"And you may not tell me whom you have promised?" replied Mrs. Hamilton, every former thought rendered apparently null and vain by these words, and painfully disappointing her; but the answer terrified her.
"Mamma—I promised her, and she stands by me so pale, so grieved, whenever I think of telling you," answered Ellen, clinging to Mrs. Hamilton, but looking with a strained gaze of terror on vacancy. "I thought I must have told you, when you said I was to go—to go to Seldon Grange—but she stood by me and laid her hand on my head, and it was so cold, so heavy, I don't remember any thing more till I found you and Ellis leaning over me; but I ought not to tell you even this. I know I ought not—for look—look, aunt Emmeline!—don't you see mamma—there—quite close to me; oh, tell her to forgive me—I will keep my promise," and shuddering convulsively, she hid her face in her aunt's dress.
Mrs. Hamilton was dreadfully alarmed. Whatever the foundation, and she had no doubt that there was some, and that it really had to do with Edward and his poor mother's mistaken partiality, Ellen's imagination was evidently disordered. To attempt obtaining the truth, while she was in this fearful state of excitement, was as impossible as cruel, and she tried only to soothe her to composure; speaking of her mother as happy and in Heaven and that Ellen had thought of her so much, as was quite natural in her sorrow, that she fancied she saw her.
"It is not reality, love; if she could see and speak to you, I am sure it would be to tell you to confide all your sorrow to me, if it would make you happier."
"Oh, no, no—I should be very wicked if it made me happier; I ought not even to wish to tell you. But Mr. Myrvin told me, even when mamma went to Heaven, she would still see me, and know if I kept my promise, and tried to win her love, by doing what I know she wished, even after she was dead; and it was almost a pleasure to do so till now, even if it gave me pain and made me unhappy; but now, now, aunt Emmeline, I know you must hate me; you never, never can love me again—and that—that is so hard to bear."
"Have you forgotten, my dear Ellen, the blessed assurance, there is more joy in Heaven over one sinner that repenteth, than over ninety-and-nine who have not sinned? and if our Father in Heaven can so feel, so act, are His creatures to do less? Do you think, because you have given me pain, and trouble and disappointment, and compelled me to use such extreme severity, and cause you so much suffering, that it will be quite impossible for me to love you again, if I see you do all you can to win back that love?"
Ellen made no answer; but the alarming excitement had so far subsided, as to raise the hope that quietness would subdue it altogether. Mrs. Hamilton remained with her till she seemed quite calm, and would not have left her then, but he had promised Caroline to drive with her into T—— that afternoon, to make some purchases; Emmeline and Miss Harcourt were spending the day at Greville Manor, and her daughter depending on her, she did not like to disappoint her. But the difficulty to think of other things, and cheerfully converse on comparatively indifferent topics, was greater than she had ever found it. That Ellis's surmise was correct, she had no longer the smallest doubt. Ellen was sacrificing herself, not merely for the love she bore her brother, but from some real or imaginary promise to her poor mother. What its exact nature was, she could not indeed satisfy herself, but that it had something to do with concealing Edward's faults seemed to flash upon her, she hardly knew how. Ellis's words "that she had seen enough of that work when they were children," returned to her, and various incongruities in Ellen's character and conduct which she had been unable to reconcile at the time, all seemed connected with it. But to arrive at the truth was much more difficult than ever; still, how could she send Ellen away? and yet, if still silent, would mere surmise satisfy her husband? There was but one hope, one ray of light—Edward's own honor, if indeed he were permitted to return; and even while driving and talking with Caroline, her heart was one fervent prayer that this might be, and the fearful struggle of her devoted Ellen cease.
Her aunt's gentle and unexpected kindness had had such a beneficial effect on Ellen, that, after her early dinner, about three o'clock, she told Ellis she would go in the school-room, and try and read there for an hour; she knew all the family were out, and therefore would be quite undisturbed. Ellis willingly acquiesced, rejoicing that she should seek any change herself, and advised her, as it was such a mild, soft afternoon, after the late storms, to take a turn on the terrace, on which a glass-door from the school-room opened; it would do her good. Ellen meant to take her advice, but as she looked out from a window over a well-remembered landscape, so many painful thoughts and recollections crowded on her, that she lost all inclination to move. She had not stood there for many weeks, and it seemed to her that the view had never looked so very lovely. The trees all had the last glories of autumn—for it was early in November—the grass was of that beautiful humid emerald which always follows heavy rain, and though the summer-flowers had all gone, the sheltered beds of the garden, lying beneath the terrace, presented many very beautiful still. The end of the terrace, a flight of stone steps, overlooked the avenue, leading from the principal lodge to the main entrance, and where Ellen stood, she could distinguish a few yards of the path where it issued from some distant trees. She gazed at first, conscious only that she was banished from it all, and that, however long her departure might be deferred, she must go at last, for her uncle's mandate could not be disobeyed; but gradually her eye became fixed as in fascination. A single figure was emerging from the trees, and dressed in the uniform of a midshipman—she was sure it was! but it was a figure so tall, so slim, his step so lingering, it could not be Edward, most likely some one of his messmates come to tell his fate. He was taller even than Percy, but so much slighter, so different to the boy from whom she had parted, that, though her heart bounded and sunk till faintness seemed to overpower her, she could not convince herself it was he. With an almost unconscious effort she ran out, through the glass-door, to the steps of the terrace; she could now see him distinctly, but not his face, for his cap was low over his forehead; but as he approached, he paused, as if doubting whether to go up to the hall door, or the well-known terrace, by which he had always rushed into the school-room, on his daily return from Mr. Howard's; and as he looked hastily up, his cap fell back, and his eyes met Ellen's. A wild but checked scream broke from her lips, and all was an impenetrable mist till she found herself in her brother's arms, in the room she had quitted, his lips repeatedly pressing her cheek and forehead, and his voice, which sounded so strange—it did not seem like Edward's, it was so much more deep and manly—entreating her to speak to him, and tell him why she looked so ill; but still her heart so throbbed she could not speak. She could only cling close to him and look intently in his face, which was so altered from the happy, laughing boy, that had he not been, from his extreme paleness and attenuation of feature, still more like their mother when she was ill, his sister would scarcely have known him.
"Dearest Ellen, do speak to me; what has been the matter, that you look so pale and sad? Are you not glad to see me?"
"Glad! oh, Edward, you can not know how glad; I thought you would never, never come, the storms have been so terrible; I have been ill, and your sudden appearance startled me, for I had thought of such dreadful things, and that was the reason I could not speak at first; but I am sure you are as pale as I am, dear, dear Edward; you have been wounded—have you not recovered them yet?"