"You have looked at Edward long enough, Ellen, to be quite sure he is safe at home. So now I shall be jealous if you give him any more of your attention and neglect me; you must take some nourishment, and try to go to sleep again, for I must not have you try your strength too much."
"If I could but remember clearly," answered Ellen, sadly; "it is all so vague—so dark—but I do not think it was only because he did not come, that made me so unhappy."
"You are not going to be disobedient, dearest," replied Mrs. Hamilton, firmly, though fondly, as she hastily signed to Edward to leave the room, which he most thankfully did, never stopping till he reached his own, and tried to thank God for His great mercy, but could only sob. "I told you not to think, because to do so might retard return of strength, and indeed you must try and obey me; you know I am very peremptory sometimes." And the fond kiss with which she enforced the command seemed to satisfy Ellen, whose natural submissiveness, combined with excessive physical weakness, caused her to obey at once, and not attempt to think any more. She took the required nourishment with returning appetite, and soon afterward fell quietly and happily to sleep again, her aunt's hand closely clasped in hers.
From that day, all fear of disordered intellect departed, and, gradually, the extreme exhaustion gave way before Mr. Maitland's judicious treatment. Strength, indeed, returned so slowly and almost imperceptibly, that it was necessary to count improvement by weeks, not days. And when, six weeks after her first seizure, she was thought well enough to be carried to Mrs. Hamilton's dressing-room, and laid on a couch there, it was a source of gratitude and rejoicing to all. But Mr. Maitland and Mrs. Hamilton soon saw, with intense anxiety, that with physical strength, memory and thought had both fully returned, and that their consequence was a depression so deep, as effectually to retard her perfect recovery. She seemed to shrink from all attention, all kindness, as utterly undeserved, even from her cousins. She would look at Edward for half an hour together, with an expression of suffering that made the heart actually ache. At times she would receive Mrs. Hamilton's caressing and judicious tenderness as if it were her only comfort, at others, shrink from it, as if she had no right to it.
"This will never do," Mr. Maitland said, about ten days after Ellen's removal into her daily quarters, and finding she was losing ground; "there is something on her mind, which must be removed, even if to do so, you refer to the past. She remembers it all too clearly, I fear, so our not alluding to it does no good. You must be the physician in this case, my dear Mrs. Hamilton, for I am powerless."
But though she quite agreed with him, how to approach such a very painful subject required no little consideration; but, as is very often the case, chance does that on which we have expended so much thought.
One afternoon Ellen lay so still, so pale, on her couch, that Mrs. Hamilton bent over her to listen if she breathed, saying as she did so, almost unconsciously—
"My poor Ellen, when shall I have the comfort of seeing you well and happy again?"
Ellen hastily unclosed her eyes, for she was not asleep—it had been only the stupor of painfully-engrossing thought, rendering her insensible to all outward things, but her aunt's voice aroused her, and it seemed an inexpressible relief to feel they were quite alone. Trying to rise, and clasping her hands, she said, in a tone of strong excitement—
"Oh, aunt Emmeline, how can I be happy—how can I be well—when I think—think—that if it had not been for my sin, and the misery it brought on me, Edward might be safe still? no one need have known his errors. I tried to save—and—and I have only betrayed, and made him wretched. All I suffered was for nothing, worse than nothing!"