"I am a brute, Ellen, nothing less; forgive me, and say good-by. I can't understand it at all, but angry as I am with you, your pale face haunts me like a specter, so we must part friends;" and as she looked hastily up, he kissed her warmly twice, and ran away without another word.
Days passed heavily, the gales seeming to increase in violence, and causing Mrs. Hamilton more terrible anxiety and vague dread than she allowed to be visible. The damage among the shipping was fearful, and the very supposed vicinity of the frigate to the Channel increased the danger. The papers every morning presented long lists of ships wrecked, or fatally dismantled, loss of crews or part of them, mails and cargoes due but missing: and the vivid recollection of the supposed fate of her own brother, the wretchedness of the suspense before the fate of his vessel was ascertained, returned to heighten the fears that would gain ascendency for her nephew, and for the effect of this terrible suspense on Ellen, more especially—if indeed she had endured all these weeks, nay, months, of misery for him.
At first Ellen seemed unconscious that there was any thing remarkable in the delay, the thought of her own departure being uppermost; but when the thought did press upon her, how it came she knew not—that of the given month the weeks were passing, and Edward had not arrived, and that there must be some reason for the long delay—storm, shipwreck, death, all flashed upon her at once, and almost maddened her. The quiet calm of endurance gave way. She could not sleep at night from the tremendous winds; not even when Ellis had a bed put up in her room, and remained with her all night herself; she never complained indeed, but hour after hour she would pace her room and the passage leading to Ellis's, till compelled to cease from exhaustion; she would try steadily to employ herself with some difficult study, and succeed, perhaps, for half an hour, but then remain powerless, or recommence her restless walk. Mrs. Hamilton made several attempts without any apparent interference on her part, to get her to sit occasionally with her and Miss Harcourt, and her cousins, but she seemed to shrink from them all. Emmeline, indeed, when once aware of the terrible trial she was enduring, would sit with her, drawing or working as if nothing had occurred to estrange them, and try to cheer her by talking on many topics of interest. Caroline would speak to her kindly whenever she saw her. Miss Harcourt alone retained her indignation, for no suspicion of the real cause of her silence ever entered her mind.
Poor Ellen felt that she dared not indulge in the comfort this change in her aunt's and cousins' manner produced. She wanted to wean herself quite from them, that the pang of separation might be less severe, but she only seemed to succeed in loving them more. One thought, indeed, at length took such entire possession of her mind, as to deaden every other:—it was the horrible idea that as she had sinned to save Edward, perhaps, from merited disgrace, he would be taken from her; she never breathed it, but it haunted her night and day. Mr. Maitland saw her continually, but he plainly told Mrs. Hamilton, while the cause of anxiety and mental suffering lasted he could do her no good. It was a constant alternation of fearful excitement and complete depression, exhausting the whole system. Repose and kindness—alas! the latter might be given, but the former, in the present position of affairs, how could it be insured?
The month of grace was waning; only two days remained, and Edward had not arrived, and how could Mrs. Hamilton obey her husband—whose every letter reiterated his hope that she had not been prevailed on to alter his sentence, if Ellen still remained silent—and send her niece from her? She came at length to the determination, that if another week passed and still there were no tidings, not to let this fearful self-sacrifice, if it really were such, last any longer, but gently, cautiously, tenderly as she could, prevail on Ellen to confide all to her, and promise, if Edward really had been erring and in difficulties, all should be forgiven for her sake, and even his uncle's anger averted. Once her determination taken, she felt better enabled to endure an anxiety which was injuring her almost as much as Ellen; and she turned to Ellis's room, which she had lately very often frequented, for she scarcely felt comfortable when Ellen was out of her sight, though she had full confidence in Ellis's care.
Ellen was asleep on a sofa, looking so wan, so haggard—so altered from the Ellen of five short months back, that Mrs. Hamilton sat down by her side, pondering whether she was doing right to wait even another week, before she should try to bring relief by avowing her suspicions—but would it bring relief? and, after all, was it for Edward? or, had she been allowing affection and imagination to mislead and soften, when sternness might still be needed?
Ellen woke with a start as from some fearful dream, and gazed at Mrs. Hamilton for a full minute, as if she did not know her.
"My dear Ellen, what is it? You have been sleeping uncomfortably—surely you know me?"
"I thought I was at—at—Seldon Grange—are you sure I am not? Dear aunt Emmeline, do tell me I am at Oakwood, I know I am to go, and very soon; but I am not there now, am I?" and she put one hand to her forehead, and gazed hurriedly and fearfully round her, while, with the other, she held tightly Mrs. Hamilton's dress. There was something alarming both in her look and tone.
"No, love, you are with me still at Oakwood, and you will not go from me till you have been with Edward some little time. You can not think I would send you away now, Ellen?"