"But when must we part? When must he leave Oakwood?" was all poor Ellen could ask; but in such a tone of quiet sorrow, her uncle could not for the moment reply.
"The Sea Queen leaves Plymouth, wind permitting, the end of the week, but—Edward must be on board to-morrow."
A low cry escaped involuntarily from Ellen's lips, as she buried her face on the cushion of the couch where she was sitting, and an exclamation of surprise and regret broke from all. Mrs. Hamilton felt it almost as much as Ellen, from not only her own unspoken anxiety, as to whether indeed his home influence would save him from temptation in future, but that she could enter into every thought and feeling which in Ellen must so aggravate the actual parting—always a sorrow in itself. After a few minutes Ellen raised her head, and, though her cheek was perfectly colorless, every tear was checked.
"Tell Edward he need not fear my weakness, dear Emmeline," she said, trying hard to speak quite calmly. "Only beg him to come to me, that we may spend the little time we have together; I will be as cheerful as himself." And, effort as it was, she kept her word; so controlling sorrow, to enter into his naturally glad anticipations, that her brother felt as if he could not love, nor venerate her enough.
He was obliged to leave Oakwood (accompanied by his uncle) so early the next morning, that all his preparations had to be completed by that night. Ellis's activity, though she could not endure the idea of his going, speedily and satisfactorily settled that matter. Robert Langford, who had only regained his natural light-heartedness since Ellen had taken her usual place in the family, always declaring his carelessness had been the origin of all her misery, was another so active in his service, that Edward had only to give a hint of any thing he wanted, even if it could only be procured at some distance, and it was instantly obtained.
The hours wore on, the evening devotions were concluded, but still the family lingered in the library: so many things there seemed to say, for Mr. Hamilton and Miss Harcourt would not let the conversation flag, and Edward would talk and laugh, as if he were only going from home for a few days. Midnight chimed, but still Mrs. Hamilton felt as if she could not give the signal for separation: but when one struck, there was a general start, and an unanimous declaration it could not be so late.
"I assure you it is," Mrs. Hamilton cheerfully said; "and poor Edward will get no sleep, if we do not separate at once. He must certainly send you a box of artificial roses, for this unusual dissipation will bear all the natural ones away. Ellen, love, I must be cruel enough to resist that pleading look; remember, your full strength has not yet returned."
She spoke kindly, but firmly, and there was a general move. Edward laughingly promised to send his cousins the very best box of rouge he could procure at Plymouth, and wished them good night as gayly as if they should meet as usual the next morning. Once only his voice faltered—"Ellen, love, good night! My own sister, God in Heaven bless you!" were all he said, the last sentence escaping as if involuntarily, as if he had merely meant to say good night; and for more than a minute the brother and sister were clasped in each other's arms. There were tears in Mrs. Hamilton's eyes, and her husband's were most unwontedly dim, for words were not needed to reveal to them the trial of that moment to those two young hearts. To Ellen's especially, for her lot was woman's—to endure until time should prove the reality of Edward's resolution, and mark him indeed the noble character his disposition so fondly promised. His was active service, the banishment of thought by deed. Breaking from her brother, and not daring to address either her aunt or uncle, lest her control should fail her too soon, Ellen hastened from the room.
"Go to her, aunt Emmeline; oh, tell her I will never, never cause her to suffer again!" implored Edward, as soon as he could speak, and clasping his aunt's hand. "She has been struggling with herself the whole evening for my sake, and she will suffer for it to-morrow, unless she give it vent, and she will weep less painfully if you speak of comfort."
"She will be better alone a little while, my dear boy; young as she is, she knows where to seek and find comfort, and her tears would flow more freely, conscious only of the presence and healing of her God. I shall not part from you now. Ellis wanted me for some directions about your things, and I will come to you in your room afterward."