A LETTER, AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.
It was the seventh of June, and one of those glorious mornings, when
Nature looks lovelier than ever. The windows of the breakfast-room were
thrown widely open, and never did the superb trees of Oakwood Park look
richer or display a greater variety of green. The flower-garden, on part
of which the breakfast-room opened, was actually dazzling with its
profusion of brilliant flowers, on which the sun looked down so
gloriously; a smooth lawn whose green was a perfect emerald, stretched
down from the parterre, till it was lost in woody openings, which
disclosed the winding river, that, lying as a lake on one side, appeared
to sweep round some exquisite scenery on the opposite side, and form
another lake, about a mile further. It was Emmeline's favorite view, and
she always declared, that it so varied its aspects of loveliness, she
was sure it never looked two mornings exactly alike, and so long would
she stand and admire, that her mother often threatened to send her her
breakfast in her own room, where the view, though picturesque, would not
so completely turn her attention from the dull realities of life. There
were some letters on the table this morning, so she had a longer time to
drink in poetry than usual.
"Who can offer Ellen a more precious birthday-gift than mine?" exclaimed
Mrs. Hamilton, playfully holding up a letter, as her niece entered. "I
wonder if Edward remembered how near his sister was to fifteen, and so
wrote on the chance of your receiving it on the day itself!"
"Why, Ellen, what a queer effect pleasure has on you! I always notice
you turn quite pale whenever Edward's letters are given to you,"
interposed Emmeline, looking at her cousin, and laughing. "I am sure,
the very hurry I am in to open Percy's and Herbert's, must give me a
color, and you are as deliberate as if you did not care about it. I do
wish you would not be so cold and quiet."
"One giddy brain is quite enough in a house," rejoined her father, in
the same mirthful tone, and looking up from his letter he called Ellen
to him, and kissed her. "I forgot the day of the month, my little girl,
but I am not too late, I hope, to say, God bless you, and wish that
every year may pass more happily, more usefully, and more prepared for
eternity than the last!"
"I do not think you have forgotten it, my dear uncle," replied Ellen,
gratefully (she had not yet opened her brother's letter); "for my aunt
says, I am to thank you as well as her for this beautiful birthday
gift," and she displayed an elegant little gold watch; "indeed, I do not
know how to thank you for all your kindness!" she added, so earnestly
that tears came to her eyes.
"I will say, as I have heard your aunt often say--by trying to be a
little more lively, and unreserved, my dear Ellen; that would prove our
kindness and affection made you happy, better than any thing; but I am
not going to lecture you on your birthday, and with a letter from Edward
in your hand," he continued, smiling. "Open it, my dear, I want to know
its date; I rather think my friend Manly's must be written later."
"Nothing in it for me, Ellen?" asked her aunt. "What a lazy boy he has
grown!"
"An inclosure for you, Ellen; why, that is as queer as your paleness!"
said Emmeline.
"Do let your cousin's paleness alone," interposed Mrs. Hamilton, gayly.
"I really can not perceive she has any less color than usual, and as for
the inclosure, Edward often has something to add at the last moment, and
no room to insert it, and so there is nothing remarkable in his using
another half sheet."
"Emmeline always creates wonders out of shadows," said Caroline, dryly.
"And you never see any thing but dull, coarse, heavy realities," laughed
her sister in reply. "Come, Ellen, tell us something of this idle
brother of yours, who promised to write to me every packet, and never
does."
Ellen read nearly the whole letter aloud, and it was unusually
entertaining, for the ship had been cruising about the last month and
Edward described the various scenes and new places he had visited more
lengthily than usual. He anticipated with great glee an engagement with
some desperate pirates, whose track they were pursuing.
"Does he mention an engagement?" inquired Mr. Hamilton.
"No, uncle; he concludes quite abruptly, saying they have just piped
all hands, and he must be off. The direction does not seem his writing."
"Nor is it; Sir Edward sealed, directed, and put it up for him in his
own to me. They had piped all hands, as he calls it, because the pirate
ship was in sight, and an engagement did take place."
"And Edward--oh, uncle, is he hurt? I am sure, he is, by your face,"
exclaimed Ellen; trembling and all the little circle looked alarmed.
"Then my face is a deceiver," replied Mr. Hamilton, quite cheerfully.
"He only received a slight flesh wound in his right arm, which prevented
his using it to complete his letter, and I rather think, he would have
willingly been hurt still more, to receive such praises as Sir Edward
lavishes on him. Listen to what he says--'Not a boy or man on board
distinguished himself more than your nephew: in fact, I am only
astonished he escaped as he did, for those pirates are desperate
fighters, and when we boarded them, Fortescue was in the midst of them,
fighting like a young lion. Courage and gallantry are such dazzling
qualities in a young lad, that we think more of them perhaps than we
ought, but I can not say too much for your nephew; I have not a lad more
devoted to his duty. I was glad to show him my approbation by giving him
some days' liberty, when we were off New York; but I have since told
him, the air of land certainly did not agree with him, for he has looked
paler and thinner ever since. He is growing very fast; and altogether,
if I have occasion to send another prize schooner home, I think it not
improbable I shall nominate him as one of the officers, that he may have
the benefit of the healthful breezes of Old England, to bring back his
full strength.' There Ellen, I think that is a still better
birthday-present than even Edward's own letter. I am as proud of my
nephew as Sir Edward is."
"And do you think he really will come?" asked Ellen, trying to conquer
her emotion.
"We will hope it, dearest," replied her aunt, kindly. "But do not think
too much about it, even if Sir Edward be not able to do as he says. His
own ship will be coming home in a year or two, and you owned to me
yourself this morning, it did not seem as long as it really is, since
our dear sailor left us; so the remaining time will soon pass. Finish
your breakfast, and go, love, and enjoy his letter again to yourself."
And Ellen gladly obeyed; for it was from no imaginary cause that the
receipt of Edward's letters so often paled her cheek, and parched her
lip with terror. She knew that concerning him which none else but
Harding did; and even when those letters imparted nothing but that which
she could read to her family, the dread was quite enough to banish any
thing like the elastic happiness, natural to her age, and called for by
the kindness of those she loved. His letter this time, however, had not
a word to call for that sickness of the heart, with which she had
received it, and she read it again and again; with a thankfulness, too
intense for words.
"You dropped this, Ellen dear," said the voice of her cousin Emmeline at
her door, ten minutes after she left the breakfast-room. "It was under
the table, and I do not think you have read it; it is the inclosure I
was so amused at."
"I dare say it is a letter written for some other opportunity, and
forgotten to be sent; it is only a few words," replied Ellen as she
looked at its length, not at its meaning, for the fearful lesson of
quiet unconcern when the heart is bursting had been too early learned.
"Then I will leave you in peace: by-the-by, cousin mine, papa told me to
tell you, that as the Prince William is soon going to cruise again, your
answer to Edward must be ready this day week, the latest, and mamma
says, if you like to write part of it now that all Edward's little
love-speeches are fresh in your mind, you can do so; it is your
birthday, and you may spend it as you like. How I shall enjoy making a
lion of my cousin, when he comes!"--and away tripped the happy girl,
singing some wild snatch of an old ballad about sailors.
Ellen shut the door, secured it, and with a lip and cheek colorless as
her robe, an eye strained and bloodshot, read the following words--few
indeed!
"Ellen! I am again in that villain's power, and for a sum so trifling,
that it maddens me to think I can not discharge it without again
appealing to you. I had resolved never to play again--and again some
demon lured me to those Hells! If I do not pay him by my next receipts
from home, he will expose me, and what then--disgrace, expulsion,
_death_! for I will not survive it; there are easy means of
self-destruction to a sailor, and who shall know but that he is
accidentally drowned? You promised me to save part of every allowance,
in case I needed it. If you would indeed save me, send me
five-and-thirty pounds! Ellen! by some means, I _must_ have it; but
breathe it to my uncle or aunt--for if _she_ knows it, _he_ will--and
you will never see me more!"
For one long hour Ellen never moved. Her brain felt scorched, her limbs
utterly powerless. Every word seemed to write itself in letters of fire
on her heart and brain, till she could almost have screamed, from the
dread agony; and then came the heavy weight, so often felt before, but
never crushing every thought and energy as now, the seeming utter
impossibility to comply with that fearfully urged demand. _He_ called it
a sum so trifling, and _she_ felt a hundred, ay, a thousand pounds were
not more difficult to obtain. She had saved, indeed, denying herself
every little indulgence, every personal gratification, spending only
what she was obliged, and yet compelled to let her aunt believe she had
properly expended all, that she might have the means of sending him
money when he demanded it, without exposing herself to doubt and
displeasure as before; but in the eight months since his last call, she
had only been enabled to put by fifteen pounds, not half the sum he
needed. How was she to get the rest? and she had so buoyed herself with
the fond hope, that even if he did write for help again, she could send
it to him so easily--and now--her mind seemed actually to reel beneath
the intense agony of these desperate words. She was too young, too
believing, and too terror-stricken to doubt for a moment the alternative
he placed before her, with a vividness, a desperation, of which he was
unconscious himself. Those words spoken, would have been terrible,
almost awful in one so young--though a brief interval would have
sufficiently calmed both the hearer and the speaker, to satisfy that
they were _but words_, and that self-destruction is never breathed, if
really intended: but _written_, the writer at a distance, imagination at
liberty, to heighten every terror, every reality; their reader a young
loving girl, utterly ignorant of the world's ways and temptations, and
the many errors to which youth is subject, but from which manhood may
spring up unsullied; and so believing, almost crushed by the belief,
that her brother, the only one, her own--respected, beloved, as he was
said to be--had yet committed such faults, as would hurl him from his
present position to the lowest depth of degradation, for what else could
tempt him, to swear not to survive it? Was it marvel, that poor Ellen
was only conscious that she must save him?--Again did her dying mother
stand before her--again did her well-remembered voice beseech her to
save him her darling, beautiful Edward, from disgrace and
punishment--reiterate that her word was pledged, and she _must_ do it,
and if she suffered--had she not done so from infancy--and what was her
happiness to his? Define why it should be of less moment, indeed, she
could not. It was the fatal influences of her childhood working alone.
How that day passed, Ellen never knew. She had been too long accustomed
to control, to betray her internal suffering (terror for Edward seemed
to endow her with additional self command), except by a deadly paleness,
which even her aunt at length remarked. It was quite evening, and the
party were all scattered, when Mrs. Hamilton discovered Ellen sitting in
one of the deep recesses of the windows: her work in her lap, her hands
clasped tightly together, and her eyes fixed on the beautiful scenery of
the park, but not seeing a single object.
"My dear Ellen, I am going to scold you, so prepare," was her aunt's
lively address, as she approached and stood by her. "You need not start
so guiltily and look so very terrified, but confess that you are
thinking about Edward, and worrying yourself that he is not quite so
strong as he was, and magnifying his wound, till you fancy it something
very dreadful, when, I dare say, if the truth were told, he himself is
quite proud of it; come confess, and I will only give you a very little
lecture, for your excessive silliness."
Ellen looked up in her face; that kind voice, that affectionate smile,
that caressing, constantly-forgiving love, would they again all be
forfeited, again give way to coldness, loss of confidence, heightened
displeasure? How indeed she was to act, she knew not; she only knew
there must be concealment, the very anticipation of which, seemed too
terrible to bear, and she burst into an agony of tears.
"Why, Ellen--my dear child--you can not be well, to let either the
accounts of your brother, or my threatened scolding, so affect you, and
on your birthday, too! Why, all the old women would say it was such a
bad omen, that you would be unhappy all the year round. Come, this will
never do, I must lecture, in earnest, if you do not try to conquer this
unusual weakness. We have much more to be thankful for, in Sir Edward's
account of our dear sailor, than to cry about; he might have been
seriously wounded or maimed, and what would you have felt then? I wonder
if he will find as much change in you as we shall in him. If you are not
quite strong and quite well, and quite happy to greet him when he comes,
I shall consider my care insulted, and punish you accordingly. Still no
smile. What is the matter, dearest? Are you really not well again?"
Ellen made a desperate effort, conquered her tears, and tried to
converse cheerfully. It was absolute agony to hear Edward's name, but
she nerved herself to do so, to acknowledge she was thinking of him; and
that it _was_ very silly to worry about such a slight wound: and when
Mrs. Hamilton proposed that they should walk over to Greville Manor, and
tell the good news to Mrs. Greville and Mary, acquiesced with apparent
pleasure.
"Ah, do, mamma: you have not asked me, but I shall go notwithstanding,"
exclaimed Emmeline, springing through the open window, with her usual
airy step.
"Why, Emmeline, I thought you were going to the village with your
sister!"
"No; she and Miss Harcourt were talking much too soberly to suit me this
evening. Then I went to tease papa but he let me do just what I pleased,
being too engrossed with some disagreeable farmers, to notice me, so in
despair I came here. Why, Ellen, you look as if this were any day but
what it is; unless you cry because you are getting old, which I am very
often inclined to do; only think, I am sixteen next December--how
dreadful! I do wish my birthday were in June."
"And what difference would that make?"
"A great deal, mamma; only look how lovely every thing is now; nature is
quite juvenile, and has dressed herself in so many colors, and seems to
promise so many more beauties, that, whether we will or no, we must feel
gay and young; but in December, though it is very delightful in the
house, it is so drear and withered, without, that if born in such a
season, one must feel withered too."
"When do you intend to speak in prose, Emmeline?"
"Never, if I can help it mamma; but I must learn the lesson before I go
to London, I suppose; that horrid London! that is one reason why I
regret the years going so fast; I know I shall leave all my happiness
here."
"You will be more ungrateful, than I believe you, if you do," replied
her mother. "So pray banish such foolish fancies as fast as you can; for
if you encourage them, I shall certainly suppose that it is only Oakwood
you love; and that neither your father nor myself, nor any member of
your family, has any part in your affections, for we shall be with you,
wherever you are."
"Dear mamma, I spoke at random, forgive me," replied Emmeline, instantly
self-reproached. "I am indeed the giddy brain papa calls me; but you can
not tell how I love this dear old home."
"Indeed I think I can, my dear child, loving it as I do myself; but
come, we shall have no time for our visit, if we do not go at once."
Days passed, and were each followed by such sleepless feverish nights,
that Ellen felt it almost a miracle, that she could so seem, so act, as
to excite no notice. The image of her dying mother never left her, night
or day, mingled with the horrid scene of her father's death, and Edward
disgraced, expelled, and seeking death by his own hand. There was only
one plan that seemed in the least feasible, and that was to send to him,
or sell herself the watch she had received on her birthday, and if that
was not enough, some few trinkets, which had been her mother's, and
which the last six months her aunt had given into her own care. She
ventured casually to inquire if there were any opportunity of sending a
parcel to Edward, but the answer was in the negative, and increased her
difficulty. The only person she dared even to think of so far intrusting
with her deep distress and anxiety for money, but not its cause, was
widow Langford, the mother of Robert (the young gentlemen's attendant,
whom we have had occasion more than once to mention, and the former
nurse of all Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton's children). She occupied a cottage
on the outskirts of the park, and was not only a favorite with all the
young party, Ellen included (for she generally came to nurse her in her
many illnesses), but was regarded with the greatest confidence and
affection by Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton themselves. They had endeavored to
return her unwavering fidelity and active service, by taking her only
child Robert into their family, when only seven; placing him under the
immediate charge of Morris, the steward, and of course living in the
same house, of his mother also; and when fifteen, making him personal
attendant to Percy and Herbert, who were then about ten and eleven years
old. An older and more experienced domestic had, however, accompanied
the young men to college, and Robert remained employed in many little
confidential services for his master at Oakwood.
To widow Langford, Ellen tried to resolve that she would apply, but her
fearful state of mental agony had not marked the lapse of time, or had
caused her to forget that her letter must be ready in a week. The party
were all going a delightful excursion, and to drink tea at Greville
Manor, so that they would not be home till quite late; but in the
morning, Ellen, though she had dressed for going out, appeared to have
every symptom of such a violent headache, that her aunt advised her
remaining quietly at home, and she assented with eagerness, refusing
every offer of companionship, saying if the pain went off, she could
quite amuse herself, and if it continued, quietness and Ellis's nursing
were the best things for her.
"But give me your letter before we go out, Ellen, I am only waiting for
it, to close mine to Sir Edward. Why, my dear, have you forgotten I told
you it must be ready by to-day?" her uncle added, surprised at her
exclamation that she had not finished it. "It must be done and sent to
T--, before four to-day, so I do hope your head will allow you to write,
for Edward will be woefully disappointed if there be not a line from
you, especially as, from his ship cruising about, it may be several
weeks before he can hear again. I must leave my letter with you, to
inclose Edward's and seal up, and pray see that it goes in time."
Ellen tried to promise that it should, but her tongue actually clove to
the roof of her mouth; but all the party dispersing at the moment, her
silence was unnoticed. Mr. Hamilton gave her his letter, and in half an
hour afterward she was alone. She sat for nearly an hour in her own
room, with her desk before her, her face buried in her hands, and her
whole frame shaking as with an ague.
"It must be," she said at length, and unlocking a drawer, took thence a
small cross, and one or two other trinkets, put them up, and taking off
her watch, looked at it with such an expression of suffering, that it
seemed as if she could not go on, carefully folded it up with the other
trinkets, and murmuring, "If nurse Langford will but take these, and
lend me the twenty pounds till she can dispose of them, I may save him
yet--and if she betray me--if she tell my aunt afterward, at least only
I shall suffer; they will not suspect him. But oh--to lose--to be
doubted, hated, which I must be at last. Oh, mother! mother! Why may I
not tell my aunt? she would not disgrace him." And again she crouched
down, cowed by that fearful struggle to the very earth. After a few
minutes, it passed, and deliberately putting on her bonnet and shawl,
she took up her trinkets, and set off to the widow's cottage, her limbs
so trembling, that she knew not how she should accomplish even that
short walk.
The wind was unusually high, although the day was otherwise lovely, and
she was scarcely able to stand against the strong breeze, especially as
every breath seemed to increase the pain in her temples; but she
persisted. The nearest path lay through a thick shrubbery, almost a
wood, which the family never used, and, in fact, the younger members
were prohibited from taking, but secrecy and haste were all which at
that moment entered Ellen's mind. She felt so exhausted by the wind
blowing the branches and leaves noisily and confusedly around, that on
reaching a sort of grassy glade, more open than her previous path, she
sat down a minute on a mossy stone. The wind blew some withered sticks
and leaves toward her, and, among them, two or three soiled pieces of
thin paper, stained with damp, one of which she raised mechanically, and
started up with a wild cry, and seized the others almost unconsciously.
She pressed her hands over her eyes, and her lips moved in the utterance
of thanksgiving. "Saved!--Edward and myself, too!--some guardian angel
must have sent them!" if not actually spoken, were so distinctly uttered
in her heart, that she thought she heard them; and she retraced her
steps, so swiftly--so gladly, the very pain and exhaustion were unfelt.
She wrote for half an hour intently--eagerly; though that which she
wrote she knew not herself, and never could recall. She took from the
secret drawer of her desk (that secret drawer which, when Percy had so
laughingly showed her the secret of its spring, telling her nobody but
himself knew it, she little thought she should have occasion so to use),
some bank notes, of two, three, and five pounds each, making the fifteen
she had so carefully hoarded, and placed with them the two she had
found. As she did so, she discovered that two had clung so closely
together that the sum was five pounds more than she wanted. Still, as
acting under the influence of some spell, she carelessly put one aside,
sealed up the packet to Edward, inclosed it in her uncle's to Sir Edward
Manly, and dispatched it full four hours before the hour Mr. Hamilton
had named. It was gone; and she sat down to breathe. Some impulse, never
experienced before, urged her, instead of destroying Edward's desperate
letter, as she had done similar appeals, to retain it in a blank envelop
in that same secret drawer. As she tried to rouse herself from a sort
of stupor which was strangely creeping over her, her eye caught the five
pound note which she had not had occasion to use, and a thought of such
overwhelming wretchedness rushed upon her, as effectually, for the
moment, to disperse that stupor, and prostrate her in an agony of
supplication before her God.
"What have I done?"--if her almost maddening thoughts could have found
words, such they would have been--"How dared I appropriate that money,
without one question--one thought--as to whom it could belong? Sent me?
No, no! Who could have sent it? Great God of Mercy! Oh, if Thy wrath
must fall on a guilty one, pour it on me, but spare, spare my brother! I
have sinned, but I meant it not--thought not of it--knew not what I did!
Thou knowest, Thou alone canst know, the only thought of that
moment--the agony of this. No suffering, no wrath, can be too great for
me; but, oh! spare him!"
How long that withering agony lasted, Ellen knew not, nor whether her
tears fell, or lay scorching her eyes and heart. The note lay before her
like some hideous specter, from which she vainly tried to turn. What
could she do with it? Take it back to the spot where the others had been
blown to her? She tried to rise to do so; but, to her own terror, she
found she was so powerless, that she actually could not walk. With
desperate calmness she placed it in the little secret drawer, put up the
remainder of her papers, closed and locked her desk, and laid down upon
her bed, for she could sit up no longer. Ellis came to her with an
inquiry after her head, and if she could take her dinner. Ellen asked
for a cup of coffee, and to be left quite quiet instead, as writing had
not decreased the pain; and the housekeeper, accustomed to such casual
attacks, did as she was requested, and came frequently to see her in the
course of the afternoon and evening; still without perceiving any thing
unusual, and, therefore, not tormenting her with any expression of
surprise or anxiety.
Thought after thought congregated in the poor girl's mind, as she thus
lay; so fraught with agony that the physical suffering, which was far
more than usual, was unfelt, save in its paralyzing effect on every
limb. Her impulse was to confess exactly what she had done to her aunt,
the moment she should see her, and conjure her to sentence her to some
heavy chastisement, that must deaden her present agony; but this was
impossible without betraying Edward, and nullifying for him the relief
she had sent. How could she confess the sin, without the full confession
of the use to which that money had been applied? Whose were the notes?
They were stained with damp, as if they must have lain among those
withered leaves some time; and yet she had heard no inquiry made about
them, as the loss of so large a sum would surely have demanded. The only
plan she could think of, as bringing the least hope of returning peace,
was still to beseech Mrs. Langford to dispose of her watch and trinkets,
and the very first mention she heard made of the loss to return the full
sum to the real possessor, if possible, so secretly as for it not to be
traced to herself. She thought, too, that if she gave her trinkets, one
by one, not all together, to Mrs. Langford, it would be less suspicious,
and, perhaps, more easily prevail on her to grant her secrecy and
assistance; and if she positively refused, unless Ellen revealed the
reason of her desiring their disposal, and would solemnly promise
secrecy, she would tell her so much of her intense misery, as might
perhaps induce her to give her aid. If she did not demand the reason and
betrayed her, she must endure the doubt and serious displeasure such a
course of acting on her part would inevitably produce; but two things
alone stood clear before her: she _must_ replace that money--she _must_
keep Edward's secret. She would have gone that very day to Mrs.
Langford, but she could not move, and Ellis, at seven o'clock, prevailed
on her to undress and go to bed.
"Not better, my Ellen? I hoped to-day's perfect quietness would have
removed your headache, and am quite disappointed," was Mrs. Hamilton's
affectionate address, as she softly entered her niece's room, on the
return of the happy party at eleven at night, and placing the lamp so
that the bed remained in shade she could not see any expression in
Ellen's face, except that of suffering, which she naturally attributed
to physical pain. "How hot your hands and face are, love; I wish you had
not left Edward's letter to write to-day. I am afraid we shall be
obliged to see Mr. Maitland's face again to-morrow; if he were not as
kind a friend as he is a skillful doctor, I am sure you would get quite
tired of him, Ellen. Shall I stay with you? I can not bear leaving you
in pain and alone!" But Ellen would not hear of it; the pain was not
more than she was often accustomed to, she said, and, indeed, she did
not mind being alone--though the unusual, almost passionate, warmth with
which she returned Mrs. Hamilton's fond kiss betrayed it was no
indifference to the affectionate offer which dictated her refusal. It
was well Mrs. Hamilton, though anxious enough to feel the inclination to
do so, did not visit her niece again, or the convulsive agony she would
have witnessed, the choking sobs which burst forth, a few minutes after
she disappeared from Ellen's sight, would have bewildered and terrified
her yet more.