THE STRUGGLE.
Mrs. Hamilton had been told at the lodge of her nephew's arrival, and so
powerful was her emotion, that she leaned back in the carriage, as it
drove rapidly from the lodge to the Hall, without the power of uttering
a word. Caroline was surprised, for his return seemed to her only a
cause of rejoicing; she had no idea of the mingled dread and joy, the
trembling, lest Edward had indeed deceived them all, and, if he had not,
the redoubled mystery of Ellen's conduct. While he was absent she could
think calmly on him as the cause of all, but now that he was returned,
her heart seemed to turn sick with apprehension, and she had hardly
strength to inquire where he was, and great was her surprise when she
found his arrival was still unknown. Caroline's joyful exclamation as
she ran into the school-room to put away some of her purchases, drew her
there at once; and for the first five minutes the intense thankfulness
that he was indeed safe and comparatively well--that whatever might be
the secret change, his affection for her, to judge by the warmth, and
agitation of his embrace, was unchanged, and she had that to work on,
alone occupied her mind and enabled her to regain her calmness.
"You do indeed look as if you wanted English air and home nursing, my
dear boy," she said, after some little time had elapsed, and Edward had
seated himself by her, his hand still clasped in hers; "Sir Edward was
quite right to invalid you. Emmeline does nothing but talk of your
wounds as making you a complete hero; I am unromantic enough to wish
that you had brought me home more color and more flesh, and less glory;
but, I suppose from being so pale, you are more like your poor mother
than ever;" and she looked at him so earnestly, that Edward's eyes,
spite of all his efforts, sunk beneath hers. He answered gayly, however,
and, in reply to Caroline's numerous queries, entered into an animated
description of their voyage home and the causes of their detention, in
their being so often compelled to put into port from the fearful storms
they had encountered, and time slipped away so fast that the dinner-bell
rung before any one was prepared.
That Ellen should look paler than even when she had left her in the
morning, and be still more silent, did not astonish Mrs. Hamilton; the
agitation of meeting her brother was quite enough to occasion it; and
she advised her to remain quiet while they were at dinner, that she
might rejoin them afterward. She looked as if she had been so very
lately ill, that Edward was not surprised at her having dined already;
but many little things that occured during the evening--her excessive
quietness, the evident restraint between her and Caroline, and, he at
first fancied, and then was quite certain, between her and his aunt,
startled and perplexed him. She seemed restrained and shy, too, with
him, as if in constant terror. Poor child! her aunt had advised
quietness while alone, and her brother's words rung in her ears, till
repose seemed farther off than ever. After all she had suffered before,
and after the sending that fatal letter, it had never reached him: she
had utterly failed in her attempt to save him. If she had, indeed,
confided at first in Mrs. Hamilton, measures would have been taken, she
was sure, to have secured him the necessary relief, for whenever her
uncle had sent him his allowance it was through Sir Edward, not
encountering the risk of the loss of the letter. There had been times
when, in the midst of her sufferings, Ellen could realize a sort of
comfort in the idea that she had saved Edward and kept his secret; but
where was this comfort now? All she had endured all she was still to
endure, was for nothing, worse than nothing; for if Edward knew her sin,
feeling that it had brought him no good, and given up, as she felt he
must be, to unrestrained passion, or he could not have given vent to
such fearful sentiments, she actually trembled for its effect upon him
and his anger on herself. She had sometimes fancied that, perhaps, his
errors were not so great as he believed them, that he would confess
them when he found only his kind, indulgent aunt at home, and so peace
and hope gradually dawn for both him and her. All her wish, her hope now
was that Mrs. Hamilton could be prevailed upon not to tell him what she
had done, for whether it made him think he ought to confess himself its
cause or not, its effect on him would be so terrible, that she felt any
additional suffering to herself could be better borne.
With these thoughts, no wonder she was silent, utterly unable to subdue
them as she wished, and evince natural interest in all that had occurred
to Edward; and tell him all that had happened to herself during their
long separation. Caroline, however, was so animated; and when Emmeline
and Miss Harcourt returned, unable to comprehend what they could
possibly be sent for, a full hour earlier than usual, the astonishment
and delight at seeing Edward, prevented any thing like a pause in
conversation, or unnatural restraint. His cousins found so much to tell
as well as to listen to, about Percy and Herbert, as well as themselves;
and Emmeline made Edward tell her such minute particulars of their
engagements with the pirates, and how he was wounded, and what Sir
Edward said to him, that Mrs. Hamilton, anxious as she was--for the
longer she was with her nephew, the more convinced she was that he could
not meet her eye, and that his gayety was not natural--could not help
being amused in spite of herself.
Engrossed with thought how to arrive at the truth, for which she
ardently longed, she entered the library, when the prayer-bell rung,
with her children; quite forgetting, till she had taken the place at the
reading-desk, which, in the absence of her husband and sons, she always
occupied herself, that she had intended to desire Ellen to resume her
usual place by Emmeline, wishing to spare her any additional suffering
the first night of Edward's return, and to prevent any painful feeling
on his part. It was an oversight, but it vexed her exceedingly. She
looked hastily round, in the hope of being in time, but Ellen was
already in her place, though she had evidently shrunk still more into
the recess of the lower window, as if longing for its massive curtains
to hide her, and her face was buried in her hands. Mrs. Hamilton would
have been still more grieved, if she had seen, as Ellis did, the
beseeching, humble look, which, as they entered, Ellen had fixed upon
her, and that her pale lips had quivered with the half-uttered
supplication, which she failed in courage to fully pronounce. Edward
appeared too wrapped in his own thoughts to notice it then; and as his
aunt's gentle but impressive voice fell on his fear, the words, the
room, the whole scene so recalled the happy, and comparatively innocent
past, that it was with difficulty he could restrain his feelings, till
the attitude of kneeling permitted them full vent in tears, actual
tears, when he had thought he could never weep again. The contrast of
his past and present self, rendered the one more brightly happy, the
other more intensely dark than the actual reality. The unchecked faults
and passions of his early childhood had been the sole cause of his
present errors; but, while under the gentle control of his aunt and
uncle, and Mr. Howard, he had not known these faults, and, therefore,
believed they had all come since. He longed intensely to confide all his
errors, all his remorse, to Mr. Howard, whom he still so dearly loved;
but he knew he had not courage to confess, and yet hated himself for his
cowardice.
Only too well accustomed to control, he banished every trace of tears
(from all save the eye rendered even more than usually penetrating from
anxiety), as he arose, and became aware, for the first time, that Ellen
was not where he was accustomed to see her. He kissed her fondly as she
hurriedly approached him; but perceiving she left the room with merely a
faint good-night to the rest of the family, and no embrace, as usual,
from Mrs. Hamilton, he darted forward, seized his aunt's hand, and
exclaimed--
"What is the matter with Ellen, aunt Emmeline? Why is she so changed,
and why is your manner to her so cold and distant? and why did she kneel
apart, as if unworthy to join us even in prayers? Tell me, for pity's
sake!"
"Not to-night, my dear Edward. It is a long tale, and a painful one, and
I rely on _you_ to help me, that Ellen and myself may be again as we
have been. It is as much pain to me as to her that we are not.
To-morrow, I promise you, you shall know all. You have had excitement
enough for to-day, and after your exhausting voyage must need rest. Do
not fancy this an evasion of your request; I have longed for your return
to influence Ellen, almost as much as for the happiness of seeing you
again."
Edward was compelled to be satisfied and retire; but though he did feel
sufficient physical exhaustion, for the comfort of his room to be
unusually luxurious, his sleep was restless and disturbed by frightful
dreams, in which, however varied the position, it always seemed that he
was in danger, and Ellen sacrificing herself to save him.
On retiring for the night, Mrs. Hamilton discovered a note on her
dressing-table. She thought she knew the writing, but from tremulousness
it was so nearly illegible, that it was with great difficulty she
deciphered the following words:
"I am so conscious I ought not to address you, know so well
that I have no right to ask any favor from you, when I have
given you so much trouble and pain, that I could not have asked
it, if you had not been so very, very kind this morning. Oh!
aunt Emmeline, if indeed you can feel any pity for me, do not,
pray, do not tell Edward the real reason of my banishment from
Oakwood; tell him I have been very wicked--have refused to
evince any real repentance--but do not tell him what I have
done. He is ill, unhappy at having to resign his profession
even for a few months. Oh! spare him the misery of knowing my
sin. I know I deserve nothing but severity from you--I have no
right to ask this--but, oh! if you have ever loved me, do not
refuse it. If you would but grant it, would but say, before I
go, that in time you will forgive me, it would be such comfort
to the miserable--ELLEN."
Mrs. Hamilton's eyes filled with tears; the word "_your_" had evidently
been written originally, but partially erased, and "_the_" substituted
in its stead, and she could not read the utter desolation of one so
young, which that simple incident betrayed, without increase of pain;
yet to grant her request was impossible. It puzzled her--for why should
she so persist in the wish expressed from the beginning, that Edward
should not know it? unless, indeed--and her heart bounded with the
hope--that she feared it would urge him to confess himself the cause,
and her sacrifice be useless. She locked up the note, which she would
not read again, fearing its deep humility, its earnest supplication,
would turn her from her purpose, and in praying fervently for guidance
and fitful sleep her night passed.
For some time after breakfast the following morning, Edward and his aunt
were alone together in the library. It was with the utmost difficulty,
he suppressed, sufficiently to conceal, the fearful agitation which
thrilled through every nerve as he listened to the tale he had demanded.
He could not doubt the use to which that money had been applied. His
sister's silence alone would have confirmed it; but in that hour of
madness--for what else is passion unrestrained by principle or
feeling?--he was only conscious of anger, fierce anger against the
unhappy girl who had borne so much for him. He had utterly forgotten the
desperate words he had written. He had never received the intended
relief. Till within a week, a short week of his return, he had been in
Harding's power, and as Ellen's devotion had saved him nothing, what
could it weigh against the maddening conviction, that if he had one
spark of honor remaining, he _must_ confess that he had caused her sin?
Instead of saving, she had betrayed him; and he left his aunt to seek
Ellen, so evidently disturbed and heated, and the interview itself had
been so little satisfactory in softening him, as, she had hoped to win
him to confession at once, for she had purposely spoken as indulgently
of error and difficulty as she could, without betraying her strengthened
suspicions, that if she had known how to do so, she would have forbidden
his seeing Ellen till he was more calm.
Unhappily, too, it was that part of the day when Ellis was always most
engaged, and she was not even in her own room, so that there was no
check on Edward's violence. The control he had exercised while with his
aunt but increased passion when it was removed. He poured forth the
bitterest reproaches--asked how she could dare hope relief so obtained,
would ever have been allowed to reach him?--what had she done but
betrayed him? for how could he be such a dishonored coward as to let her
leave Oakwood because she would not speak? and why had she not
spoken?--why not betrayed him at once, and not decoyed him home to
disgrace and misery? Passion had so maddened him that he neither knew
what he said himself, nor heard her imploring entreaties not to betray
himself and she never would. She clung to his knees as she kneeled
before him, for she was too powerless to stand, reiterating her
supplication in a tone that ought to have recalled him to his better
self, but that better self had been too long silenced, and infuriated at
her convulsive efforts to detain him, he struck her with sufficient
force to make her, more by the agony of a blow from him, than the pain
itself, loose her hold at once, and darted from the room.
The hall door was open, and he rushed through it unseen into the park,
flying he neither knew where nor cared, but plunging into the wildest
parts. How he arrived at one particular spot he knew not, for it was one
which of all others, in that moment of excitement, he would gladly have
avoided. It was a small glade in the midst of the wood, shelving down to
the water's edge, where he and Percy, with the assistance of Robert, had
been permitted to erect a miniature boat-house, and where Edward had
kept a complete flotilla of tiny vessels. There were the trees, the
glade, the boat-house still, aye, and the vessels, in such beautiful
repair and keeping, that it brought back the past so vividly, so
overpoweringly, from the voiceless proof which it was of the
affectionate remembrance with which he and his favorite tastes had been
regarded, even in his absence, that he could not bear it. He flung
himself full length on the greensward, and as thought after thought came
back upon him, bringing Ellen before him, self-sacrificing, devoted,
always interposing between him and anger, as she had done from the first
hour they had been inmates of Oakwood, the thought of that craven blow,
those mad reproaches, was insupportable; and he sobbed for nearly an
hour in that one spot, longing that some chance would but bring Mr.
Howard to him, that he might relieve that fearful remorse at once; but
utterly unable to seek him of himself.
Edward's disposition, like his mother's, was naturally much too good for
the determined pursuit of evil. His errors had actually been much less
grave, than from Harding's artful representations he imagined them. He
never indulged in passion without its being followed by the most
agonized remorse; but from having pertinaciously banished the religion
which his aunt had so tried to instill, and been taught by Harding to
scoff at the only safe guide for youth, as for every age, God's holy
word, he had nothing whereon to lean, either as a comfort in his
remorse, a hope for amendment, or strength for self-conquest; and
terrible indeed might have been the consequences of Harding's fatal
influence, if the influence of a home of love had not been still
stronger.
Two hours after he had quitted his aunt, he rejoined the family,
tranquil, but bearing such evident traces of a mental struggle, at least
so Mrs. Hamilton fancied, for no one else noticed it, that she still
hoped she did not exactly know what, for she failed in courage to ask
the issue of his interview with Ellen. She contented herself with
desiring Emmeline to tell her cousin to bring her work or drawing, and
join them, and she was so surprised, when Emmeline brought back word
that Ellen had said she had much rather not, that she sought her
herself.
Ellen's cheeks, in general so pale, were crimson, her eyes in
consequence unnaturally brilliant, and she looked altogether so unlike
herself, that her aunt was more anxious than ever; nor did her manner
when asked why she refused to join them, when Edward had so lately
returned, tend to decrease the feeling.
"Emmeline did not say _you_ desired it, or I should have known better
than disobey," was her reply, and it was scarcely disrespectful; the
tone seemed that of a spirit, crushed and goaded to the utmost, and so
utterly unable to contend more, though every nerve was quivering with
pain. Mrs. Hamilton felt bitter pain that Ellen at length did indeed
shrink from her; that the disregard of her entreaty concerning her
brother appeared so to have wounded, that it had shaken the affection
which no other suffering had had power to move.
"I do not _desire_ it, Ellen, though I wish it," she replied, mildly;
"you are of course at liberty to act as you please, though I should have
thought it most natural that, not having been with Edward so long, you
should wish to be with him as much as possible now he is at home."
"He will not wish it; he hates me, spurns me, as I knew he would, if he
knew my sin! To-day I was to have gone to Seldon Grange; let me go at
once! then neither he, nor you, nor any one need be tormented with me
any more, and you will all be happy again; let me go, aunt Emmeline;
what should I stay for?"
"If you wish it, Ellen, you shall go next week. I did not imagine that
under any circumstances, you could have expressed a desire to leave me,
or suppose that it would make me particularly happy to send you away."
"Why should it not? you must hate me, too, or--or you would not have
refused the only--only favor I asked you before I went," answered poor
Ellen, and the voice, which had been unnaturally clear, was choked for
the moment with sobs, which she resolutely forced back. Mrs. Hamilton
could scarcely bear it; taking her ice-cold hands in both hers, she
said, almost tenderly--
"You have reason to condemn me as harsh and cruel Ellen; but time will
perhaps explain the motives of my conduct, as I trust and pray it will
solve the mystery of yours; you are not well enough to be left long
alone, and Ellis is so much engaged to-day that I do wish you to be with
me, independent of your brother's society. If you so much prefer
remaining here, I will stay with you, though of course, as Edward has
been away from us so long, I should wish to be with him also."
It was almost the first time Mrs. Hamilton had ever had recourse in the
management of her family to any thing that was not perfectly
straightforward; and though her present motives would have hallowed much
deeper stratagems, her pure mind shrunk from her own words. She wished
Ellen to be constantly in Edward's presence, that he might not be able
to evade the impulse of feeling and honor, which the sight of such
suffering, she thought, must call forth; she could not bear to enforce
this wish as a command, when she had already been, as she felt--if
Ellen's silence were indeed self-devotion, not guilt--so cruelly and so
unnecessarily severe. Ellen made neither reply nor resistance, but,
taking up her work, accompanied her aunt to the usual morning-room, from
which many a burst of happy laughter, and joyous tones were echoing.
Caroline and Emmeline were so full of enjoyment at Edward's return, had
so many things to ask and tell, were so perfectly unsuspicious as to his
having any concern with his sister's fault, that if they did once or
twice think him less lively and joyous, than when he left home, they
attributed it simply, to his not having yet recovered the exhausting
voyage and his wounds. Miss Harcourt, just as unsuspicious, secretly
accused Ellen as the cause of his occasional abstraction: her conduct
was not likely to pass unfelt by one so upright, so honorable, and if he
had been harsh with her, as from Ellen's fearfully shrinking manner, and
complete silence when they were together, she fancied, she thought it
was so deserved, that she had no pity for her whatever.
The day passed briskly and happily enough, in _seeming_ to Mrs. Hamilton
and Edward, in reality to all the other members of the party--but one.
The great subject of regret was Mr. Howard's absence, he might be back
at the rectory that evening, and Emmeline was sure he would come to see
Edward directly. As the hours waned, Ellen became sensible of a sharp
and most unusual pain darting through her temples, and gradually
extending over her forehead and head, till she could scarcely move her
eyes. It had come at first so suddenly, and lasting so short a time,
that she could scarcely define what it was, or why she should have felt
so suddenly sick and faint; but it increased, till there was no
difficulty in tracing it, and before prayer-time, had become such
fearful agony, that, if she had not been inured to pain of all kinds,
and endowed with extraordinary fortitude and control, she must more than
once have betrayed it by either giving way to faintness, or screaming
aloud. She had overheard Mrs. Hamilton desire Robert to request Mr.
Maitland to come to Oakwood as soon as he could, and not hearing the
reply that he was not expected home till late at night, expected him
every moment, and thought he would give her something to relieve it,
without her complaining.
Edward had asked his cousins for some music, and then to please
Emmeline, had sketched the order of their engagement with the pirates,
and no one noticed her, for Mrs. Hamilton's heart was sinking with
disappointed hope, as the hours passed, and there was no sign to prove
that her surmise was correct, and if it were, that the truth would be
obtained.
The prayer-bell rang, and as they rose, Edward's eyes, for the first
time since she had joined them, sought and fixed themselves on his
sister's face. The paroxysm of pain had for a few minutes subsided, as
it had done alternately with violence all day, but it had left her so
ghastly pale, that he started in actual terror. It might have been
fancy, but he thought there was the trace of his cowardly blow on her
pale forehead, raised, and black, and such a feeling of agony and
remorse rushed over him, that it was with difficulty he restrained
himself from catching her in his arms, and beseeching her forgiveness
before them all; but there was no time then, and they proceeded to the
library. Every step Ellen took appeared to bring back that fearful pain,
till as she sat down, and then knelt in her place, she was sensible of
nothing else.
The service was over; and as Mrs. Hamilton rose from the private prayer,
with which each individual concluded his devotions, her nephew stood
before her, white as marble, but with an expression of fixed resolution,
which made her heart bound up with hope, at the very moment it turned
sick and faint with terror.
Several of the lower domestics had quitted the library before Edward
regained voice, and his first word, or rather action, was to desire
those that remained to stay.
"My sister has been disgraced, exposed before you all" he exclaimed, in
a tone of misery and determination, that so startled Miss Harcourt and
his cousins, they gazed at him bewildered, "and before you all must be
her exculpation. It was less for her sin than her silence, and for the
increased guilt which that appeared to conceal, you tell me, she has
been so severely treated. Aunt Emmeline, I am the cause of her
silence--I was the tempter to her sin--I have deceived my commander,
deceived my officers, deceived you all--and instead of being what you
believe me, am a gambler and a villain. She has saved me again and again
from discovery and disgrace, and but for her sin and its consequences
would have saved me now. But what has sin ever done but to betray and
render wretched? Take Ellen back to your love and care, aunt Emmeline,
and tell my uncle, tell Sir Edward the wretch I am!"
For a full minute after these unexpected, startling words there was
silence, for none could speak, not even Emmeline, whose first thought
was only joy, that Ellen's silence was not so guilty as it seemed.
Edward had crossed his arms on the reading-desk, and buried his face
upon them. The instantaneous change of sentiment which his confession
excited toward Ellen in those most prejudiced can scarcely be described;
but Mrs. Hamilton, now that the words she had longed for, prayed for,
had been spoken, had scarcely strength to move. Address Edward she could
not, though she felt far more pity toward him than anger; she looked
toward Ellen, who still remained kneeling, though Ellis stood close by
her, evidently trying to rouse her, and with a step far more hurried,
more agitated than her children or household had ever seen, she
traversed the long room, and stood beside her niece.
"Ellen," she said, as she tried to remove the hands which clasped the
burning forehead, as if their rooted pressure could alone still that
agonizing pain, "my own darling, devoted Ellen! look up, and forgive me
all the misery I have caused you. Speak to me, my child! there is
nothing to conceal now, all shall be forgiven--Edward's errors,
difficulties, all for your sake, and he will not, I know he will not,
cause you wretchedness again; look up, my poor child; speak to me, tell
me you forgive me."
Ellen unclasped her hands from her forehead, and looked up in Mrs.
Hamilton's face. Her lips moved as if to speak, but in a moment an
expression of agony flitted over her face, a cry broke from her of such
fearful physical pain, that it thrilled through the hearts of all who
heard, and consciousness deserted her at the same moment that Mr.
Maitland and Mr. Howard, entered the room together.