THE CULPRIT AND THE JUDGE.
It was nearly seven when the young party returned, delighted as usual
with their afternoon's amusement; and Percy, shouting loudly for his
mother, giving vent to an exclamation of impatience at finding she was
still invisible.
"I shall wish Morris and all his concerns at the bottom of the Dart, if
he is so to engross my mother when I want her," he said, as he flung
himself full length on a couch in the music-room, desiring Emmeline to
make haste and disrobe, as he must have an air on the harp to soothe his
troubled spirit.
Herbert, to look for a poem, the beauty of which he had been discussing
with Miss Harcourt during their sail, entered the library, but
perceiving his mother, would have retreated, thinking her still engaged;
but she looked up as the door opened, and perceiving him, smiled, and
asked him if they had had a pleasant afternoon. He looked at her
earnestly, without making any reply; then approaching her, took one of
her hands in his, and said, fondly--
"Forgive me, dearest mother; I ought not, perhaps, to ask, but I am sure
something is wrong. You are ill--anxious--may I not share it? Can I do
nothing?"
"Nothing, my Herbert; bless you for your watchful love--it is such
comfort." And the long pressure of the hand which so warmly clasped
hers, the involuntary tenderness with which these few words were said,
betrayed how much she needed such comfort at that moment, but she
rallied instantly. "Do not look so anxious, dear boy, I am not ill--not
quite happy, perhaps, but we know where to look for strength to bear
trial, Herbert. Wait tea for me till eight o'clock; it is probable I may
be engaged till then;" and, satisfied that she did not wish to be more
explicit, Herbert took his book, and somewhat sorrowfully left her.
Ten minutes more, and the massive door unclosed again, but no step
advanced, for the intruder remained rooted where the door had closed. It
was a very large and lofty room, with an arched and Gothic roof, of
black and fretted oak, the walls and chimney-piece of the same material
and most elaborate workmanship. A sort of dais, remnant of olden times,
divided the upper part of the room, by two or three steps, from the
lower. On this dais was the raised reading-desk of superbly carved oak,
at which Mr. Hamilton officiated morning and evening, and two library
tables of more modern workmanship stood on each side, but rather lower
down. Except the massive oaken chairs and couches, and three or four
curious tables scattered about, and the well-filled book-cases, forming,
to the height of five feet, the border, as it were, of the fretted
wood-work of the walls, and filling up the niches formed by the windows;
the lower part of the hall, two-thirds of the length, was comparatively
unoccupied, showing its vast space and superb roof to still greater
advantage. The magnificently stained windows, one on the dais--a deep
oriel--threw such subdued light into the room, as accorded well with its
other appointments; but as evening advanced, gave it that sort of soft,
holy light, which always impresses the spirit with a species of awe.
We do not think it was that feeling alone which so overpowered the
second intruder, as to arrest her spell-bound on the threshold. Mrs.
Hamilton was seated at one of the tables on the dais nearest the oriel
window, the light from which fell full on her, giving her figure, though
she was seated naturally enough in one of the large, maroon velvet,
oaken chairs, an unusual effect of dignity and command, and impressing
the terrified beholder with such a sensation of awe, that had her life
depended on it, she could not for that one minute have gone forward; and
even when desired to do so by the words--
"I desired your presence, Ellen, because I wished to speak to you; come
here without any more delay,"--how she walked the whole length of that
interminable room, and stood facing her aunt, she never knew.
Mrs. Hamilton for a full minute did not speak, but she fixed that
searching look, to which we have once before alluded, upon Ellen's face;
and then said, in a tone which, though very low and calm, expressed as
much as that earnest look--
"Ellen! is it necessary for me to tell you why you are here--necessary
to produce the proof that my words are right, and that you _have_ been
influenced by the fearful effects of some unconfessed and most heinous
sin? Little did I dream its nature."
For a moment Ellen stood as turned to stone, as white and rigid--the
next she had sunk down, with a wild, bitter cry at Mrs. Hamilton's feet,
and buried her face in her hands.
"Is it true--can it be true--that you, offspring of my own sister, dear
to me, cherished by me as my own child--you have been the guilty one to
appropriate, and conceal the appropriation of money, which has been a
source of distress by its loss, and the suspicion thence proceeding, for
the last seven weeks?--that you could listen to your uncle's words,
absolving his whole household as incapable of a deed which was actual
theft, and yet, by neither word nor sign, betray remorse or
guilt?--could behold the innocent suffering, the fearful misery of
suspicion, loss of character, without the power of clearing himself, and
stand calmly, heedlessly by--only proving by your hardened and
rebellious temper that all was not right within--Ellen, can this be
true?"
"Yes!" was the reply, but with such a fearful effort, that her slight
frame shook as with an ague; "thank God, that it is known! I dared not
bring down the punishment on myself; but I can bear it."
"This is mere mockery, Ellen; how dare I believe even this poor evidence
of repentance, with the recollection of your past conduct? What were the
notes you found?"
Ellen named them.
"Where are they?--This is but one, and the smallest."
Ellen's answer was scarcely audible.
"Used them--and for what?"
There was no answer, neither then, nor when Mrs. Hamilton sternly
reiterated the question. She then demanded--
"How long have they been in your possession?"
"Five or six weeks;" but the reply was so tremulous, it carried no
conviction with it.
"Since Robert told his story to your uncle, or before?"
"Before."
"Then your last answer was a falsehood, Ellen; it is full seven weeks
since my husband addressed the household on the subject. You could not
have so miscounted time, with such a deed to date by. Where did you find
them?"
Ellen described the spot.
"And what business had you there? You know that neither you nor your
cousins are ever allowed to go that way to Mrs. Langford's cottage, and
more especially alone. If you wanted to see her, why did you not go the
usual way? And when was this?--you must remember the exact day. Your
memory is not in general so treacherous."
Again Ellen was silent.
"Have you forgotten it?"
She crouched lower at her aunt's feet, but the answer was audible--
"No."
"Then answer me, Ellen, this moment, and distinctly; for what purpose
were you seeking Mrs. Langford's cottage by that forbidden path, and
when?"
"I wanted money, and I went to ask her to take my trinkets--my watch, if
it must be--and dispose of them as I had read of others doing, as
miserable as I was; and the wind blew the notes to my very hand, and I
used them. I was mad then--I have been mad since, I believe; but I would
have returned the whole amount to Robert, if I could but have parted
with my trinkets in time."
To describe the tone of utter despair, the recklessness as to the effect
her words would produce, is impossible. Every word increased Mrs.
Hamilton's bewilderment and misery. To suppose that Ellen did not feel
was folly. It was the very depth of wretchedness which was crushing her
to the earth, but every answered and unanswered question but deepened
the mystery, and rendered her judge's task more difficult.
"And when was this, Ellen? I will have no more evasion--tell me the
exact day."
But she asked in vain. Ellen remained moveless, and silent as the dead.
After several minutes, Mrs. Hamilton removed her hands from her face,
and compelling her to lift up her head; gazed searchingly on her
deathlike countenance for some moments in utter silence, and then said,
in a tone that Ellen never in her life forgot--
"You can not imagine, Ellen, that this half-confession will either
satisfy me, or in the smallest degree redeem your sin. One and one only
path is open to you; for all that you have said and left unsaid but
deepens your apparent guilt, and so blackens your conduct, that I can
scarcely believe I am addressing the child I so loved--and could still
so love, if but one real sign be given of remorse and penitence--one
hope of returning truth. But that sign, that hope, can only be a full
confession. Terrible as is the guilt of appropriating so large a sum,
granted it came by the merest chance into your hand; dark as is the
additional sin of concealment when an innocent person was
suffering--something still darker, more terrible, must lie concealed
behind it, or you would not, could not, continue thus obdurately silent.
I can believe that under some heavy pressure of misery, some strong
excitement, the sum might have been used without thought, and that fear
might have prevented the confession of any thing so dreadful; but what
was this heavy necessity for money, this strong excitement? What fearful
and mysterious difficulties have you been led into to call for either?
Tell me the truth, Ellen, the whole truth; let me have some hope of
saving you and myself the misery of publicly declaring you the guilty
one, and so proving Robert's innocence. Tell me what difficulty, what
misery so maddened you, as to demand the disposal of your trinkets. If
there be the least excuse, the smallest possibility of your obtaining in
time forgiveness, I will grant it. I will not believe you so utterly
fallen. I will do all I can to remove error, and yet to prevent
suffering; but to win this, I must have a full confession--every
question that I put to you must be clearly and satisfactorily answered,
and so bring back the only comfort to yourself, and hope to me. Will you
do this, Ellen?"
"Oh, that I could!" was the reply in such bitter anguish, Mrs. Hamilton
actually shuddered. "But I can not--must not--dare not. Aunt Emmeline,
hate me, condemn me to the severest, sharpest suffering; I wish for it,
pine for it: you can not loathe me more than I do myself, but do not--do
not speak to me in these kind tones--I can not bear them. It was because
I knew what a wretch I am, that I have so shunned you, I was not worthy
to be with you; oh, sentence me at once! I dare not answer as you
wish."
"Dare not!" repeated Mrs. Hamilton, more and more bewildered, and, to
conceal the emotion Ellen's wild words and agonized manner had produced,
adopting greater sternness. "You dare commit a sin, from which the
lowest of my household would shrink in horror, and yet tell me you dare
not make the only atonement, give me the only proof of real penitence I
demand. This is a weak and wicked subterfuge, Ellen, and will not pass
with me. There can be no reason for this fearful obduracy, not even the
consciousness of greater guilt, for I promise forgiveness, if it be
possible, on the sole condition of a full confession. Once more, will
you speak? Your hardihood will be utterly useless, for you can not hope
to conquer me; and if you permit me to leave you with your conduct still
clothed in this impenetrable mystery, you will compel me to adopt
measures to subdue that defying spirit, which will expose you and myself
to intense suffering, but which must force submission at last."
"You can not inflict more than I have endured the last seven weeks,"
murmured Ellen, almost inarticulately. "I have borne that, I can bear
the rest."
"Then you will not answer? You are resolved not to tell me the day on
which you found that money, the use to which it was applied, the reason
of your choosing that forbidden path, permitting me to believe you
guilty of heavier sins than may be the case in reality. Listen to me,
Ellen; it is more than time this interview should cease, but I will give
you one chance more. It is now half-past seven,"--she took the watch
from her neck, and laid it on the table--"I will remain here one
half-hour longer: by that time this sinful temper may have passed away,
and you will consent to give me the confession I demand. I can not
believe you so altered in two months as to choose obduracy and misery,
when pardon, and in time confidence and love, are offered in their
stead. Get up from that crouching posture, it can be but mock humility,
and so only aggravates your sin."
Ellen rose slowly and painfully, and seating herself at the table, some
distance from her aunt, leaned her arms upon it, and buried her face
within them. Never before, and never after did half an hour appear so
interminable to either Mrs. Hamilton or Ellen. It was well for the
firmness of the former, perhaps, that she could not read the heart of
that young girl, even if the cause of its anguish had been still
concealed. Again and again did the wild longing, turning her actually
faint and sick with its agony, come over her to reveal the whole, to ask
but rest and mercy for herself, pardon and security for Edward; but then
clear as held before her in letters of fire she read every word of her
brother's desperate letter, particularly "Breathe it to my uncle or
aunt, for if she knows it he will, and you will never see me more." Her
mother, pallid as death, seemed to stand before her, freezing confession
on her heart and lips, looking at her threateningly, as she had so often
seen her, as if the very thought were guilt. The rapidly advancing
twilight, the large and lonely room, all added to that fearful illusion,
and if Ellen did succeed in praying, it was with desperate fervor, for
strength not to betray her brother. If ever there were a martyr spirit,
it was enshrined in that young, frail form.
But how could Mrs. Hamilton imagine this? How could her wildest fancy
bring Edward--the brave, happy, eager Edward, of whom captain, officers,
and crew wrote in such terms of praise and admiration, who had never
given cause for anxiety, and who was so far distant--as the uniting link
to this terrible mystery? Was it not more natural that he should not
enter the incongruous and painful thoughts floating through her brain,
save as her last resource, by his influence, to obtain the truth from
Ellen? The more she thought, the more agonizing her thoughts became;
what could induce this determined silence, but a conviction of deeper
guilt, and what could that guilt be? The most terrible suspicions
crossed her mind; she had heard, though she had scarcely believed in
them, of entanglements, even where the guardianship had been most rigid.
Could one so young, seemingly so innocent, have fallen into the power of
some desperate character, who was working on her thus? How could she be
sure she intended to take her trinkets to Mrs. Langford? Her choosing
that forbidden path which was never by any chance trodden by the family
or their friends, her constant desire lately not to join them in their
excursions, preferring, and often finding some excuse to remain
alone--all came to Mrs. Hamilton's mind, with such an overpowering
sensation of dread and misery, that the worst guilt Ellen could have
avowed would scarcely have been worse than anticipation pictured; and
yet every thought was so vague, every fancy so undefined--there was
nothing she could grasp at as a saving hope, or in the remotest degree
excusing cause; such obdurate silence in one so young, generally so
yielding, could and must conceal nothing but still more fearful sin.
The darkness which had gathered round them, save the brightening light
of the harvest moon, suddenly awakened her to the lapse of time. The
moonlight fell full on the face of the watch, which was a repeater. It
wanted but three minutes more, and Mrs. Hamilton watched the progress of
the hand with such sickening dread, that when it reached the hour, she
had scarcely strength to strike it, and so give notice--for words she
had none--that the hour of grace had passed. But she conquered the
powerlessness, and those soft chimes, which, when Ellen first came to
Oakwood, had been such a constant source of childish wonder and delight,
now rang in her ears louder, hoarser, more fearfully distinct, than even
those of the ancient time-piece in the hall, which at the same moment
rang out the hour of eight.
The sound ceased, and with heightened dignity, but in perfect silence,
Mrs. Hamilton rose, passed her niece, and had nearly reached the door,
when she paused, and turned toward Ellen, as if irresolute. Ellen's eyes
had watched her as in fascination, and the pause endowed her with just
sufficient power to spring forward, fling herself at her aunt's feet,
and clasping her knees with all her little remaining strength,
passionately implore--
"Aunt Emmeline, aunt Emmeline, speak to me but one word, only one word
of kindness before you go. I do not ask for mercy, there can be none for
such a wretch as I am; I will bear without one complaint, one murmur,
all you may inflict--you can not be too severe. Nothing can be such
agony as the utter loss of your affection; I thought, the last two
months, that I feared you so much that it was all fear, no love, but
now, now that you know my sin, it has all, all come back to make me
still more wretched." And before Mrs. Hamilton could prevent, or was in
the least aware of her intention, Ellen had obtained possession of one
of her hands, and was covering it with kisses, while her whole frame
shook with those convulsed, but completely tearless sobs.
"Will you confess, Ellen, if I stay? Will you give me the proof that it
_is_ such agony to lose my affection, that you _do_ love me as you
profess, and that it is only one sin which has so changed you? One word,
and, tardy as it is, I will listen, and, if I can, forgive."
Ellen made no answer, and Mrs. Hamilton's newly-raised hopes vanished;
she waited full two or three minutes, then gently disengaged her hand
and dress from Ellen's still convulsive grasp; the door closed, with a
sullen, seemingly unwilling sound, and Ellen was alone. She remained in
the same posture, the same spot, till a vague, cold terror so took
possession of her, that the room seemed filled with ghostly shapes, and
all the articles of furniture suddenly transformed to things of life!
and springing up, with the wild, fleet step of fear, she paused not till
she found herself in her own room, where flinging herself on her bed,
she buried her face on her pillow, to shut out every object--oh, how she
longed to shut out thought!
It was such a different scene, such a fullness of innocent joy, on which
Mrs. Hamilton entered, that though she thought herself nerved to control
all visible emotion, the contrast almost overpowered her; knowing, too,
that the fatal effects of one person's sin must banish that innocent
enjoyment, and would fall on them all as some fearful, joy-destroying
blow. The room, one of the least spacious, was cheerfully lighted, the
urn hissing upon the table, at which Caroline, us usual, was presiding,
only waiting for her mother's appearance, to satisfy Percy, who was
loudly declaring he was famished in two senses--for want of his mother's
company, and of some restorative for his craving appetite. He was
lounging on the sofa, playing with Emmeline's flowing ringlets, as she
sat on a low stool by his side, chatting with him, in as discursive a
strain as his fancy willed. Herbert and Miss Harcourt were still in
earnest discussion on their poem, from which Herbert was occasionally
reading aloud such beautiful passages, and with such richness of
intonation, and variety of expression, that Caroline, and even Percy and
Emmeline, would pause involuntarily to listen.
"At length!" exclaimed Percy, springing up, as did Herbert at the same
moment, to get their mother a chair, and place her comfortably as usual
in the midst of them. "Mother, I really did begin to think you intended
to punish my impatience by not joining us at all to-night."
"I did not know you were impatient, my dear boy, or perhaps I might have
done so!" was her quiet, and even smiling reply. "I fear, indeed,
waiting for me so long after a water-excursion, must have caused you to
be impatient in another sense."
"What! that we must be all famished? I assure you, we are, and the loss
of your society sharpened the pangs of hunger I owe Morris a grudge,
and will certainly serve him out one day, for detaining you so long when
I wanted you."
"It was not Morris that detained me," answered Mrs. Hamilton, somewhat
hurriedly. "I had done with him by six o'clock; but come, tell me
something about your excursion," she added, evidently anxious to elude
farther remark, and perceiving at once that Miss Harcourt and Herbert
both looked at her very anxiously. "How did your boat go, and how did
Caroline's voice and your flute sound on the water, Percy? Herbert, I
see, has found poetry, as usual, and made Miss Harcourt his companion;
you must tell me what verses our beautiful river recalled this
afternoon; and you, Emmy, have you any more sketches to fill up?"
Her children eagerly entered on their day's enjoyment--Herbert
conquering his anxiety, to emulate his mother's calmness, but Miss
Harcourt had been too painfully startled by the unusual expression of
forcibly-controlled suffering on her friend's face, to do so with any
success. Nearly an hour, however, passed animatedly as usual; each found
so much to tell, and Percy was in such wild spirits, that it was utterly
impossible for there to be any thing like a pause. Tea had always been a
favorite meal at Oakwood, as bringing all the family together after the
various business of the day, and it continued to be so. They had
lingered over it as usual, when Caroline suddenly exclaimed--
"What has become of Ellen? I had quite forgotten her till this moment;
how neglectful she will think us! Do ring the bell, Percy, that we may
send and let her know."
"If she has no recollection of meal-time, I really think we need not
trouble ourselves about her," was Percy's half-jesting, half-earnest
reply, for Ellen's changed manner to his mother had made him more angry
with her, and for a longer time together, than he had ever been with any
body, especially a woman, in his life. He stretched out his hand,
however, to ring the bell, but Mrs. Hamilton stopped him.
"You need not, Percy; your cousin will not wish to join us," she said;
and her tone was now so expressive of almost anguish, that every one of
that happy party startled and looked at her with the most unfeigned
alarm, and Percy, every thought of jest and joyousness checked, threw
his arms round her, exclaiming--
"Mother dearest! what _has_ happened?--that unhappy girl again! I am
sure it is. Why do you not cast her off from your heart at once; she
will bring you nothing but sorrow for all your love."
"Percy, how can you be so harsh?--how unlike you!" exclaimed Emmeline,
indignantly, as Mrs. Hamilton's head, for a few minutes of natural
weakness, sunk on her son's encircling arm. "We have all given mamma
trouble and pain enough one time or other, and what would have become of
us if she had cast us off? and Ellen has no mother, too--for shame!"
"Hush!" answered Percy, almost sternly, for there were times when he
could quite throw off the boy. "This is no light or common matter, to
affect my mother thus. Shall we send for Mr. Howard, mother?" he
continued, fondly; "in my father's absence he is your ablest friend--we
can only feel, not counsel."
But there are times when feeling can aid in bringing back control and
strength, when counsel alone would seem so harsh and cold, we can only
weep before it; and the fond affection of her children, the unusual
assumption of protecting manliness in Percy, so touchingly united with
the deep respect that prevented the least intrusive question as to the
cause of her distress till she chose to reveal it, gave her power to
send back the tears that had escaped at first so hot and fast, and
though still holding his hand, as if its very pressure was support, she
was enabled calmly to relate the fatal discovery of that evening. Its
effect was, in truth, as if a thunderbolt had fallen in the midst of
them. An execration, forcibly checked, but passionate as his nature,
burst from the lips of Percy, as he clamped his arm close round his
mother, as thus to protect her from the misery he felt himself. Herbert,
with a low cry of pain, buried his face in his hands. Caroline, shocked
and bewildered, but her first thought for her mother, could only look
at, and feel for her, quite forgetting that her every prejudice against
Ellen did indeed seem fulfilled. Emmeline at first looked stunned, then
sinking down at Mrs. Hamilton's feet, hid her face on her lap, and
sobbed with such uncontrolled violence, that it might have seemed as if
she herself, not Ellen, were the guilty cause of all this misery. Miss
Harcourt, like Caroline, could only think and feel for Mrs. Hamilton;
for she knew so well all the hope, interest, and love which Ellen had
excited, and what must be the bitter suffering of this fearful
disappointment.
"Do not weep thus, love," Mrs. Hamilton said, addressing Emmeline,
after nearly a quarter of an hour had passed, and the various emotions
of each individual had found vent in words well illustrative of their
respective characters; all but Emmeline who continued to sob so
painfully, that her mother successfully forgot her own sorrow to comfort
her. "Ellen is still very young, and though she is giving us all this
misery and disappointment now, she may become all we can wish her,
by-and-by. We must not give up all hope, because now all my cares seem
so blighted. There is some fatal mystery attached to her conduct; for I
am indeed deceived if she is not very wretched and there is some hope in
that."
"Then why does she not speak?" rejoined Percy, impetuously; for when he
found his mother resuming control and firmness, he had given vent to his
indignation by striding hastily up and down the room. "What but the most
determined hardihood and wickedness can keep her silent, when you
promise forgiveness if she will but speak? What mystery can there, or
ought there, to be about her, when she has such an indulgent friend as
yourself to bring all her troubles to? Wretched! I hope she is, for she
deserves to be, if it were only for her base ingratitude."
"Percy! dear Percy! do not speak and judge so very harshly," interposed
Herbert, with deep feeling; "there does, indeed, seem no excuse for her
conduct, but if we ever should find that there is some extenuating
cause, how unhappy we shall be for having judged her still more harshly
than she deserved."
"It is impossible we can do that," muttered Percy, continuing his angry
walk. "Nothing but guilt can be the cause of her keeping any thing from
my mother. Ellen knows, as we all know, that even error when confessed,
has always been forgiven, sorrow always soothed, and every difficulty
removed. What can her silence spring from, then, but either defying
obstinacy or some blacker sin?"
"It does seem like it, unhappily," rejoined Caroline, but very
sorrowfully, not at all as if she triumphed in her own previous
penetration; "but she can not persevere in it long. Dear mamma, do not
look so distressed: it is impossible she can resist you for any length
of time."
"She has resisted every offer of kindness, my dear child, and it is the
difficulty as to what course to pursue, to compel submission and
confession, that so grieves and perplexes me."
"Let me seek Mr. Howard, dearest mother," answered Herbert; "he is so
good, so kind, even in his severest judgments, that I really think Ellen
will scarcely be able to persevere in her mistaken silence, if he speak
to her."
Mrs. Hamilton paused for some moments in thought.
"I believe you are right, Herbert. If I must have counsel out of my own
family, I can not go to a kinder, wiser, or more silent friend. If the
fearful shame which I must inflict on Ellen to-night of proving Robert's
innocence before my whole household, by the denouncement of her guilt,
have no effect in softening her, I will appeal to him."
"Oh, mamma, must this be--can you not, will you not spare her this?"
implored Emmeline, clinging to her mother, in passionate entreaty; "it
would kill me, I know it would. Do not--do not expose her to such
shame."
"Do you think it is no suffering to my mother to be called upon to do
this, Emmeline, that you add to it by this weak interference?" replied
Percy, sternly, before his mother could reply. "Shame! she has shamed us
all enough. There wants little more to add to it."
But Emmeline's blue eyes never moved from her mother's face, and Miss
Harcourt, longing to spare Mrs. Hamilton the suffering of such a
proceeding, tried to persuade her to evade it, but she did not succeed.
"One word of confession--one evidence that her sin originated in a
momentary temptation, that it conceals nothing darker--one real proof of
penitence, and God knows how gladly I would have spared myself and her;
but as it is, Lucy, Emmeline, do not make my duty harder."
Few as those words were, the tone that spoke them was enough. No more
was said, and Mrs. Hamilton tried, but with very little success, to turn
her children's thoughts to other and pleasanter things. Time seemed to
lag heavily, and yet when the prayer bell sounded, it fell on every
heart as some fearful knell which must have been struck too soon.
All were assembled in the library, and in their respective places, all
but one, and Herbert waited her appearance.
"Tell Miss Fortescue that we are only waiting for her to commence
prayers;" and Fanny, the young ladies' attendant, departed to obey,
wondering at Miss Ellen's non-appearance, but hearing nothing unusual in
her mistress's voice. She returned, but still they waited; again the
door unclosed, and Emmeline bent forward in an attitude of agony and
shame unable even to look at her cousin, whose place was close beside
her; but the words she dreaded came not then--Herbert, at his mother's
sign, commenced the service, and it proceeded as usual. The fearful
struggle in Mrs. Hamilton's gentle bosom, who might read, save the
all-pitying God, whom she so fervently addressed for strength and
guidance? The voice of her son ceased, and the struggle was over.
"Before we part for the night," she said, when all but one had arisen,
"it is necessary that the innocent should be so justified before you
all, that he should no longer be injured by suspicion and avoidance. It
is nearly two months since your master assured you of his own and of my
perfect conviction that Robert Langford had told the truth, and that the
missing notes had been unfortunately lost by him; not appropriated, as I
fear most of you have believed, and are still inclined to do. The
complete failure of every search for them has induced a very
uncomfortable feeling among you all as to the person on whom suspicion
of finding and appropriating them might fall, none but the household
frequenting that particular path, and none being able to suppose that
the storm could have so dispersed as to lose all trace of them. I
acknowledge it was unlikely, but not so unlikely as that Robert Langford
should have failed in honesty, or that any of my household should have
appropriated or concealed them. All mystery is now, however, at an end;
the missing notes have been traced and found; and that all suspicion and
discomfort may be removed from among you, it becomes my duty to
designate the individual who has thus transgressed every duty to God and
man, not by the sin alone, but by so long permitting the innocent to
suffer for the guilty, more especially as that individual is one of my
own family"--for one moment she paused, whether to gain strength, or to
give more force to her concluding words, no one could tell--"ELLEN
FORTESCUE!"