"I meant never, never to have revealed my secret," she exclaimed, in a voice almost inaudible, as her mother, seating her on a couch near them, pressed her to her heart, and permitted some minutes to pass away in that silence of sympathy which to the afflicted is so dear. "And now that it has been wrung from me, I know not what I do or say. Oh, if I have spoken aught disrespectfully to you or papa just now, I meant it not, indeed I did not; but they dared to speak false tales, and I could not sit calmly to hear them," she added, shuddering.
"There was nothing in your words, my own love, to give us pain with regard to ourselves," said Mrs. Hamilton, in her most soothing tone, as again and again she pressed her quivering lips to that flushed cheek, and tried to kiss away the now streaming tears. "Do not let that thought add to your uneasiness, my own darling."
"And can you forgive me, mother?" and Emmeline buried her face yet more closely in her mother's bosom.
"Forgive you, Emmeline! is there indeed aught in your acquaintance with Arthur Myrvin which demands my forgiveness?" replied her mother, in a tone of anxiety and almost alarm.
"Oh, no, no! but you may believe I have encouraged these weak emotions; that I have wilfully thought on them till I have made myself thus miserable; that I have called for his love—given him encouragement: indeed, indeed I have not. I have struggled hard to obtain forgetfulness—to think of him no more, to regain happiness, but it would not come. I feel—I know I can never, never be again the joyous light-hearted girl that I was once; all feels so changed."
"Do not say so, my own love; this it but the language of despondency, now too naturally your own; but permit it not to gain too much ascendency, dearest. Where is my Emmeline's firm, devoted faith in that merciful Father, who for so many years has gilded her lot with such unchecked happiness. Darker clouds are now indeed for a time around you, but His blessing will remove them, love; trust still in Him."
Emmeline's convulsive sobs were somewhat checked; the fond and gentle tones of sympathy had their effect on one to whom affection never pleaded in vain.
"And why have you so carefully concealed the cause of the sufferings that were so clearly visible, my Emmeline?" continued her mother, tenderly. "Could that fear which you once avowed in a letter to Mary, have mingled in your affection for me? Could fear, indeed, have kept you silent? Can your too vivid fancy have bid you imagine I should reproach you, or refuse my sympathy in this sad trial? Your perseverance in active employments, your strivings for cheerfulness, all must, indeed, confirm your assertion, that you have not encouraged weakening emotions. I believe you, my own, and I believe, too, my Emmeline did not give young Myrvin encouragement. Look up, love, and tell me that you do not fear your mother—that you do not deem her harsh."
"Harsh? oh, no, no!" murmured the poor girl, still clinging to her neck, as if she feared something would part them. "It is I who am capricious, fanciful, miserable: oh, do not heed my incoherent words. Mother, dearest mother, oh, let me but feel that you still love me, and I will teach my heart to be satisfied with that."
"But if indeed I am not harsh, tell me all, my Emmeline—tell me when you were first aware you loved Arthur Myrvin; all that has passed between you. I promise you I will not add to your suffering on his account by reproaches. Confide in the affection of your mother, and this trial will not be so hard to bear."