"The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one,
He lies where pearls lie deep;
He was the loved of all, yet none
O'er his low bed may weep."
Mr. Hamilton unobserved had entered the room, and now stood with folded arms and mournful glance, alternately regarding his wife and niece. Mr. Maitland had that morning told him there was not now the slightest danger remaining, and he rather advised that Mrs. Hamilton should be informed of what had passed, lest the painful intelligence should come upon her when quite unprepared. He had striven for composure, and he now entered expressly to execute this painful task; he had marked the suffering imprinted on his niece's face, and he could continue the deception no longer. On the conclusion of her song, Ellen reseated herself on the stool she had occupied at her aunt's feet, her heart too full to speak.
"Why are you so silent, my dear husband?" Mrs. Hamilton said, addressing him, and who almost started at her address. "May I know the subject of such very deep thought?"
"Ellen, partly," he replied, and he spoke the truth. "I was thinking how pale and thin she looks, and how much she has lately had to distress and cause her anxiety."
"She has, indeed, and therefore the sooner we can leave Oakwood for a few months, as we intended, the better. I have been a long and troublesome patient, my Ellen, and all your efforts to restore me to perfect health will he quite ineffectual unless I see the colour return to your cheek, and your step resume its elasticity."
"Do not fear for me, my beloved aunt; indeed I am quite well," answered
Ellen, not daring to look up, lest her tears should be discovered.
"You are right, my Emmeline," suddenly exclaimed Mr. Hamilton, rousing himself with a strong effort, and advancing to the couch where his wife sat, he threw his arms around her. "You do not yet know all that our Ellen has in secret borne for your sake. You do not yet know the deep affliction which is the real cause of that alteration in her health, which only now you are beginning to discover. Oh, my beloved wife, I have feared to tell you, but now that strength is returning, I may hesitate no longer; for her sake you will bear these cruel tidings even as she has done. Will you not comfort her? Will you—" The sudden opening of the door arrested the words upon his lips. Touched by indefinable alarm, Mrs. Hamilton's hand grasped his without the power of speech. Ellen had risen, for she felt she could not hear those sad words again spoken.
It was James the footman who entered, and he placed a letter in her hand. She looked at the direction, a faint cry broke from her lips; she tore it open, gazed on the signature, and sunk senseless on the floor. She who had borne suffering so well, who had successfully struggled to conceal every trace of emotion, when affliction was her allotted portion, was now too weak to bear the sudden transition from such bitter grief to overwhelming joy. Mr. Hamilton sprung forward; he could not arrest her fall, but his eye had caught the well-known writing of him he had believed lay buried in the ocean, and conquering her own extreme agitation, Mrs. Hamilton compelled herself to think of nothing but restoring the still senseless girl to life. A few, very few words told her all. At first Mr. Hamilton's words had been almost inarticulate from the thankfulness that filled his heart. It was long ere Ellen awoke to consciousness. Her slight frame was utterly exhausted by its continued conflict with the mind within, and now that joy had come, that there was no more need for control or sorrow, her extraordinary energy of character for the moment fled, and left her in very truth the weak and loving woman. Before she could restore life to Ellen's inanimate form, Mrs. Hamilton had time to hear that simple tale of silent suffering, to feel her bosom glow in increasing love and gratitude towards the gentle being who for her sake had endured so much.
"Was it but a dream, or did I not read that Edward lived, was spared,—that he was not drowned? Oh, tell me, my brain seems still to swim. Did they not give me a letter signed by him himself? Oh, was it only fancy?"
"It is truth, my beloved; the Almighty mercifully stretched forth His arm and saved him. Should we not give Him thanks, my child?"