She had struggled to the very last to speak calmly, but now sobs, the more convulsive because the more suppressed, rose choking in her throat, and rendered the last words almost inaudible. She pressed both hands against her heart and then her temples, as if to still their painful throbbings, and speak yet more, but the effort was fruitless, and she darted wildly, and fled as an arrow from the room.
Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton looked on each other in painful and alarmed astonishment, and Ellen, deeply affected, rose hastily, as if with the intention of following her agitated cousin, but her aunt and uncle entreated her not, alleging Emmeline would sooner recover alone, asking her at the same time if she had known anything relative to the confession they had just heard. She answered truly in the negative. Emmeline had scarcely ever spoken of young Myrvin in her hearing; but as the truth was now discovered, many little instances rose to the recollection of both parents to confirm the avowal of their child, and increase their now painfully awakened solicitude. Her agitation the night of Edward's return, when Lord St. Eval laughingly threatened her with marriage, rose to the recollection of both parents; her extreme excitement and subsequent depression; her visibly failing health since Arthur's departure, all, all, too sadly confirmed her words, and bitterly Mrs. Hamilton reproached herself for never having suspected the truth before, for permitting the young man to be thus intimate at her house, heedless of what might ensue, forgetful that Emmeline was indeed no longer a child, that her temperament was one peculiarly liable to be thus strongly excited.
For a few minutes Mr. Hamilton felt pride and anger struggling fiercely in his bosom against Arthur, for having dared to love one so far above him as his child, but very quickly his natural kindliness and charity resumed their sway. Could he wonder at that, love for one so fond, so gentle, so clinging, as his Emmeline? Would he not have deemed Arthur cold and strange, had her charms indeed passed him unnoticed and unfelt; he remembered the forbearance, the extreme temper the unhappy young man had ever displayed towards him, and suddenly and unconsciously he felt he must have done him wrong; he had been prejudiced, misguided. If Nurse Langford's tale was right, and Jefferies had dared to accuse another of the crime he had himself committed, might he not in the like manner have prejudiced the whole neighbourhood against Arthur by false reports? But while from the words of his child every kindly feeling rose up in the young man's favour, Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton did not feel the less painfully that Emmeline had indeed spoken rightly: hopelessness was her lot. It seemed to both impossible that they could ever consent to behold her the wife of Myrvin, even if his character were cleared of the stigmas which had been cast upon it. Could they consent to expose their fragile child, nursed as she had been in the lap of luxury and comfort, to all the evils and annoyances of poverty? They had naturally accustomed themselves to anticipate Emmeline's marrying happily in their own sphere, and they could not thus suddenly consent to the annihilation of hopes, which had been fondly cherished in the mind of each.
Some little time they remained in conversation, and then Mrs. Hamilton rose to seek the chamber of her suffering child, taking with her indeed but little comfort, save her husband's earnest assurance that he would leave no means untried to discover Jefferies' true character, and if indeed Arthur had been accused unjustly.
It was with a trembling hand Mrs. Hamilton softly opened Emmeline's door, and with a heart bleeding at the anguish she beheld, and which she felt too truly she could not mitigate, she entered, and stood for several minutes by her side unnoticed and unseen.
There are some dispositions in which it is acutely painful to witness sorrow. Those whom we have ever seen radiant in health, in liveliness, in joy—so full of buoyancy and hope, they seem as if formed for sunshine alone, as if they could not live in the darkening clouds of woe or care; whose pleasures have been pure and innocent as their own bright beauty; who are as yet unknown to the whispering of inwardly working sin; full of love and gentleness, and sympathy, ever ready to weep for others, though for themselves tears are unknown; creatures, whose warm enthusiastic feelings bind them to every heart capable of generous emotions; those in whom we see life most beautified, most glad. Oh, it is so sad to see them weep; to feel that even on them sorrow hath cast its blight, and paled the cheek, and dimmed the laughing eye, the speaking smile, and the first grief in such as these is agony indeed: it is the breaking asunder of every former joy. They shrink from retrospection, for they cannot bear to feel they are not now as then, and the future shares to them the blackened shadows of the hopeless present. As susceptible as they are to pleasure so are they to pain; and raised far above others in the enjoyment of the one, so is their grief doubled in comparison with those of more happy, because more even temperaments. So it was with Emmeline; and her mother felt all this as she stood beside her, watching with tearful sympathy the first real grief of her darling child. Emmeline had cast herself on her knees beside her couch; she had buried her face in her hands, while the sobs that burst incessantly from her swelling bosom shook her frail figure convulsively; the blue veins in her throat had swelled as if in suffocation, and her fair hair, loosened from its confinement by her agitation, hung wildly around her.
"Emmeline," Mrs. Hamilton said, gently and falteringly, but her child heard her not, and she twined her arm around her, and tried to draw her towards her.
"My own darling Emmeline, speak to me; I cannot bear to see you thus.
Look up, love; for my sake calm this excited feeling."
"May I not even weep? Would you deny me that poor comfort?" burst almost passionately from the lips of Emmeline, for every faculty was bewildered in that suddenly-excited woe. She looked up; her eyes were bloodshot and haggard, her cheek flushed, and the veins drawn like cords across her brow.
"Weep: would your mother forbid you that blessed comfort and relief, my Emmeline? Could you indeed accuse me of such cruelty?" replied Mrs. Hamilton, bending over her as she spoke, and removing from those flushed temples the hair which hung heavy with moisture upon them, and as she did so Emmeline felt the tears of her mother fall thick and fast on her own scorching brow. She started from her knees, gazed wildly and doubtingly upon her, and tottering from exhaustion, would have fallen, had not Mrs. Hamilton, with a sudden movement, received her in her arms. For a moment Emmeline struggled as if to break from her embrace, but then, with a sudden transition of feeling, clasped her arms convulsively about her mother's neck, and burst into a long and violent but relieving flood of tears.