MISTAKEN IMPRESSIONS ERADICATED.
It was the seventeenth day of Ellen's illness, and for six-and-thirty
hours she had slept profoundly, waking only at very long intervals, just
sufficiently to swallow a few drops of port wine, which Mr. Maitland had
ordered to be administered if she woke, and sunk to sleep again. It was
that deep, still, almost fearful repose, for it is so like death, which
we can scarcely satisfy ourselves is life, except by holding a glass at
intervals to the lips, to trace if indeed it receive the moisture of the
breath. And nurse Langford, Mrs. Hamilton, and Edward had, through these
long hours, watched and scarcely stirred. For they knew that on her
waking hung hope or misery, return of intellect, or its confirmed
suspension. Mr. Maitland had particularly wished Edward to be with her
when she recovered her senses, that his presence might seem as natural
as either of her cousins; but he warned him that the least display of
agitation on his part, or reference to the past, in her exhausted state,
might be fatal to her. It was quite the evening. Widow Langford had
lighted the lamp, and sat down by the fire, scarcely able to breathe
freely, from the intensity of her hope that Ellen would recover. And if
such were her feelings, what were Edward's and Mrs. Hamilton's? The
former was kneeling on the right of the bed, his eyes alternately fixed
on his sister, and buried in the coverlid. Mrs. Hamilton was on the
opposite side, close to Ellen's pillow, the curtain drawn so far back,
that the least change on the patient's countenance was discernible. Hour
after hour had so passed, the chimes that told their flight were
scarcely heard by those anxious watchers. It was about eight o'clock,
when a slight movement in Ellen made her aunt's heart so throb, as
almost to deprive her of breath; her eyes unclosed, and a smile, such as
Mrs. Hamilton had not seen for weeks, nay, months, circled her lips.
"Dear aunt, have I been ill? It seems such a long, long time since I
have seen you, and my head feels so strange, so light; and this room, it
is my own, I know, but I feel as if it did not belong to me, somehow. Do
make my head clear, I can not think at all."
"Do not try to think yet, darling. You have been very, very ill, and to
endeavor to think might hurt you. Strength will soon return now, I hope,
and then your head will be quite clear again," returned Mrs. Hamilton,
quietly and caressingly, though she so trembled with the change from
sickening dread to certain hope, that she herself scarcely knew how she
spoke at all.
"But what made me so ill, aunt? I feel as if it were some great pain; I
can not remember any thing clearly, but yet it seems as if I had been
very unhappy--and that--that you did not love me any more. Did any thing
make me ill? Was it really so?"
"That I did not love you, my Ellen! Indeed, that was only fancy. You
were very unhappy, as we were all, for Edward did not come as soon as we
expected him, and the storms were very dreadful, and we feared his ship
might have been wrecked, or cast ashore, somewhere very far off, where
we could not hear of him; and when you saw him, and knew he was safe,
the anxiety and pain you had undergone, made you ill; you know a little
thing will do that, dearest."
"But is he really safe, aunt Emmeline? Where is he?"
"Close by you, love. He has been as watchful and anxious a nurse as I
have been. Poor fellow, you have given him a sad welcome, but you must
make up for it, by-and-by."
Ellen looked languidly, yet eagerly round, as her aunt spoke, and her
gaze fixed itself on her brother, who was struggling violently to
suppress the emotion which, at the sound of her voice, in connected
words, nearly overpowered him; and still more so, when Ellen said, more
eagerly than she had yet spoken--
"Dear Edward! come and kiss me, and do not look so sad. I shall soon get
well."
He bent over her, and kissed her repeatedly, trying in vain to say
something, but he felt so choked, he could not; and Ellen held his hand,
and looked earnestly, searchingly in his face, as if trying painfully to
define the vague thoughts and memories which seemed all connected with
him and with pain, but which would not take a distinct form. Her eye
wandered from him for a moment to nurse Langford, who had come to the
foot of the bed, and that seemed another face connected with the blank
past, and then it fixed itself again on Edward, and her pale face so
worked with the effort of thought, that Mrs. Hamilton became alarmed.
She saw, too, that Edward was growing paler and paler, and trembled for
the continuance of his control. Taking Ellen's hand gently from his, and
arranging her pillow at the same time, so as to turn her face rather
from him, she said, playfully--
"You have looked at Edward long enough, Ellen, to be quite sure he is
safe at home. So now I shall be jealous if you give him any more of your
attention and neglect me; you must take some nourishment, and try to go
to sleep again, for I must not have you try your strength too much."
"If I could but remember clearly," answered Ellen, sadly; "it is all so
vague--so dark--but I do not think it was only because he did not come,
that made me so unhappy."
"You are not going to be disobedient, dearest," replied Mrs. Hamilton,
firmly, though fondly, as she hastily signed to Edward to leave the
room, which he most thankfully did, never stopping till he reached his
own, and tried to thank God for His great mercy, but could only sob. "I
told you not to think, because to do so might retard return of strength,
and indeed you must try and obey me; you know I am very peremptory
sometimes." And the fond kiss with which she enforced the command seemed
to satisfy Ellen, whose natural submissiveness, combined with excessive
physical weakness, caused her to obey at once, and not attempt to think
any more. She took the required nourishment with returning appetite, and
soon afterward fell quietly and happily to sleep again, her aunt's hand
closely clasped in hers.
From that day, all fear of disordered intellect departed, and,
gradually, the extreme exhaustion gave way before Mr. Maitland's
judicious treatment. Strength, indeed, returned so slowly and almost
imperceptibly, that it was necessary to count improvement by weeks, not
days. And when, six weeks after her first seizure, she was thought well
enough to be carried to Mrs. Hamilton's dressing-room, and laid on a
couch there, it was a source of gratitude and rejoicing to all. But Mr.
Maitland and Mrs. Hamilton soon saw, with intense anxiety, that with
physical strength, memory and thought had both fully returned, and that
their consequence was a depression so deep, as effectually to retard her
perfect recovery. She seemed to shrink from all attention, all kindness,
as utterly undeserved, even from her cousins. She would look at Edward
for half an hour together, with an expression of suffering that made the
heart actually ache. At times she would receive Mrs. Hamilton's
caressing and judicious tenderness as if it were her only comfort, at
others, shrink from it, as if she had no right to it.
"This will never do," Mr. Maitland said, about ten days after Ellen's
removal into her daily quarters, and finding she was losing ground;
"there is something on her mind, which must be removed, even if to do
so, you refer to the past. She remembers it all too clearly, I fear, so
our not alluding to it does no good. You must be the physician in this
case, my dear Mrs. Hamilton, for I am powerless."
But though she quite agreed with him, how to approach such a very
painful subject required no little consideration; but, as is very often
the case, chance does that on which we have expended so much thought.
One afternoon Ellen lay so still, so pale, on her couch, that Mrs.
Hamilton bent over her to listen if she breathed, saying as she did so,
almost unconsciously--
"My poor Ellen, when shall I have the comfort of seeing you well and
happy again?"
Ellen hastily unclosed her eyes, for she was not asleep--it had been
only the stupor of painfully-engrossing thought, rendering her
insensible to all outward things, but her aunt's voice aroused her, and
it seemed an inexpressible relief to feel they were quite alone. Trying
to rise, and clasping her hands, she said, in a tone of strong
excitement--
"Oh, aunt Emmeline, how can I be happy--how can I be well--when I
think--think--that if it had not been for my sin, and the misery it
brought on me, Edward might be safe still? no one need have known his
errors. I tried to save--and--and I have only betrayed, and made him
wretched. All I suffered was for nothing, worse than nothing!"
"Thank God, you have spoken, my dear child! I felt as if I dared not
introduce the subject; but now that you have yourself, I think I shall
be able, if indeed you will listen to me patiently, Ellen, to disperse
the painful mists, that are still pressing so heavily on this poor
little heart and brain," she said, fondly, though seriously, as she put
her arm round Ellen, to support her as she sat up. "I do not tell you it
is not a natural feeling, my love, but it is a wrong one. Had your sin,
in consideration of its being, as I am now convinced it was, wholly
involuntary--for in the fearful state of mind Edward's desperate letter
occasioned, you could not have known or thought of any thing, but that
relief seemed sent to your hand--had it on that account been permitted
so far to succeed, as to give him the aid he demanded, and never have
been traced to you, it would have confirmed him in the path of guilt and
error, and poisoned your happiness forever. When you recall the agony,
almost madness you felt, while burdened with the consciousness of such
an act, how could you have borne it, if it had continued through months,
perhaps years? You shudder; yet this must have been the case, and Edward
would have persisted in error, if your sin had been permitted to
succeed. Its detection, and the sufferings thence springing, terrible as
they have been to you, my poor child, have saved him; and will, I trust,
only bring securer happiness to you."
"Saved him!" repeated Ellen, half starting up, and scarcely hearing the
last words--"saved Edward!"
"Yes, dearest, by leading him to a full confession, and giving him not
only the inexpressible comfort of such a proceeding, but permitting him
to see, that great and disappointing as his errors are, they can be
conquered. They are not of the irremediable, guilt-confirming nature,
that he was taught to suppose them for Harding's own most guilty ends,
and so giving him hope and resolution to amend, which a belief that
amendment is impossible, entirely frustrates. Do not fear for Edward, my
own love; he will give you as much pride and comfort as he has anxiety
and grief; and you, under God's mercy, will have been the cause. It is a
hard lesson to learn, and yet, Ellen, I think one day, when you can look
back more calmly on the last few months, you will acknowledge with me,
that great as your sufferings have been, they were sent in love both to
him and to you."
"If they have saved him--saved him from a continuance in error, and so
made him happy!--Oh, aunt Emmeline, I can think so now, and I will try
to bear the rest? but why," she added, growing more excited, "oh, why
have you been so good, so kind? Why did you not continue cold and
distant? I could bear it better, then."
"Bear what, love? What have you more to bear? Tell me all without
reserve. Why should I be cold, when you deserve all my love and
kindness?"
"Because--because, am I not to go to Seldon Grange, as soon as I am
strong enough? Uncle Hamilton said, there could be no excusing cause
demanding a complete avoidance of his sentence. I thought it was pain
enough when you first told me; but now, now every time I think about it,
it seems as if I could not bear it."
"And you are not called upon to bear it, my dear child. Is it possible
you could think for a moment that I could send you away from me, when
you have borne so much, and been treated with far too much severity
already? Did I not tell you that the term of your banishment depended
entirely on the motive of your silence, and do you think there was no
excuse in your motive, my Ellen, mistaken as it was? Is self-devotion to
be of no more account to me, than it seemed to you? Come, smile,
dearest; I promise you, in your uncle's name and my own, you shall never
leave us, unless it be of your own free will and pleasure, a few years
hence."
Ellen did try to smile, but she was too weak to bear this complete
removal of a double burden without an emotion that seemed more like pain
than joy. She laid her head on her aunt's shoulder, and wept without
restraint. They were the first tears she had shed since her illness, and
Mrs. Hamilton thanked God for them. She did not attempt to check them,
but the few words she did speak, told such affectionate sympathy, such
perfect comprehension of that young heart, that Ellen felt as if a
mountain of lead were dissolving from her.
"And now, my Ellen, that I have relieved you of a painful dread, will
you ease my mind of a great anxiety?" inquired Mrs. Hamilton, nearly an
hour afterward, when Ellen seemed so relieved and calmed, that she could
talk to her without fear. "You look surprised; but it is a subject you
alone can explain, and till it is solved, I shall never feel that your
happiness is secure. What is this promise, to which in your illness you
so constantly referred, and which, I fear, has strengthened you in the
system of self-sacrifice for Edward's sake, in addition to your love for
him?"
A deep flush rose to Ellen's transparent cheek and brow, as she
answered, falteringly--
"Ought I to tell you, dear aunt? You do not know how often, how very
often I have longed to ask you, if to keep it made me do wrong--whether
I ought to break it? And yet it seemed so sacred, and it gave poor mamma
such comfort!"
"When did you make it, love? Its import I need not ask you, for you
betrayed it, when you knew not what you said, and it was confirmed by
your whole conduct. To shield Edward from blame or punishment, by never
revealing his faults?"
"Was it wrong?" murmured Ellen, hiding her conscious face.
"Wrong in you! no dearest; for you were too young to know all the pain
and evil it was likely to bring. Tell me when, and how, it was taken;
and I think I can prove to you that your poor mother would have recalled
it, had she had the least idea of the solemn hold it had taken upon
you."
Thus encouraged, Ellen narrated the scene that had taken place in widow
Morgan's cottage just before Mrs. Hamilton arrived; and her mother's
fears for Edward, and dread of Mr. Hamilton, which it was very evident,
and now more than ever, had extended to both her children. She said that
Mr. Myrvin's assurance, that her mother could see, and would love her in
Heaven, directly following the promise, had given it still more weight
and solemnity. That at first she thought it would be very easy to keep,
because she loved Edward so dearly; but she had not been long at Oakwood
before it made her very unhappy, from its constant interference with,
and prevention of, her obedience and duty to her aunt; that it had often
caused her violent head aches, only from her vain attempts to satisfy
herself as to that which she ought to do. When Edward first went to sea,
and all seemed so right and happy with him, of course she became happier
than she had ever been before. Then came his difficulties, and her
conviction that she must save him and keep his secret. That her reason
and her affection often urged her to confide all to her aunt, certain
that she would not harshly condemn Edward, but would forgive and help
him far more effectually than she could; but she dared not, for whenever
she thought thus, the figure of her mother rose before her, seeming to
reproach and threaten her for exposing the child she so dearly loved to
disgrace and ruin; and this was so vivid--so constant during his last
appeal, that she thought she must be going mad; that nothing but the
dread of not being firm enough to keep Edward's secret, had withheld her
from confessing her sin at once to her aunt, especially when her uncle
had so solemnly denounced it as theft, and that when it was discovered
it seemed actual relief, though it brought such severe punishment, for
she knew no suffering for her could be too severe.
The tale, as Ellen told it, was brief and simple enough, and that there
was any merit in such a system of self-devotion never seemed to enter
her mind for a moment; but to Mrs. Hamilton it revealed such an amount
of suffering and trial, such a quiet, systematic, heroic endurance, that
she unconsciously drew that young delicate being closer and closer to
her, as if her love should protect her in future from any such trial;
and from what had it all sprung?--the misery of years, at a period when
life should be so joyous and so free, that care and sorrow flee it as
purely and too briefly happy to approach? From a few thoughtless words,
from a thoughtless, partial mother, whose neglect and dislike had
pronounced that disposition cold, unloving and inanimate whose nature
was so fervid, so imaginative, that the utmost care should have been
taken to prevent the entrance of a single thought or feeling too
precocious, too solemn for her years. It may be urged, and with truth,
that to an ordinary child the promise might have been forgotten, or
heedlessly laid aside, without any harm accruing from it, but it was
from not caring to know the real character of the little being, for
whose happiness and virtue she was responsible, that the whole mischief
sprung; and it is this neglect of maternal duty against which we would
so earnestly warn those who may not have thought about it. It is _not
enough_ to educate the mind, to provide bodily necessaries, to be
indulgent in the gift of pleasure and amusement, the _heart_ must be won
and taught; and to do so with any hope of success, the character must be
transparent as the day: and what difficulty, what hinderance, can there,
or ought there to be, in obtaining this important knowledge to a mother,
from whose breast the babe has received its nourishment, from whose arms
it has gradually slipped away to feel its own independence, from whose
lips it has received its first lessons, at whose knee lisped its first
prayer? How comparatively trifling the care, how easy the task to learn
the opening disposition and natural character, so as to guide with
gentleness and love, and create happiness, not for childhood alone,
though that is much, but for youth and maturity.
All these thoughts passed though Mrs. Hamilton's mind as she listened
to her niece, and looked at the pale, sweet face lifted up to hers in
the earnestness of her simple tale, as if unconsciously appealing for
her protection against the bewildering and contending feelings of her
own young heart. How she was effectually to remove these impressions of
years indeed she knew not; her heart seemed to pray for guidance that
peace might at length be Ellen's portion, even as she heard.
"You could scarcely have acted otherwise than you have always done
toward Edward, my dear Ellen, under the influence of such a promise,"
she said; "your extreme youth, naturally enough, could not permit you to
distinguish, whether it was called for by a mere impulse of feeling in
your poor mother, or really intended. But tell me, do you think it would
give me any comfort or happiness if I could see Emmeline act by Percy as
you have done by Edward? To see her suffer pain and sorrow, and be led
into error, too, sometimes, to conceal Percy's faults, and prevent their
removal, when, by the infliction of some trifling pain, it would save
his exposing himself to greater?"
"But it seems so different with my cousins, aunt; they are all such
equals. I can not fancy Emmeline in my place. You have always loved them
all alike."
"And do you not think a mother ought to do to, dearest?"
"But how can she, if they are not all equally deserving? I was so
different to Edward: he was so handsome and good, and so animated and
happy; and I was always fretful and ill, and they said so often naughty;
and he used to fondle poor mamma, and show his love, which I was afraid
to do, though I did love her so _very_ much (the tears started to her
eyes), so I could not help feeling he must be much better than I was,
just as I always feel all my cousins are, and so it was no wonder poor
mamma loved him so much the best."
"Have I ever made any difference between Edward and you, Ellen?" asked
Mrs. Hamilton, conquering, with no small effort, the emotion called
forth by Ellen's simple words.
"Oh, no, no!" and she clung to her in almost painful emotion. "But you
are so good, so kind to every body; you would love me, and be kind to me
as poor papa was, because nobody else could.
"My dear Ellen, what can I do to remove these mistaken impressions? I
love you, and your father loved you, because you have qualities claiming
our love quite as powerfully as your brother. You must not imagine
because you may be less personally and mentally favored, that you are
_inferior_ to him, either in the sight of your Heavenly Father, or of
the friends and guardians He has given you. And even if such were the
case, and you were as undeserving as you so wrongly imagine yourself, my
duty, as that of your mother, would be just the same. A parent does not
love and guide her children according to their individual merits, my
dear Ellen, but according to the fountain of love which, to enable her
to do her duty, God has so mercifully placed in her heart; and therefore
those who have the least attractions and the most faults, demand the
greater cherishing to supply the place of the one, and more careful
guiding to overcome the other. Do you quite understand me, love."
Ellen's earnest face, on which joy and hope seemed struggling with
doubt, was sufficient answer.
"All mothers do not think of their solemn responsibility in the same
light; and many causes--sad recollections and self-reproaches for her
early life, and separation in coldness from her father and myself, might
all have tended to weaken your mother's consciousness of her duty, and
so, without any fault in yourself, my Ellen, have occasioned her too
great partiality for Edward. But do you remember her last words?"
Ellen did remember them, and acknowledged they had so increased her
affection for her mother, as to render the promise still more sacred to
her.
"I feared so, dearest; but it is just the contrary effect which they
should have had. When she called you to her, and blessed and kissed you
as fondly as she did Edward, she said she had done you injustice, had
failed in her duty to you, and it so grieved her, for it was too late to
atone for it then; she could only pray to God to raise you up a kinder
parent. I have tried to be that, for her sake, as well as your own; and
will you not acknowledge, that if she had been spared to love and know
your affection for her, she could no more have borne to see you suffer
as you have done for Edward, than I could my Emmeline for Percy? Do you
not think, when she had learned to feel as I do, which she had already
begun to do, that she would have recalled that fatal promise, and
entreated you not to act upon it? What has it ever done but to make you
to painfully suffer, lead you often into error, and confirm, by
concealment, Edward's faults?"
Ellen's tears were falling fast and freely, but they were hardly tears
of pain. Her aunt's words seemed to disperse a thick mist from her brain
and heart, and for the first time, to satisfy her that she might dismiss
the painful memory of her promise, and dismiss it without blame or
disobedience to her mother.
Mrs. Hamilton had begun the conversation in trembling, for it seemed so
difficult to accomplish her object without undue condemnation of her
sister; but as Ellen, clasping her arms about her neck, tried to thank
her again and again, for taking such a heavy load from her heart, saying
that she would still help Edward just the same, and she would try to
guard him and herself from doing wrong, that her mother should love her
still, she felt she had succeeded, and silently, but how fervently,
thanked God.
"But will you tell me one thing, aunt Emmeline? Why, if the promise were
mistaken, and poor mamma would have wished it recalled, did I always
seem to see her so distinctly, and fancy she so desired me to save
Edward from my uncle's displeasure?"
"Because you have a very strong imagination, my love, increased by
dwelling on this subject; and in your last trial your mind was in such a
fearful and unnatural state of excitement, that your imagination became
actually diseased. It was not at all surprising; for much older and
stronger, and wiser persons would have experienced the same, under the
same pressure of grief, and terror, and remorse. But what can I do to
cure this morbid imagination, Ellen?" she continued playfully; "sentence
you, as soon as you get well, to a course of mathematics, six hours each
day?"
"I am afraid my poor head will be more stupid at figures than ever,"
replied Ellen, trying to smile, too.
"Then I suppose I must think of something else. Will you follow
Emmeline's example, and tell me every thing, however foolish or
unfounded it may seem, that comes into this little head--whether it
worries or pleases you? You have nothing, and you will have nothing ever
again, I trust, to conceal from me, my dear Ellen; and if you will do
this, you will give me more comfort individually, and more security for
the furtherance of your happiness, as far as my love can promote it,
than any other plan."
Her playfulness had given place to renewed earnestness, and Ellen, as if
in the very thought of such perfect confidence dwelt security and
peace, so long unknown to her, gave the required assurance so eagerly
and gratefully, that Mrs. Hamilton was satisfied and happy.