"Ought I to tell you, dear aunt? You do not know how often, how very often I have longed to ask you, if to keep it made me do wrong—whether I ought to break it? And yet it seemed so sacred, and it gave poor mamma such comfort!"
"When did you make it, love? Its import I need not ask you, for you betrayed it, when you knew not what you said, and it was confirmed by your whole conduct. To shield Edward from blame or punishment, by never revealing his faults?"
"Was it wrong?" murmured Ellen, hiding her conscious face.
"Wrong in you! no dearest; for you were too young to know all the pain and evil it was likely to bring. Tell me when, and how, it was taken; and I think I can prove to you that your poor mother would have recalled it, had she had the least idea of the solemn hold it had taken upon you."
Thus encouraged, Ellen narrated the scene that had taken place in widow Morgan's cottage just before Mrs. Hamilton arrived; and her mother's fears for Edward, and dread of Mr. Hamilton, which it was very evident, and now more than ever, had extended to both her children. She said that Mr. Myrvin's assurance, that her mother could see, and would love her in Heaven, directly following the promise, had given it still more weight and solemnity. That at first she thought it would be very easy to keep, because she loved Edward so dearly; but she had not been long at Oakwood before it made her very unhappy, from its constant interference with, and prevention of, her obedience and duty to her aunt; that it had often caused her violent head aches, only from her vain attempts to satisfy herself as to that which she ought to do. When Edward first went to sea, and all seemed so right and happy with him, of course she became happier than she had ever been before. Then came his difficulties, and her conviction that she must save him and keep his secret. That her reason and her affection often urged her to confide all to her aunt, certain that she would not harshly condemn Edward, but would forgive and help him far more effectually than she could; but she dared not, for whenever she thought thus, the figure of her mother rose before her, seeming to reproach and threaten her for exposing the child she so dearly loved to disgrace and ruin; and this was so vivid—so constant during his last appeal, that she thought she must be going mad; that nothing but the dread of not being firm enough to keep Edward's secret, had withheld her from confessing her sin at once to her aunt, especially when her uncle had so solemnly denounced it as theft, and that when it was discovered it seemed actual relief, though it brought such severe punishment, for she knew no suffering for her could be too severe.
The tale, as Ellen told it, was brief and simple enough, and that there was any merit in such a system of self-devotion never seemed to enter her mind for a moment; but to Mrs. Hamilton it revealed such an amount of suffering and trial, such a quiet, systematic, heroic endurance, that she unconsciously drew that young delicate being closer and closer to her, as if her love should protect her in future from any such trial; and from what had it all sprung?—the misery of years, at a period when life should be so joyous and so free, that care and sorrow flee it as purely and too briefly happy to approach? From a few thoughtless words, from a thoughtless, partial mother, whose neglect and dislike had pronounced that disposition cold, unloving and inanimate whose nature was so fervid, so imaginative, that the utmost care should have been taken to prevent the entrance of a single thought or feeling too precocious, too solemn for her years. It may be urged, and with truth, that to an ordinary child the promise might have been forgotten, or heedlessly laid aside, without any harm accruing from it, but it was from not caring to know the real character of the little being, for whose happiness and virtue she was responsible, that the whole mischief sprung; and it is this neglect of maternal duty against which we would so earnestly warn those who may not have thought about it. It is not enough to educate the mind, to provide bodily necessaries, to be indulgent in the gift of pleasure and amusement, the heart must be won and taught; and to do so with any hope of success, the character must be transparent as the day: and what difficulty, what hinderance, can there, or ought there to be, in obtaining this important knowledge to a mother, from whose breast the babe has received its nourishment, from whose arms it has gradually slipped away to feel its own independence, from whose lips it has received its first lessons, at whose knee lisped its first prayer? How comparatively trifling the care, how easy the task to learn the opening disposition and natural character, so as to guide with gentleness and love, and create happiness, not for childhood alone, though that is much, but for youth and maturity.
All these thoughts passed though Mrs. Hamilton's mind as she listened to her niece, and looked at the pale, sweet face lifted up to hers in the earnestness of her simple tale, as if unconsciously appealing for her protection against the bewildering and contending feelings of her own young heart. How she was effectually to remove these impressions of years indeed she knew not; her heart seemed to pray for guidance that peace might at length be Ellen's portion, even as she heard.
"You could scarcely have acted otherwise than you have always done toward Edward, my dear Ellen, under the influence of such a promise," she said; "your extreme youth, naturally enough, could not permit you to distinguish, whether it was called for by a mere impulse of feeling in your poor mother, or really intended. But tell me, do you think it would give me any comfort or happiness if I could see Emmeline act by Percy as you have done by Edward? To see her suffer pain and sorrow, and be led into error, too, sometimes, to conceal Percy's faults, and prevent their removal, when, by the infliction of some trifling pain, it would save his exposing himself to greater?"
"But it seems so different with my cousins, aunt; they are all such equals. I can not fancy Emmeline in my place. You have always loved them all alike."
"And do you not think a mother ought to do to, dearest?"