"Thank God, you have spoken, my dear child! I felt as if I dared not introduce the subject; but now that you have yourself, I think I shall be able, if indeed you will listen to me patiently, Ellen, to disperse the painful mists, that are still pressing so heavily on this poor little heart and brain," she said, fondly, though seriously, as she put her arm round Ellen, to support her as she sat up. "I do not tell you it is not a natural feeling, my love, but it is a wrong one. Had your sin, in consideration of its being, as I am now convinced it was, wholly involuntary—for in the fearful state of mind Edward's desperate letter occasioned, you could not have known or thought of any thing, but that relief seemed sent to your hand—had it on that account been permitted so far to succeed, as to give him the aid he demanded, and never have been traced to you, it would have confirmed him in the path of guilt and error, and poisoned your happiness forever. When you recall the agony, almost madness you felt, while burdened with the consciousness of such an act, how could you have borne it, if it had continued through months, perhaps years? You shudder; yet this must have been the case, and Edward would have persisted in error, if your sin had been permitted to succeed. Its detection, and the sufferings thence springing, terrible as they have been to you, my poor child, have saved him; and will, I trust, only bring securer happiness to you."
"Saved him!" repeated Ellen, half starting up, and scarcely hearing the last words—"saved Edward!"
"Yes, dearest, by leading him to a full confession, and giving him not only the inexpressible comfort of such a proceeding, but permitting him to see, that great and disappointing as his errors are, they can be conquered. They are not of the irremediable, guilt-confirming nature, that he was taught to suppose them for Harding's own most guilty ends, and so giving him hope and resolution to amend, which a belief that amendment is impossible, entirely frustrates. Do not fear for Edward, my own love; he will give you as much pride and comfort as he has anxiety and grief; and you, under God's mercy, will have been the cause. It is a hard lesson to learn, and yet, Ellen, I think one day, when you can look back more calmly on the last few months, you will acknowledge with me, that great as your sufferings have been, they were sent in love both to him and to you."
"If they have saved him—saved him from a continuance in error, and so made him happy!—Oh, aunt Emmeline, I can think so now, and I will try to bear the rest? but why," she added, growing more excited, "oh, why have you been so good, so kind? Why did you not continue cold and distant? I could bear it better, then."
"Bear what, love? What have you more to bear? Tell me all without reserve. Why should I be cold, when you deserve all my love and kindness?"
"Because—because, am I not to go to Seldon Grange, as soon as I am strong enough? Uncle Hamilton said, there could be no excusing cause demanding a complete avoidance of his sentence. I thought it was pain enough when you first told me; but now, now every time I think about it, it seems as if I could not bear it."
"And you are not called upon to bear it, my dear child. Is it possible you could think for a moment that I could send you away from me, when you have borne so much, and been treated with far too much severity already? Did I not tell you that the term of your banishment depended entirely on the motive of your silence, and do you think there was no excuse in your motive, my Ellen, mistaken as it was? Is self-devotion to be of no more account to me, than it seemed to you? Come, smile, dearest; I promise you, in your uncle's name and my own, you shall never leave us, unless it be of your own free will and pleasure, a few years hence."
Ellen did try to smile, but she was too weak to bear this complete removal of a double burden without an emotion that seemed more like pain than joy. She laid her head on her aunt's shoulder, and wept without restraint. They were the first tears she had shed since her illness, and Mrs. Hamilton thanked God for them. She did not attempt to check them, but the few words she did speak, told such affectionate sympathy, such perfect comprehension of that young heart, that Ellen felt as if a mountain of lead were dissolving from her.
"And now, my Ellen, that I have relieved you of a painful dread, will you ease my mind of a great anxiety?" inquired Mrs. Hamilton, nearly an hour afterward, when Ellen seemed so relieved and calmed, that she could talk to her without fear. "You look surprised; but it is a subject you alone can explain, and till it is solved, I shall never feel that your happiness is secure. What is this promise, to which in your illness you so constantly referred, and which, I fear, has strengthened you in the system of self-sacrifice for Edward's sake, in addition to your love for him?"
A deep flush rose to Ellen's transparent cheek and brow, as she answered, falteringly—