"I know it, I feel it," murmured Emmeline, still clinging to her cousin, as if she found comfort in her presence and her words. "I know well that this trial in itself is as nothing compared with those endured at this very hour by thousands of my fellow-creatures, and knowing this makes me the more wretched, for if I am thus repining and miserable, how dare I hope my prayers will be heard?"
"Yet doubt it not, my own Emmeline; our Father in heaven judgeth not as man judgeth. Man might condemn this appearance of weakness in you now, but God will not, for he knows the individual strength of His creatures, and in love and mercy chasteneth accordingly. He knoweth this is a severe trial for one, young and gentle as you are; and with your heart lifted up to Him, as I know it is, doubt not that your prayers will be heard and this pang softened in His own time. I fear my words sound cold; but oh, would that I could comfort you, dearest," and tears stood trembling in Ellen's eyes.
"And you do comfort me, Ellen; oh, I do not feel so very wretched with you near me as I do alone, though even you cannot guess this extent of suffering; you know not what it is to love, and yet to feel there is no hope; no—none," she repeated, in a low murmuring tone, as if to convince herself that there was indeed none, as she had said; and it was not strange that thus engrossed, she marked not that a slight shudder passed through her cousin's frame at her last words; that Ellen's cheek suddenly vied in its deadly paleness with her own; that the tears dried up, as if frozen in those large, dark eyes, which were fixed upon her with an expression she would, had she seen it, have found difficult to understand; that the pale lip quivered for a few minutes, so as entirely to prevent her speaking as she had intended.
"Go to bed, dearest Emmeline, indeed you must not sit up longer," Ellen said at length, as she folded her arms fondly round her and kissed her cheek. "When I was ill, you ever wished to dictate to me," she continued, playfully, "and I was always good and obedient; will you not act up to your own principle and obey me now? think of your mother, dearest, how anxious she will be if you are ill. I will not leave you till you are asleep."
"No, no, dear Ellen, I will not so abuse your kindness; I will go to bed. I have been wrong to sit up thus, when I promised mamma to do all I could to—but, indeed, you must not stay with me, Ellen. I feel so exhausted, I may perhaps sleep sooner than I expect; but even if I do not, you must not sit up."
"Never mind, my love, let me see you obedient, and I will perhaps learn the same lesson," replied Ellen, playfully, though her cheek retained its suddenly-acquired paleness. Emmeline no longer resisted, and Ellen quickly had the relief of seeing her in bed, and her eyes closed, as if in the hope of obtaining sleep; but after a few minutes they again opened, and seeing Ellen watching her, she said—
"You had better leave me, Ellen, I shall not be able to sleep if I think you are watching me, and losing your own night's rest. I am not ill, my dear cousin, I am only miserable, and that will pass away perhaps for a short time again, as it did this afternoon."
Ellen again kissed her and closed the curtains, obeying her so far as to retire to her room, but not to bed; she was much too uneasy to do so. Emmeline had been in very delicate health for some months, and it appeared to her observant eyes and mind, that now the cause for her exertion was removed, by the discovery of her long-treasured secret, that health had really given way, and she was actually ill in body as well as mind. The burning heat of her forehead and hand, the quick pulsation of her temples, had alarmed her as predicting fever; and Ellen, with that quiet resolution and prompt decision, which now appeared to form such prominent traits in her character, determined on returning to her cousin's room as soon as she thought she had fallen asleep, and remain there during the night; that if she were restless, uneasy, or wakeful, she might, by her presence, be some comfort, and if these feverish symptoms continued, be in readiness to send for Mr. Maitland at the first dawn of morning, without alarming her aunt.
"You are not formed for sorrow, my poor Emmeline," she said internally, as she prepared herself for her night's visit by assuming warmer clothing. "Oh, that your grief may speedily pass away; I cannot bear to see one so formed for joy as you are grieved. My own sorrows I can bear without shrinking, without disclosing by one sign what I am internally suffering. I have been nerved from my earliest years to trial, and it would be strange indeed did I not seem as you believe me. I know not what it is to love. I know not the pang of that utter hopelessness which bows my poor cousin to the earth. Ah, Emmeline, you know not such hopelessness as mine, gloomy as are your prospects; you can claim the sympathy, the affection, the consolation, of all those who are dear to you; there is no need to hide your love, ill-fated as it is, for it is returned—you are beloved; and I, my heart must bleed in secret, for no such mitigation attends its loss of peace. I dare not seek for sympathy, or say I love; but why—why am I encouraging these thoughts?" and she started as if some one could have heard her scarcely-audible soliloquy. "It is woman's lot to suffer—man's is to act, woman's to bear; and such must be mine, and in silence, for even the sympathy of my dearest relative I dare not ask. Oh, wherefore do I feel it shame to love one so good, so superior, so holy? because, because he does not love me, save with a brother's love; and I know he loves another."
The slight frame of the orphan shook beneath that inward struggle; there were times, in her hours of solitude, when such thoughts would come, spite of every effort to expel them, and there was only one way to obtain that self-control she so much needed, so continually exercised, till it became a second nature. She became aware her feelings had obtained undue ascendency, and, sinking on her knees, remained absorbed in prayer, fervent and heartfelt, truly the outpourings of a contrite and trusting spirit, confident in the power and mercy to which she appealed. That anguish passed ere she arose, and every sign of agitation had left her countenance and voice as she put her resolution into action, and returned to her cousin.