ILLNESS AND REMORSE.
It was indeed a fearful night which followed the close of our last
chapter. Illness, sufficient to occasion anxiety, both in Herbert and
Ellen, had been often an inmate of Oakwood, but it had merely called for
care, and all those kindly sympathies, which render indisposition
sometimes an actual blessing, both to those who suffer and those who
tend. But illness, appearing to be but the ghastly vehicle of death,
clothed in such fearful pain that no control, even of reason and strong
will, can check its agonized expression, till at last, reason itself
succumbs beneath it, and bears the mind from the tortured frame, this is
a trial of no ordinary suffering, even when such illness has been
brought about by what may be termed natural causes. But when it follows,
nay, springs from mental anguish, when the sad watchers feel that it
might have been averted, that it is the consequence of mistaken
treatment, and it comes to the young, to whom such sorrow ought to be a
thing unknown, was it marvel that Mrs. Hamilton, as she stood by Ellen's
bed, watching the alternations of deathlike insensibility with paroxysms
of pain, which nothing could relieve (for it was only the commencement
of brain fever), felt as if she had indeed never known grief or anxiety
before. She had looked forward to Edward's confession bringing hope and
rest to all; that the aching head and strained nerves of her poor Ellen,
only needed returning love, and the quietness of assured forgiveness for
herself and Edward, for health and happiness gradually to return; and
the shock of such sudden and terrible illness, betraying, as it did, an
extent of previous mental suffering, which she had not conceived as
possible in one so young, almost unnerved her. But hers was not a
character to give way; the anguish she experienced might be read in the
almost stern quiet of her face, in her gentle but firm resistance to
every persuasion to move from Ellen's bed, not only through that
dreadful night, but for the week which followed. The idea of death was
absolute agony; none but her God knew the struggle, day after day, night
after night, which she endured, to compel her rebellious spirit to
submission to His will, whatever it might be. She knew earth's dearest,
most unalloyed happiness could not compare with that of Heaven, if
indeed it should be His pleasure to recall her; but the thought _would
not_ bring peace. She had no reason to reproach herself, for she had
acted only as imperative duty demanded, and it had caused her almost as
much misery as Ellen. But yet the thought would not leave her, that her
harshness and cruelty had caused all the suffering she beheld. She did
not utter those thoughts aloud, she did not dare give words to that deep
wretchedness, for she felt her only sustaining strength was in her God.
The only one who would have read her heart, and given sympathy,
strength, comfort, without a word from her, her husband, was far away,
and she dared not sink; though there were times when heart and frame
felt so utterly exhausted, it seemed at if she must.
Mr. Howard's presence had been an inexpressible relief. "Go to Edward,
my dear friend," she had said, as he lingered beside the bed where Ellen
had been laid, longing to comfort, but feeling at such a moment it was
impossible; "he wants you more than any one else; win him to confide in
you, soothe, comfort him; do not let him be out of your sight."
Not understanding her, except that Edward must be naturally grieved at
his sister's illness, Mr. Howard sought him, and found him still in the
library, almost in the same spot.
"This is a sad welcome for you, Edward," he said, kindly laying his hand
on his shoulder, "but do not be too much cut down. Ellen is very young,
her constitution, Mr. Maitland assures us is good, and she may be spared
us yet. I came over on purpose to see you, for late as it was when I
returned from Exeter, and found you had arrived, I would not defer it
till to-morrow."
"You thought you came to see the pupil you so loved," answered Edward,
raising his head, and startling Mr. Howard, both by his tone and
countenance. "You do not know that I am the cause of my poor sister's
suffering, that if she dies, I am her murderer. Oh, Mr. Howard," he
continued, suddenly throwing himself in his arms, and bursting into
passionate tears, "why did I ever leave you? why did I forgot your
counsels, your goodness, throw your warning letter to the winds? Hate
me if you will, but listen to me--pity me, save me from myself."
Startled as he was, Mr. Howard, well acquainted with the human heart,
its errors, as well as its better impulses, knew how to answer this
passionate appeal, so as to invite its full confidence and soothe at the
same time. Edward poured out his whole tale. It is needless to enter
upon it here in detail; suffice it, that the artful influence of
Harding, by gradually undermining the good impressions of the home he
had left, had prepared his pupil for an unlimited indulgence in
pleasure, and excitement, at every opportunity which offered. And as the
Prince William was cruising off the coast of British America, and
constantly touching at one or other of her ports, where Harding, from
his seniority and usefulness, and Edward, from his invariable good
conduct, were often permitted to go ashore, these opportunities,
especially when they were looked for and used by one practiced in deceit
and wickedness, were often found. It does not require a long period to
initiate in gambling. The very compelled restraint, in the intervals of
its indulgence, but increased its maddening excitement, and once given
up to its blind pursuit, Harding became more than ever necessary to
Edward, and of course his power over him increased. But when he tried to
make him a sharer and conniver in his own low pleasures, to teach him
vice, cautiously as he thought he had worked, he failed; Edward started
back appalled, and though unhappily he could not break from him, from
that hour he misdoubted and shrunk away. But he had given an advantage
to his fell tutor, the extent of which he knew not himself. Harding was
too well versed in art to betray disappointment. He knew when to bring
wine to the billiard-table, so to create such a delirium of excitement,
that Edward was wholly unconscious of his own actions; and once or twice
he led him into scenes, and made him sharer of such vicious pleasures,
that secured him as his slave; for when the excitement was over, the
agony of remorse, the misery, lest his confiding captain should suspect
him other than he seemed, made him cling to Harding's promises of
secrecy, as his only refuge, even while he loathed the man himself. It
was easy to make such a disposition believe that he had, in some moment
of excitement, done something which, if known, would expel him the Navy;
Edward could never recall what, but he believed him, and became
desperate. Harding told him it was downright folly to think about it so
seriously. It was only known to him, and he would not betray him. But
Edward writhed beneath his power; perpetually he called on him for
pecuniary help, and when he had none, told him he must write home for
it, or win it at the billiard-table, or he knew the consequences; and
Edward, though again and again he had resolved he would not touch a ball
or cue (and the remorse had been such, that he would no doubt have kept
the resolve, had it not been for dread of betrayal), rather than write
home, would madly seek the first opportunity, and play, and win perhaps
enough, all but a few pounds, to satisfy his tormentor, and for these he
would appeal to his sister, and receive them, as we know; never asking,
and so never hearing, the heavy price of individual suffering at which
they were obtained.
The seven or eight months which had elapsed before his last fatal
appeal, had been occasioned by the ship being out at sea. Sir Edward had
mentioned to Mr. Hamilton, that Edward's excellent conduct on board had
given him a longer holiday on shore, when they were off New-York, to
which place he had been dispatched on business to the President, than
most of his companions. Edward thought himself safe, for Harding had
been unusually quiet; but the very day they neared land, he told him he
must have some cash, sneered at the trifling sum Edward had by him, told
him if he chose to let him try for it fairly, they should have a chance
at billiards for it; but if that failed, he must pump his rich relations
for it, for have it he must. Trusting to his luck, for he had often won,
even with Harding, he rushed to the table, played, and as might be
expected, left off, owing his tormentor fifty pounds. Harding's fiendish
triumph, and his declaration that he must trouble him for a check to
that amount, signed by the great millionaire, Arthur Hamilton, Esq.,
goaded him to madness. He drank down a large draught of brandy, and
deliberately sought another table and another opponent, and won back
fifteen; but it was the last day of his stay on shore, as his enslaver
knew, and it was the wretchedness, the misery of this heavy debt to the
crafty, merciless betrayer of his youthful freshness and innocence, who
had solemnly sworn if he did not pay it by the next letters from his
home, he would inform against him, and he knew the consequences, which
had urged that fearful letter to Ellen, from which all her suffering had
sprung. Edward was much too young and ignorant of the world's ways to
know that Harding no more dared execute his threat against him, than he
could put his own head in the lion's mouth. His remorse was too deep,
his loathing of his changed self too unfeigned, to believe that his
errors were not of the heinous, fatal nature which Harding taught him to
suppose them; and the anguish of a naturally fine, noble, independent
spirit may be imagined. All his poor mother's lessons of his uncle's
excessive sternness, and determined pitilessness, toward the faults of
those less firm and worthy than himself, returned to him, completely
banishing his own experience of that same uncle's excessive kindness.
The one feeling had been insensibly instilled in his boyhood, from as
long as he could remember, till the age of twelve; the other was but the
experience of eighteen short months. Oh, if parents would but think and
tremble at the vast importance of the first lessons which reach the
understanding of the young beings committed to their care! Let them
impress TRUTH, not prejudice, and they are safe. Once fix a false
impression, and they know not, and it is well, perhaps, they do not, the
misery that tiny seed may sow.
Mr. Howard listened with such earnest, heartfelt sympathy, such deep
commiseration, that his young penitent told him every error, every
feeling, without the smallest reserve; and in the long conversation
which followed, he felt more comforted, more hopeful of himself, than he
had done for long, long months. He told with such a burst of remorseful
agony, his cruelty to his devoted sister, that Mr. Howard could scarcely
hear it unmoved, for on that subject there seemed indeed no comfort; and
he himself, though he would not add to Edward's misery by confessing it,
felt more painfully self-reproached for his severity toward her than his
conduct as a minister had ever excited before.
"Be with me, or rather let me be with you, as much as you can," was
Edward's mournful appeal, as their long interview closed; "I have no
dependence on myself--a weak, miserable coward! longing to forsake the
path of evil, and having neither power nor energy to do so. I know you
will tell me, pray--trust. If I had not prayed, I could not have
confessed--but it will not, I know it will not last."
"It will, while enduring this heavy trial of your poor sister's terrible
illness, and God's infinite mercy may so strengthen you in the furnace
of affliction, as to last in returning joy! Despair, and you must fall;
trust, and you will hope and struggle--despite of pain or occasional
relapses. Your faults are great, but not so great as Harding
represented them--not so heavy but that you can conquer and redeem them,
and be yet all we have believed you, all that you hoped for in
yourself."
"And my uncle--" said Edward, hesitatingly.
"Must be told; but I will answer for him that he will be neither harsh
nor unjust, nor even severe. I will write to him myself, and trust to
convince him that your repentance, and resolution are sufficiently
sincere, to permit you a second trial, without referring to Sir Edward.
You have done nothing to expel you from your profession; but it depends
on yourself to become truly worthy of its noble service."
There was much in the sad tale he had heard to give hope, and Mr. Howard
longed to impart its comfort to Mrs. Hamilton; but he felt she could not
listen. While day after day passed, and the poor sufferer for another's
errors lay hovering between life and death, reason so utterly suspended,
that even when the violent agony of the first seven days and nights had
subsided into lethargic stupors, alternating with such quiet submission
and gentle words, that, had it not been for their wandering sense, one
might have fancied intellect returning; still reason was absent--and,
though none said it aloud, the fear would gain dominion, that health
might return, but not the mind. The first advice had been procured--what
was distance, even then, to wealth?--every remedy resorted to. Her
luxuriant hair cut close, and ice itself applied to cool that burning,
throbbing pain; but all had seemed vain, till its cessation, at the end
of seven days, somewhat renewed Mr. Maitland's hope.
Not one tear had Mrs. Hamilton shed, and so excessive had been her
fatigue, that Miss Harcourt and her children trembled for her; conjuring
her, for their sakes, for her husband's, to take repose. Mr. Maitland's
argument, that when Ellen recovered her senses (which he assured her now
he had little doubt she would eventually), she would need the soothing
comfort of her presence still more than she could then, and her strength
must fail before that--if she so exhausted it--carried more weight than
all the rest; and her daughters had the inexpressible relief of finding
that when, in compliance with their tearful entreaties, she did lie
down, she slept, and slept refreshingly, for nature was exhausted. There
was much of comfort in those days of trial, which Mrs. Hamilton fully
realized, when Ellen's convalescence permitted her to recall it, though
at the time it seemed unnoticed. That Caroline's strong mind and good
heart should urge her to do every thing in her power to save her mother
trouble, even to entreat Ellis and Morris to show her, and let her
attend to the weekly duties with them, and accomplish them so earnestly
and well, that both these faithful domestics were astonished and
delighted, was not surprising; for hers was a character to display its
better qualities in such emergencies. But that Emmeline should so
effectually rouse herself from the overwhelming grief, which had at
first assailed her at Ellen's fearful sufferings and great danger, as to
be a comfort alike to her mother and Edward, and assist Caroline
whenever she could, even trying to be hopeful and cheerful for others'
sakes, till she actually became so, _was_ so unexpected, from the grief
she had indulged in when she parted from her father, that it did
surprise. To be in the room with Ellen had so affected her at first,
that she became pale, and so evidently terrified, that Mrs. Hamilton
half desired her not to come, especially as she could do no good; and
Mrs. Greville and Mary had tried to prevail on her to stay with them,
but she would not hear of it.
"If I can do no good, can neither help mamma in nursing Ellen, nor do as
Caroline does, I can, at least, try to comfort poor Edward, and I will
not leave him. If I am so weak as not to be able to endure anxiety and
sorrow without showing it, it shall not conquer me. No, no, dear Mary;
come and see me as often as you like, but I can not leave home till
mamma and Ellen and we are all happy again!"
And she did devote herself to Edward, and so successfully--with her
gentle sympathy with his grief, her tender feeling toward his faults,
her conviction of her father's forgiveness, her unassuming but
heart-breathing piety, which, without one word unduly introduced of a
subject so holy, for she felt herself much too lowly and ignorant to
approach it--yet always led up his thoughts to God, and from one so
young, so humble, and, in general, so joyous, had still greater effect
in confirming his returning religious hope, than had his teachers been
only those who were older and wiser than himself. However miserable he
might be before she came, he looked to her society, her eloquence, as
comfort and hope; and soon perceiving this, she was encouraged to go on,
though quite astonished--for she could not imagine what she had done to
deserve such commendation--when Mr. Howard, one day meeting her alone,
took both her hands in his, and with even unusual fervor bade God bless
her!--for young, lowly as she was, she not only comforted the erring,
but raised and strengthened the penitent's trembling faith and hope.
Poor Edward! harder than all seemed to him his aunt's silence. He knew
his sister entirely engrossed her--ill as Ellen was, it could not be
otherwise; but he passionately longed only for one word from her: that
she forgave him the misery she was enduring. Not aware that such was his
feeling, conscious herself that her sole feeling toward him was pity,
not anger, and looking to herself alone as the cause of her poor child's
sufferings, she did not think for a moment that he could imagine her
never referring to his confession originated in displeasure.
Ten or twelve days had so passed, when one afternoon, completely
exhausted with two nights' watchfulness--for though nurse Langford and
Fanny were in constant attendance on Ellen, she could not rest if she
heard that harrowing cry for her, even though her presence brought no
comfort--she went to lie down for a few hours on a couch in her
dressing-room. Caroline had taken a book, though with not much
inclination to read, to sit by her, and watch that her sleep should not
be disturbed. How in those moments of quiet did she long for her father!
feeling intuitively how much heavier was her mother's trial without his
loved support. He had been written to by them all since Edward's
confession. Mrs. Hamilton had done so in Ellen's room, only to beseech
him to write forgivingly, forbearingly, to the unhappy cause of all. She
did not dare breathe her feelings, even on paper, to him, convinced that
if she did so, control must give way, and she was powerless at once; but
her husband knew her so well that every suppression of individual
emotion betrayed more forcibly than the most earnest words, all she was
enduring.
Caroline had kept her affectionate vigil nearly two hours, when Edward's
voice whispered, "Miss Harcourt wants you, dear Caroline; let me take
your place, I will be quite as watchful as yourself; only let me stay
here, you do not know the comfort it will be."
To resist his look of pleading wretchedness was impossible. She left
him, and Edward drawing a low stool to the foot of the couch, as if not
daring to occupy his cousin's seat, which was close by the pillow, gazed
on the mild, gentle features of his aunt, as in their deep repose they
showed still clearer the traces of anxiety and sorrow, and felt more
keenly than ever the full amount of misery, which his errors and their
fatal concealment had created. "Why is it," he thought, "that man can
not bear the punishment of his faults without causing the innocent, the
good, to suffer also?" And his heart seemed to answer, "Because by those
very social ties, the strong impulses of love for one another, which
would save others from woe, we may be preserved and redeemed from vice
again, and yet again, when, were man alone the sufferer, vice would be
stronger than remorse, and never be redeemed."
Mrs. Hamilton woke with that painful start which long watchfulness
always occasions, and missing Caroline, yet feeling as if she were not
alone, her eyes speedily fixed themselves in some surprise on the figure
of her nephew, who, unable to bear the thoughts the sight of her
exhaustion produced, had bent his head upon the couch. Inexpressibly
touched, and glad of the opportunity to speak to him alone, she called
him to her, and there was something in the tone that encouraged him to
fling himself on his knees by her side, and sob like an infant, saying,
almost inarticulately--
"Can you, will you, ever forgive me, aunt Emmeline? Your silence has
almost broken my heart, for it seemed to say you never could; and when I
look at my poor Ellen, and see how I have changed this happy home into
sorrow and gloom and sin, for it is all my work--mine, whom you have
loved, treated, trusted, as a son--I feel you can not forgive me; I
ought to go from you; I have no right to pollute your home."
"Hush, Edward! do not give utterance or indulgence to any such thoughts.
My poor unhappy boy! your errors have brought such fearful chastisement
from the hand of God himself, it is not for me to treat you harshly. May
His mercy avert yet severer trial! I will not hear your story now; you
are too agitated to tell it, and I am not at this moment strong enough
to hear it. I am satisfied that you have confided all to Mr. Howard, and
will be guided by him. Only tell me how came you first to apply to
Ellen? Did the thought never strike you, that in sending relief to you,
she might be exposing herself to inconvenience or displeasure? Was there
no consideration due to her?"
"I never seemed to think of her, except as glad and willing to help me,
at whatever cost to herself," was his reply. "I feel now the cruel
selfishness of the belief--but, oh, aunt Emmeline, it was fostered in me
from my earliest childhood, grew with my growth, increased with my
years, received strength and meaning from my poor mother's utter
neglect of her, and too indulgent thought for me. I never thought so
till now, now that I know all my poor sister's meek and gentle worth,
and it makes me still more miserable. I never could think her my equal;
never could fancy she could have a will or wish apart from mine, and I
can not trace the commencement of the feeling. Oh! if we had been but
treated alike! but taught to so love each other, as to think of each
other's happiness above our own, as you taught my cousins!"
"Do you know any thing of the promise to which poor Ellen so constantly
refers?" inquired Mrs. Hamilton, after gently soothing his painful
agitation.
He did not; but acknowledged that from the time they had become inmates
of Oakwood, Ellen had constantly saved him from punishment by bearing
the penalty of his faults; recalling numerous incidents, trifling in
themselves, but which had always perplexed Mrs. Hamilton, as evincing
such strange contradictions in Ellen's childish character, and none more
so than the disobedience which we related in our second part, and which
Edward's avowal of having himself moved the flower-stand, now so clearly
explained. He said, too, that Mr. Howard had thought it necessary, for
Ellen's perfect justification, to examine her letters and papers, but
that all his appeals to her had been destroyed but one--his last fatal
inclosure, the exact contents of which he had so utterly forgotten,
written, as they were, in a moment of madness, that he shuddered himself
as he read it. He placed the paper in Mrs. Hamilton's hand, conjuring
her not to recall her forgiveness when she read it; but she must see it,
it was the only amends he could make his poor Ellen, to exculpate her
fully. Was it any wonder it had almost driven her wild? or that she
should have scarcely known the means she adopted to send him the relief,
which, as he deserved, had never reached him.
Mrs. Hamilton read the letter, and as thought after thought rose to her
mind, connecting, defining, explaining Ellen's conduct from her
fifteenth birthday, the day she received it, to the discovery of her
sin, and her devoted silence afterward, trifling incidents which she had
forgotten returned to add their weight of evidence, and increase almost
to agony her self-reproach, for not seeing the whole before, and acting
differently. She remembered now Ellen's procrastination in writing to
Edward, the illness which followed, and could well understand her dread
lest the finding the notes should be traced to that day, and so throw a
suspicion on her brother, and her consequent firmness in refusing to
state the day she had found them.
That long interview was one of inexpressible comfort to Edward; but
though his unfeigned repentance and full confession gave his aunt hope
for him, it did but increase her individual trial, as she returned to
Ellen's couch, and listened to wanderings only too painfully explained
by the tale she had heard.