for anxiety, and who was so far distant—as the uniting link to this terrible mystery? Was it not more natural that he should not enter the incongruous and painful thoughts floating through her brain, save as her last resource, by his influence, to obtain the truth from Ellen? The more she thought, the more agonizing her thoughts became; what could induce this determined silence, but a conviction of deeper guilt, and what could that guilt be? The most terrible suspicions crossed her mind; she had heard, though she had scarcely believed in them, of entanglements, even where the guardianship had been most rigid. Could one so young, seemingly so innocent, have fallen into the power of some desperate character, who was working on her thus? How could she be sure she intended to take her trinkets to Mrs. Langford? Her choosing that forbidden path which was never by any chance trodden by the family or their friends, her constant desire lately not to join them in their excursions, preferring, and often finding some excuse to remain alone—all came to Mrs. Hamilton's mind, with such an overpowering sensation of dread and misery, that the worst guilt Ellen could have avowed would scarcely have been worse than anticipation pictured; and yet every thought was so vague, every fancy so undefined—there was nothing she could grasp at as a saving hope, or in the remotest degree excusing cause; such obdurate silence in one so young, generally so yielding, could and must conceal nothing but still more fearful sin. The darkness which had gathered round them, save the brightening light of the harvest moon, suddenly awakened her to the lapse of time. The moonlight fell full on the face of the watch, which was a repeater. It wanted but three minutes more, and Mrs. Hamilton watched the progress of the hand with such sickening dread, that when it reached the hour, she had scarcely strength to strike it, and so give notice—for words she had none—that the hour of grace had passed. But she conquered the powerlessness, and those soft chimes, which, when Ellen first came to Oakwood, had been such a constant source of childish wonder and delight, now rang in her ears louder, hoarser, more fearfully distinct, than even those of the ancient time-piece in the hall, which at the same moment rang out the hour of eight.
The sound ceased, and with heightened dignity, but in perfect silence, Mrs. Hamilton rose, passed her niece, and had nearly reached the door, when she paused, and turned toward Ellen, as if irresolute. Ellen's eyes had watched her as in fascination, and the pause endowed her with just sufficient power to spring forward, fling herself at her aunt's feet, and clasping her knees with all her little remaining strength, passionately implore—
"Aunt Emmeline, aunt Emmeline, speak to me but one word, only one word of kindness before you go. I do not ask for mercy, there can be none for such a wretch as I am; I will bear without one complaint, one murmur, all you may inflict—you can not be too severe. Nothing can be such agony as the utter loss of your affection; I thought, the last two months, that I feared you so much that it was all fear, no love, but now, now that you know my sin, it has all, all come back to make me still more wretched." And before Mrs. Hamilton could prevent, or was in the least aware of her intention, Ellen had obtained possession of one of her hands, and was covering it with kisses, while her whole frame shook with those convulsed, but completely tearless sobs.
"Will you confess, Ellen, if I stay? Will you give me the proof that it is such agony to lose my affection, that you do love me as you profess, and that it is only one sin which has so changed you? One word, and, tardy as it is, I will listen, and, if I can, forgive."
Ellen made no answer, and Mrs. Hamilton's newly-raised hopes vanished; she waited full two or three minutes, then gently disengaged her hand and dress from Ellen's still convulsive grasp; the door closed, with a sullen, seemingly unwilling sound, and Ellen was alone. She remained in the same posture, the same spot, till a vague, cold terror so took possession of her, that the room seemed filled with ghostly shapes, and all the articles of furniture suddenly transformed to things of life! and springing up, with the wild, fleet step of fear, she paused not till she found herself in her own room, where flinging herself on her bed, she buried her face on her pillow, to shut out every object—oh, how she longed to shut out thought!
It was such a different scene, such a fullness of innocent joy, on which Mrs. Hamilton entered, that though she thought herself nerved to control all visible emotion, the contrast almost overpowered her; knowing, too, that the fatal effects of one person's sin must banish that innocent enjoyment, and would fall on them all as some fearful, joy-destroying blow. The room, one of the least spacious, was cheerfully lighted, the urn hissing upon the table, at which Caroline, us usual, was presiding, only waiting for her mother's appearance, to satisfy Percy, who was loudly declaring he was famished in two senses—for want of his mother's company, and of some restorative for his craving appetite. He was lounging on the sofa, playing with Emmeline's flowing ringlets, as she sat on a low stool by his side, chatting with him, in as discursive a strain as his fancy willed. Herbert and Miss Harcourt were still in earnest discussion on their poem, from which Herbert was occasionally reading aloud such beautiful passages, and with such richness of intonation, and variety of expression, that Caroline, and even Percy and Emmeline, would pause involuntarily to listen.
"At length!" exclaimed Percy, springing up, as did Herbert at the same moment, to get their mother a chair, and place her comfortably as usual in the midst of them. "Mother, I really did begin to think you intended to punish my impatience by not joining us at all to-night."
"I did not know you were impatient, my dear boy, or perhaps I might have done so!" was her quiet, and even smiling reply. "I fear, indeed, waiting for me so long after a water-excursion, must have caused you to be impatient in another sense."