Mrs. Hamilton knew the human heart well. When she went to Ellen, the paroxysm of natural sorrow had had vent, and her sympathy, her earnestly expressed conviction that the trial of beholding error and remorse in one so beloved would not occur again, could bring comfort. The tears indeed might still have flowed the faster, perhaps, at the voice of kindness, but there was healing in them; and when her aunt left her to go to Edward, she sent him a fond message that she was better, and in a few days would be happy, quite happy, for his sake.
It was late before Mrs. Hamilton quitted her nephew. We will not repeat all that passed between them, all that that fond watchful relative so earnestly, so appealingly said. Not much in actual words of counsel had she ever before addressed to him, feeling that that duty was better performed by Mr. Howard and his uncle. She had simply tried to influence him by the power of love, of forbearance, of sympathy with his remorse, and pity for his errors. In the wretchedness, the fearful anxiety, Ellen's danger and painful illness had occasioned herself individually, she had never spoken, or even let fall a sentence which could reproach him as the cause of all; and therefore, now that she did give her anxious affection words, they were so spoken, that her nephew never forgot them.
"I feel now," he had said, near the conclusion of their interview, "as if nothing could tempt me to err again; but oh, aunt Emmeline, so I thought when I left home before; and its influences all left me as if they had never been. It may be so again and—and—are there not such doomed wretches, making all they love best most miserable?"
"Not, indeed, if they will take their home influences with them, my beloved boy. They deserted you before because, by the insidious sentiments of a most unhappy man, your religion was shaken, and you flung aside with scorn and misbelief the only safety for the young—God's most Holy Word. The influences of your home are based on that alone, my Edward. They appear perhaps to the casual observer as only love, indulgence, peace, and the joy springing from innocent and happy hearts; but these are mere flowers springing from one immortal root. In God's Word alone is our safety, there alone our strength and our joy; and that may be yours still, my boy, though far away from us, and in a little world with interests and temptations of its own. Take this little Bible; it has been my constant companion for eighteen years, and to none but to yourself would I part with it. If you fear your better feelings failing, read it, be guided by it, if at first only for the sake of those you love; I do not fear, but that very soon you will do so for its own sake. It bears a name within it which I think will ever keep it sacred in your care, as it has been in mine."
Edward opened it eagerly, "Charles Manvers!" he exclaimed; "My own sailor-uncle, whose memory you have so taught me to love. It is indeed a spell, dear aunt, and you shall never regret a gift so precious. But how came it yours?"
"He came to me just before starting for his last trip, entreating me to exchange Bibles with him, that in our most serious moments we might think of each other. It was such an unusually serious speech for him, that it seemed to thrill me with a vague forboding, which was only too soon realized. I never saw him again; and that little book indeed increased in value."
Her voice faltered, for even yet the memory of her brother was so dear to her that she could never speak of him without emotion. Edward reiterated his eager assurance that it should be equally valuable to him, adding—
"I have often had strange fancies about uncle Charles, aunt, and longed for the command of a ship, to scour the coast of Algiers, and learn something more about the Leander. Somehow or other, I never can believe he was drowned, and yet to think of him as a slave is terrible."
"And not likely, my dear boy; think of the lapse of years. But painful as it is, we must separate, Edward: I must not detain you from rest and sleep any longer. Only give me one promise—if ever you are led into temptation and error again, and it may be—for our strongest resolutions sometimes fail us—write to me without the smallest hesitation, openly, freely; tell me all, and if you need aid, ask it, and I will give it; and, if it be possible, avert your uncle's displeasure. I have no fear that, in telling you this, I am weakening your resolution, but only to prevent one fault becoming many by concealment—from dread of anger, and therein the supposed impossibility of amendment. Remember, my beloved boy, you have a claim on me which no error nor fault can remove; as, under providence, the preserver of my husband, I can never change the anxious love I bear you. You may indeed make me very miserable, but I know you will not: you will let me look on your noble deed with all the love, the admiration, it deserves. Promise me that, under any difficulty or error, small or great, you will write to me as you would have done to your own beloved mother, and I shall have no fear remaining."
Edward did promise, but his heart was so full he could not restrain himself any longer, and as Mrs. Hamilton folded him to her heart, in a silent but tearful embrace, he wept on her shoulder like a child.