THE LIGHT GLIMMERS.
The earnest wishes and prayers of Mrs. Hamilton and her faithful Ellis
were disappointed. The latter part of the month of September had been
exceedingly stormy, and though there was a lull from about the 3d to the
9th of October, the equinoctial gales then set in with the utmost fury;
continuing day after day, night after night, till the ear seemed almost
to tire of the sound, and the mind, anxious for friends at sea, despair
of their cessation. During the few calm days, the young party at Oakwood
had scarcely been absent from the windows, or from that part of the park
leading to the Plymouth road, above an hour at a time. Percy and Herbert
rode over to Plymouth, but were told the frigate could not be in for a
full week. The late storms must have detained her, though she was a
fast-sailing craft. It was a great disappointment to them, for on the
10th of October college term began, and they were compelled to return to
Oxford. The cause of their mother's intense desire for Edward's return,
indeed, they did not know; but they were most impatient to see him, and
they hoped, they did not exactly know what, with regard to his influence
with Ellen. However, the day of their departure came, and still he had
not arrived, and the storms had recommenced. Percy had gone to say
good-by to Ellis, with whom Ellen chanced at that moment to be. Full of
spirits and jokes, he determinately looked away from his cousin, took
both Ellis's hands, and shook them with his usual heartiness.
"Good-by, dear Ellis. I wonder if I shall ever feel myself a man when
talking to you. How many tricks I have played you in this room, and you
were always so good-natured, even when one of my seat-crackers set your
best gown on fire, and quite spoiled it; do you remember it? I do think
you were nearly angry then, and quite enough to make you; and papa made
me save up my money to buy you a new dress. I did not play such a
practical joke in a hurry again."
Ellis laughed and perfectly remembered it, and with another hearty
good-by he turned away.
"You have forgotten your cousin, Mr. Percy," she said, disregarding
Ellen's imploring look.
"When she remembers her duty to my mother, I will remember that she is
my cousin," was his hasty answer, and he hurried from the room as
Herbert entered. His good-by to Ellis was quite as warm as Percy's, and
then turning to Ellen, he put his arm round her, kissed her cheek, and
said, with impressive earnestness--
"God bless you, dear Ellen! I hope you will be happier when we meet
again, and that it will not be so long before we do, as we fancy now;"
and, affected almost to tears at the grateful, humble look she raised to
his, he left her.
Overcome as much by the harshness of the generous, warm-hearted Percy,
whom she so dearly loved, as by the gentle kindness of Herbert, Ellen
remained for several minutes with her arms on the table, her face hid
upon them. She thought she was quite alone, for Ellis had gone about
some of her business, when she was startled by Percy's voice.
"I am a brute, Ellen, nothing less; forgive me, and say good-by. I can't
understand it at all, but angry as I am with you, your pale face haunts
me like a specter, so we must part friends;" and as she looked hastily
up, he kissed her warmly twice, and ran away without another word.
Days passed heavily, the gales seeming to increase in violence, and
causing Mrs. Hamilton more terrible anxiety and vague dread than she
allowed to be visible. The damage among the shipping was fearful, and
the very supposed vicinity of the frigate to the Channel increased the
danger. The papers every morning presented long lists of ships wrecked,
or fatally dismantled, loss of crews or part of them, mails and cargoes
due but missing: and the vivid recollection of the supposed fate of her
own brother, the wretchedness of the suspense before the fate of his
vessel was ascertained, returned to heighten the fears that would gain
ascendency for her nephew, and for the effect of this terrible suspense
on Ellen, more especially--if indeed she had endured all these weeks,
nay, months, of misery for him.
At first Ellen seemed unconscious that there was any thing remarkable in
the delay, the thought of her own departure being uppermost; but when
the thought did press upon her, how it came she knew not--that of the
given month the weeks were passing, and Edward had not arrived, and that
there must be some reason for the long delay--storm, shipwreck, death,
all flashed upon her at once, and almost maddened her. The quiet calm of
endurance gave way. She could not sleep at night from the tremendous
winds; not even when Ellis had a bed put up in her room, and remained
with her all night herself; she never complained indeed, but hour after
hour she would pace her room and the passage leading to Ellis's, till
compelled to cease from exhaustion; she would try steadily to employ
herself with some difficult study, and succeed, perhaps, for half an
hour, but then remain powerless, or recommence her restless walk. Mrs.
Hamilton made several attempts without any apparent interference on her
part, to get her to sit occasionally with her and Miss Harcourt, and her
cousins, but she seemed to shrink from them all. Emmeline, indeed, when
once aware of the terrible trial she was enduring, would sit with her,
drawing or working as if nothing had occurred to estrange them, and try
to cheer her by talking on many topics of interest. Caroline would speak
to her kindly whenever she saw her. Miss Harcourt alone retained her
indignation, for no suspicion of the real cause of her silence ever
entered her mind.
Poor Ellen felt that she dared not indulge in the comfort this change in
her aunt's and cousins' manner produced. She wanted to wean herself
quite from them, that the pang of separation might be less severe, but
she only seemed to succeed in loving them more. One thought, indeed, at
length took such entire possession of her mind, as to deaden every
other:--it was the horrible idea that as she had sinned to save Edward,
perhaps, from merited disgrace, he would be taken from her; she never
breathed it, but it haunted her night and day. Mr. Maitland saw her
continually, but he plainly told Mrs. Hamilton, while the cause of
anxiety and mental suffering lasted he could do her no good. It was a
constant alternation of fearful excitement and complete depression,
exhausting the whole system. Repose and kindness--alas! the latter
might be given, but the former, in the present position of affairs, how
could it be insured?
The month of grace was waning; only two days remained, and Edward had
not arrived, and how could Mrs. Hamilton obey her husband--whose every
letter reiterated his hope that she had not been prevailed on to alter
his sentence, if Ellen still remained silent--and send her niece from
her? She came at length to the determination, that if another week
passed and still there were no tidings, not to let this fearful
self-sacrifice, if it really were such, last any longer, but gently,
cautiously, tenderly as she could, prevail on Ellen to confide all to
her, and promise, if Edward really had been erring and in difficulties,
all should be forgiven for her sake, and even his uncle's anger averted.
Once her determination taken, she felt better enabled to endure an
anxiety which was injuring her almost as much as Ellen; and she turned
to Ellis's room, which she had lately very often frequented, for she
scarcely felt comfortable when Ellen was out of her sight, though she
had full confidence in Ellis's care.
Ellen was asleep on a sofa, looking so wan, so haggard--so altered from
the Ellen of five short months back, that Mrs. Hamilton sat down by her
side, pondering whether she was doing right to wait even another week,
before she should try to bring relief by avowing her suspicions--but
would it bring relief? and, after all, was it for Edward? or, had she
been allowing affection and imagination to mislead and soften, when
sternness might still be needed?
Ellen woke with a start as from some fearful dream, and gazed at Mrs.
Hamilton for a full minute, as if she did not know her.
"My dear Ellen, what is it? You have been sleeping uncomfortably--surely
you know me?"
"I thought I was at--at--Seldon Grange--are you sure I am not? Dear aunt
Emmeline, do tell me I am at Oakwood, I know I am to go, and very soon;
but I am not there now, am I?" and she put one hand to her forehead, and
gazed hurriedly and fearfully round her, while, with the other, she held
tightly Mrs. Hamilton's dress. There was something alarming both in her
look and tone.
"No, love, you are with me still at Oakwood, and you will not go from me
till you have been with Edward some little time. You can not think I
would send you away now, Ellen?"
The soothing tone, her brother's name, seemed to disperse the cloud, and
bursting into tears, she exclaimed--
"He will never come--I know he will never come--my sin has killed him!"
"Your sin, Ellen, what can that have to do with Edward?"
"Because," the words "it was for him" were actually on her
lips; but they were checked, and, in increasing excitement, she
continued--"Nothing, nothing, indeed, with him--what could it have? But
if he knows it--oh, it will so grieve him; perhaps it would be better I
should go before he comes--and then, then, he need not know it; if,
indeed, he ever comes."
"I do not think you quite know what you are saying, my dear Ellen; your
uncomfortable dream has unsettled you. Try and keep quiet for an hour,
and you will be better. Remember, suffering as this dreadful suspense
is, your brother is still in a Father's gracious keeping; and that He
will listen to your prayers for his safety, and if it be His good
pleasure, still restore him to you."
"My prayers," answered Ellen, fearfully. "Mr. Howard said, there was a
barrier between Him and me, while I would not confess; I had refused His
mercy."
"Can you confess before God, Ellen? Can you lay your whole heart open
before Him, and ask Him in his infinite mercy, and for your Saviour's
sake, to forgive you?"
"I could, and did do so," answered Ellen, returning Mrs. Hamilton's
earnestly inquiring look, by raising her large, expressive eyes,
steadily and fearlessly, to her face; "but Mr. Howard told me it was a
mockery and sin to suppose God would hear me or forgive me while I
refused to obey Him, by being silent and obdurate to you. That if I
wished His forgiveness, I must prove it by telling the whole to you,
whom His commandments desired me to obey, and--and--as I dared not do
that, I have been afraid to pray." And the shudder with which she laid
her head again upon the pillow, betrayed the misery of the fear.
"And is it impossible, quite impossible that you can confide the source
of your grief and difficulty to me, Ellen? Will you not do so, even if I
promise forgiveness, not merely to you, but to _all_ who may have erred?
Answer me, my sweet child; your silence is fearfully injuring your mind
and body. Why do you fancy you dare not tell me?"
"Because, because I have promised!" answered Ellen, in a fearful tone
of returning excitement, and, sitting upright, she clasped her hands
convulsively together, while her cheek burned with painful brilliancy.
"Aunt Emmeline--oh, do not, pray do not speak to me in that kind tone!
be harsh and cold again, I can bear it better. If you did but know how
my heart and brain ache--how they long to tell you and so rest--but I
can not--I dare not--I have promised."
"And you may not tell me whom you have promised?" replied Mrs. Hamilton,
every former thought rendered apparently null and vain by these words,
and painfully disappointing her; but the answer terrified her.
"Mamma--I promised her, and she stands by me so pale, so grieved,
whenever I think of telling you," answered Ellen, clinging to Mrs.
Hamilton, but looking with a strained gaze of terror on vacancy. "I
thought I must have told you, when you said I was to go--to go to Seldon
Grange--but she stood by me and laid her hand on my head, and it was so
cold, so heavy, I don't remember any thing more till I found you and
Ellis leaning over me; but I ought not to tell you even this. I know I
ought not--for look--look, aunt Emmeline!--don't you see
mamma--there--quite close to me; oh, tell her to forgive me--I will keep
my promise," and shuddering convulsively, she hid her face in her aunt's
dress.
Mrs. Hamilton was dreadfully alarmed. Whatever the foundation, and she
had no doubt that there was some, and that it really had to do with
Edward and his poor mother's mistaken partiality, Ellen's imagination
was evidently disordered. To attempt obtaining the truth, while she was
in this fearful state of excitement, was as impossible as cruel, and she
tried only to soothe her to composure; speaking of her mother as happy
and in Heaven and that Ellen had thought of her so much, as was quite
natural in her sorrow, that she fancied she saw her.
"It is not reality, love; if she could see and speak to you, I am sure
it would be to tell you to confide all your sorrow to me, if it would
make you happier."
"Oh, no, no--I should be very wicked if it made me happier; I ought not
even to wish to tell you. But Mr. Myrvin told me, even when mamma went
to Heaven, she would still see me, and know if I kept my promise, and
tried to win her love, by doing what I know she wished, even after she
was dead; and it was almost a pleasure to do so till now, even if it
gave me pain and made me unhappy; but now, now, aunt Emmeline, I know
you must hate me; you never, never can love me again--and that--that is
so hard to bear."
"Have you forgotten, my dear Ellen, the blessed assurance, there is more
joy in Heaven over one sinner that repenteth, than over ninety-and-nine
who have not sinned? and if our Father in Heaven can so feel, so act,
are His creatures to do less? Do you think, because you have given me
pain, and trouble and disappointment, and compelled me to use such
extreme severity, and cause you so much suffering, that it will be quite
impossible for me to love you again, if I see you do all you can to win
back that love?"
Ellen made no answer; but the alarming excitement had so far subsided,
as to raise the hope that quietness would subdue it altogether. Mrs.
Hamilton remained with her till she seemed quite calm, and would not
have left her then, but he had promised Caroline to drive with her into
T---- that afternoon, to make some purchases; Emmeline and Miss Harcourt
were spending the day at Greville Manor, and her daughter depending on
her, she did not like to disappoint her. But the difficulty to think of
other things, and cheerfully converse on comparatively indifferent
topics, was greater than she had ever found it. That Ellis's surmise was
correct, she had no longer the smallest doubt. Ellen was sacrificing
herself, not merely for the love she bore her brother, but from some
real or imaginary promise to her poor mother. What its exact nature was,
she could not indeed satisfy herself, but that it had something to do
with concealing Edward's faults seemed to flash upon her, she hardly
knew how. Ellis's words "that she had seen enough of that work when they
were children," returned to her, and various incongruities in Ellen's
character and conduct which she had been unable to reconcile at the
time, all seemed connected with it. But to arrive at the truth was much
more difficult than ever; still, how could she send Ellen away? and yet,
if still silent, would mere surmise satisfy her husband? There was but
one hope, one ray of light--Edward's own honor, if indeed he were
permitted to return; and even while driving and talking with Caroline,
her heart was one fervent prayer that this might be, and the fearful
struggle of her devoted Ellen cease.
Her aunt's gentle and unexpected kindness had had such a beneficial
effect on Ellen, that, after her early dinner, about three o'clock, she
told Ellis she would go in the school-room, and try and read there for
an hour; she knew all the family were out, and therefore would be quite
undisturbed. Ellis willingly acquiesced, rejoicing that she should seek
any change herself, and advised her, as it was such a mild, soft
afternoon, after the late storms, to take a turn on the terrace, on
which a glass-door from the school-room opened; it would do her good.
Ellen meant to take her advice, but as she looked out from a window over
a well-remembered landscape, so many painful thoughts and recollections
crowded on her, that she lost all inclination to move. She had not stood
there for many weeks, and it seemed to her that the view had never
looked so very lovely. The trees all had the last glories of autumn--for
it was early in November--the grass was of that beautiful humid emerald
which always follows heavy rain, and though the summer-flowers had all
gone, the sheltered beds of the garden, lying beneath the terrace,
presented many very beautiful still. The end of the terrace, a flight of
stone steps, overlooked the avenue, leading from the principal lodge to
the main entrance, and where Ellen stood, she could distinguish a few
yards of the path where it issued from some distant trees. She gazed at
first, conscious only that she was banished from it all, and that,
however long her departure might be deferred, she must go at last, for
her uncle's mandate could not be disobeyed; but gradually her eye became
fixed as in fascination. A single figure was emerging from the trees,
and dressed in the uniform of a midshipman--she was sure it was! but it
was a figure so tall, so slim, his step so lingering, it could not be
Edward, most likely some one of his messmates come to tell his fate. He
was taller even than Percy, but so much slighter, so different to the
boy from whom she had parted, that, though her heart bounded and sunk
till faintness seemed to overpower her, she could not convince herself
it was he. With an almost unconscious effort she ran out, through the
glass-door, to the steps of the terrace; she could now see him
distinctly, but not his face, for his cap was low over his forehead; but
as he approached, he paused, as if doubting whether to go up to the hall
door, or the well-known terrace, by which he had always rushed into the
school-room, on his daily return from Mr. Howard's; and as he looked
hastily up, his cap fell back, and his eyes met Ellen's. A wild but
checked scream broke from her lips, and all was an impenetrable mist
till she found herself in her brother's arms, in the room she had
quitted, his lips repeatedly pressing her cheek and forehead, and his
voice, which sounded so strange--it did not seem like Edward's, it was
so much more deep and manly--entreating her to speak to him, and tell
him why she looked so ill; but still her heart so throbbed she could not
speak. She could only cling close to him and look intently in his face,
which was so altered from the happy, laughing boy, that had he not been,
from his extreme paleness and attenuation of feature, still more like
their mother when she was ill, his sister would scarcely have known him.
"Dearest Ellen, do speak to me; what has been the matter, that you look
so pale and sad? Are you not glad to see me?"
"Glad! oh, Edward, you can not know how glad; I thought you would never,
never come, the storms have been so terrible; I have been ill, and your
sudden appearance startled me, for I had thought of such dreadful
things, and that was the reason I could not speak at first; but I am
sure you are as pale as I am, dear, dear Edward; you have been
wounded--have you not recovered them yet?"
"My wounds, Ellen! oh, they were slight enough; I wished and tried for
them to be severer, to have done for me at once, but they would not,
they only bought me praise, praise which maddened me!"
"Sir Edward," murmured Ellen, in a low, fearful voice, "how did he part
with you?"
"As he has always treated me, a kind, too kind father! oh, Ellen, Ellen,
if he did but know the deceiving villain that I am!"
"Would he indeed not forgive, Edward, if he so loves you? not if he knew
all, the temptation, the--"
"Temptation, Ellen! what excuse ought there to be in temptation? Why was
I such a fool, such a madman, to allow myself to be lured into error
again and again by that villain, after I had discovered his double face,
and I had been warned against him, too? Why did I so madly disregard Mr.
Howard's and my uncle's warning letters, trusting my self-will and
folly, instead of their experience? Brave! I am the veriest coward that
ever trod the deck, because I could not bear a sneer!"
"And he? are you still within his power?" inquired Ellen, shrinking in
terror from the expression of her brother's face.
"No, Ellen, no; God forgive me--I have tried not to rejoice; the death
was so terrible, so nearly my own, that I stood appalled, and, for the
first time these two years, knelt down to my God for pardon, mercy to
repent. The lightning struck him where he stood, struck him beside me,
leaving the withering smile of derisive mockery, with which he had that
moment been regarding me, still on his lips. Why, and where had he gone?
he, who denied God and his holy Word, turned the solemn service into
mockery, and made me like himself--and why was I spared? Oh, Ellen, I
have no words to describe the sensation of that moment!" He stopped, and
shuddered, then continued, hurriedly, "Changed as I am in appearance, it
is nothing to the change within. I did not know its extent till now that
I am here again, and all my happy boyhood comes before me; aunt
Emmeline's gentle lessons of piety and goodness--oh, Ellen, Ellen, what
have been their fruits? For two years I have given myself up to passion,
unrestrained by one word, one thought of prayer; I dared, sinful madman
as I was, to make a compact with my own conscience, and vow, that if I
received the relief I expected from you, and was free from Harding, I
would reform, would pray for the strength to resist temptation, which I
had not in myself; and when, when the man that was dispatched by Sir
Edward from the shore, with the letters for the crew, sunk beneath the
waves, bearing every dispatch along with him, I cursed him, and the
Fate, which had ordained his death. Ellen, Ellen! why was I saved, and
Harding killed!"
"And you never received my letter, Edward? Never knew if I had tried to
relieve you from Harding's power?" answered Ellen, becoming so deadly
pale, that Edward forced himself to regain composure; the nature of his
information causing such a revulsion of feeling in his sister as to
deaden her to the horror of his words. For what had all this suffering
been?
"I was sure you had, Ellen, for you always did, and I could trust you as
I could myself. A sudden squall had upset the boat, and the man was so
encumbered by a large great-coat, every pocket filled with letters and
papers, that he sunk at once though every help was offered. I threw
myself into the sea to save him, and Lieutenant Morley praised my
courage and benevolence--little did he know my motive! Besides, Sir
Edward told me there was an inclosure for me in my uncle's to him, and
regretted he had not kept it to give it me himself--would to Heaven he
had! Till Harding's death I was in his power; and he had so used it,
that I had vowed, on our arrival in England, to abscond, hide myself
forever, go I cared not where, nor in what character! But he is dead,
and I am free: my tale need be told to none, and if I can I will break
from this fatal spell, and redeem the past; but it seems, as if fiends
urged me still to the path of evil! Would that I had but courage to tell
all to Mr. Howard, I should be safer then; but I can not--can not--the
risk is too great. Carriage wheels!" he added, starting up--"my aunt and
Caroline; oh, how I rejoiced when they told me at the lodge that my
uncle was not here!" And in his extreme agitation at the thought of
meeting his aunt, he forgot his sister, or he might have been startled
at the effect of his words.