FORGIVENESS.
Three days after Mr. Hamilton's arrival, a cheerful party assembled in
his wife's dressing-room, which, in its elegant appurtenances--signs as
they were, of a most refined and beautiful taste--certainly deserved a
higher appellation; but boudoir, Percy had always declared, did not
harmonize at all with the old English comforts of Oakwood, and he would
not have a French word to designate his mother's room especially. Ellen
was on her sofa working; Edward, who she thought had only returned that
morning, at her side, reading; Caroline and Emmeline, drawing, the one
with some degree of perseverance, the other with none at all. It seemed
as if she could not sit still, and her wild sallies, and snatches of old
songs, repeatedly made Miss Harcourt look up from her book, and Mrs.
Hamilton from her work, surprised.
"Emmeline, I _can not_ draw," exclaimed Caroline, at length; "you are
making the table as restless as yourself."
"Why can you not say it was moved by an irresistible sympathy? It is
most extraordinary that you will still speak plain matter-of-fact, when
I am doing all I can to make you poetical."
"But what am I to poetize on now, Emmeline?--the table, or yourself?
because, at present, they are the only subjects under consideration, and
I really can not see any thing very poetical in either."
"Not even in _me_, Lina?" archly replied Emmeline, bending down so that
her face should come before her sister, instead of her copy, which was a
very pretty, small marble figure. "Now, if you were not the most
determined piece of prose in the world, you would find poetry even in my
face.
"For, lo! the artist no more gazed
On features still and cold;
He stood, bewilder'd and amazed,
As living charms unfold.
"As if touch'd by yon orient ray,
The stone to life had warm'd;
For round the lip such bright smiles play,
As never sculptor form'd.
There, Caroline, that is what you ought to have _felt_. If I can make
poetry on my own face--"
"Poetry on yourself! Why, Emmeline, I thought you were repeating a verse
of some old poet, with which I am unacquainted. I really beg your
pardon. I did not know your favorite Muse had dubbed you follower as
well as worshiper."
"Nor did I till this moment. She feared for her reputation near such a
love of prose as you are, and so touched me with inspiration. I am
exceedingly obliged to her; but even if I failed to make you poetical,
Caroline, you might have emulated Cowper, and instead of singing the
'Sofa,' sung the 'Table.' Indeed I think a very pretty poem might be
made of it. Look at the variety of tasteful and useful things laid on a
table--and there it stands in the midst of them, immovable, cold,
insensible just like one on whom we heap favors upon favors, and who
remains so wrapped in self, as to be utterly indifferent to all. Now,
Caroline, put that into rhyme, or blank verse, if you prefer it; it is a
new idea, at least."
"So new," replied her sister, laughing, "that I think I will send it to
Percy, and request him to turn it into a Greek or Latin ode; it will be
so much grander than my English version. You have so astonished mamma,
Emmeline, by your mad mood, that she has actually put down her work."
"I am so glad!" replied Emmeline, springing to her mother's side; "I
like other people to be as idle as myself."
"But there is a medium in all things, young lady," answered her mother,
half-gravely, half in Emmeline's own tone; "and I rather think your
conscience is telling you, that it is not quite right to desert one Muse
for another, as you are doing now."
"Oh, but my drawing must wait till her Muse inspires me again. Poetry
does not always come, and her visits are so delightful!"
"Then I am afraid you will think me very harsh, Emmeline; but delightful
as they are, I must not have them always encouraged. If you encourage
the idea of only working when the fit of inspiration comes upon you--in
plain words, only when you feel inclined--you will fritter life away
without one solid thought or acquirement. You think now, perhaps,
habituated as you are to employment, that this is impossible; but you
are just of an age to demand very strict watchfulness over yourself to
prevent it. Now that you are emerging from the routine of childhood's
lessons, and too old to be compelled to do that which is right,
and--rendering your task of control more difficult--more susceptible to
poetry, and what you term inspiration, than ever, you must try and
infuse a little of Caroline's steady, matter-of-fact into your poetry,
instead of almost despising it, as so cold and disagreeable. Now, do not
look so very sad, and so very serious, love, and jump at the conclusion
that I am displeased, because I speak seriously. I love your joyousness
far too dearly to check it, or wish you to do so, especially in your own
family; but just as you have learned the necessity of, and evinced so
well and so feelingly, control in emotions of sorrow, my Emmeline, so I
am quite sure you will trust my experience, and practice control, even
in the pleasant inspiration of poetry and joy."
Emmeline sat very quiet for several minutes; she was just in that mood
of extreme hilarity which renders control excessively difficult, and
causes the least check upon it to be felt as harsh and unkind, and
almost to bring tears. She was not too perfect to escape from feeling
all this, even though the person who had caused it was the mother she so
dearly loved; but she did not give way to it. A few minutes' hard
struggle, and the momentary temper was so conquered, that, with an even
more than usually warm kiss, she promised to think quite seriously on
all her mother said; and, an effort far more difficult, was just as
joyous as before.
"I have made so many mistakes in my drawing, mamma, I really do not
think I can go on with it to-day; do let me help you, I will take such
pains with my work, it shall be almost as neat as yours; and then,
though my fingers are employed, at least I may go on talking."
Mrs. Hamilton assented, telling her she might talk as much as she
pleased, with one of those peculiar smiles of approval which ever made
Emmeline's heart throb, for they always told her, that the thoughts and
feelings, and secret struggle with temper, which she imagined must be
known only to herself, her mother by some mysterious power had
discovered, and rewarded.
"Edward what are you so deep in?--'Fragments of Voyages and Travels'--I
thought it was something much _deeper_ than that by the deep attention
you are giving it. You should dip in oceans, not in fragments of water,
Ned."
"I did not feel inclined for the exertion," he replied, smiling.
"Do you know," she continued, "when I first read that book, which I did
merely because I had a lurking sort of affection for a handsome cousin
of mine who was a sailor, I was so charmed with the tricks you all
played in the cockpit, that I was seized with a violent desire to don a
middy's dress, and come after you; it would have made such a pretty
story, too; but I did not think mamma and papa would quite approve of
it, so I desisted. Should I not make a very handsome boy, Edward?"
"So handsome," he replied, again smiling, "that I fear you would not
have preserved your incognita half an hour, especially with those
flowing curls."
"My dear Emmeline, do tell me, what has made you in this mood?" asked
Ellen; "last week you were so sad, and the last three days you have
been--"
"Wild enough to frighten you, Ellen; ah, if you did but know the
reason."
"You had better satisfy her curiosity, Emmy," said Mrs. Hamilton, so
meaningly, that Emmeline's ready mind instantly understood her. "Tell
her all that did occur in that awful storm three days ago, as poetically
and lengthily as you like; no one shall interrupt you, if you will only
be very careful not to exaggerate or alarm."
Edward gave up his seat to his cousin, and Emmeline launched at once
into a most animated description of the storm and the shipwreck, and the
rescue; cleverly contriving so to hide all names, as to elude the least
suspicion of either the preserved or the preserver having any thing to
do with herself, Ellen becoming so exceedingly interested, as to lose
sight of the question which at first had struck her, what this could
have to do with Emmeline's wild spirits.
"You do not mean to say it was his own father he saved?" she said, as
her cousin paused a minute to take breath; "your tale is becoming so
like a romance, Emmy, I hardly know how to believe it."
"I assure you it is quite true; only imagine what my young hero's
feelings must have been, and those of the family, to whom he gave back a
husband and a father!"
"I should think them so intense, so sacred, as to be hardly joy at
first, and scarcely possible to be imagined, even by your vivid fancy,
Emmy."
"I don't know, Ellen, but I think I _can_ imagine them; you may shake
your head, and look wise, but I will prove that I can by-and-by. But
what do you think of my hero?"
"That I should like to know him, and admire him quite as much as you can
desire--and who told you all this?"
"One of the principal actors in the scene?"
"What, has your _penchant_ for any thing out of the common way reached
Dartmouth, and old Collins brought you the tale?"
"No," replied Emmeline, laughing; "guess again."
"William Grey?"
"No."
"One of the rescued crew who may know my aunt?"
"Wrong again, Ellen."
"Then I can not guess, Emmeline; so pray tell me."
"You are very silly, Ellen; were not Mr. Howard and Edward both at
Dartmouth at the time? why did you not guess them? Not that I had it
from either."
"Edward!" repeated Ellen, "did he know any thing about it?"
"More than any one else dearest," answered Mrs. Hamilton, cautiously,
but fondly; "put all Emmeline's strange tale together, and connect it
with my happiness the other morning, and I think your own heart will
explain the rest."
"More especially with this speaking witness," continued Emmeline
playfully putting back Edward's hair, that Ellen might see the scar. She
understood it in a moment, and clasping her arms round her brother's
neck, as he knelt by her, tried hard to prevent emotion, but could not,
and burst into tears.
"Tears, my little Ellen; I said I would only be greeted with smiles,"
exclaimed a rich, deep voice close beside her, and before she had time
to fear his presence, she felt herself clasped with all a father's
fondness in her uncle's arms; her head resting on his shoulder, and his
warm kiss on her cheek.
"Edward!" was the only word she could speak.
"Do not fear for him, my dear Ellen; true repentance and a firm
resolution to amend are all I ask, and if his future conduct really
prove them, the errors of his youth shall be forgotten, as if they had
never been."
"And--and--"
"I know all you would say, my dear child. I did think there could be no
excuse, no palliation, for your sin; but even if I still wish the
temptation had been resisted, you have indeed suffered for it, more than
the harshest judgment could desire; let it be forgotten as entirely and
as fully as it is forgiven."
In a very few minutes Ellen's composure was so fully restored, and her
heavy dread so subsided, that the relief seemed to her almost a dream.
Could it be possible that it was the relative she had pictured as so
harsh and stern, and pitiless to youthful error, who had drawn a chair
close by her sofa, and caressingly holding her hand in his, and looking
so kindly, so earnestly, in her altered face, was trying to amuse her by
telling her so many entertaining things about Feroe and Mr. Morton, and
his voyage home, and alluding to her brother's courage, and prudence,
and skill, in such terms as almost brought the tears again? Mr.
Hamilton was inexpressibly shocked at the change which mental and bodily
suffering had wrought in his niece. There is always something peculiarly
touching, and appealing to the best emotions, in youthful sorrow or
suffering of any kind; and her trial had been such an aggravated
one--combining such agonized remorse, for an act, which the harshest
judgment, knowing all points of the case, could scarcely pronounce as
other than involuntary, with the most heroic, but perfectly unconscious
self-sacrifice, and not only terror for her brother's fate, but an
almost crushing sense of misery for his faults, that the pallid face,
and frame so delicately fragile, had still deeper claims for sympathy
and cherishing than even when caused by ordinary illness. The loss of
her unusually luxuriant hair, except the soft bands which shaded her
face, visible under the pretty little lace cap, made her look much
younger than she really was, and so delicately transparent had become
her complexion, that the blue veins were clearly traceable on her
forehead, and throat, and hands; the dark, soft lash seemed longer than
before, as it swept the pale cheek, the brow more penciled, and the eye,
whether in imagination, from her friends knowing all she had endured, or
in reality, was so expressive of such deep, quiet feeling, that the
whole countenance was so altered and so improved, that it seemed as if
the heavy, sallow child was rapidly changing into one of those sweet,
lovable, heart-attracting girls, who, without any actual beauty, can
never be passed unnoticed.
At Ellen's request, Mrs. Hamilton had, as soon as she was strong enough,
read with her, morning and evening, the devotional exercises which were
read below to the assembled family. Mrs. Hamilton soon perceived, and
with no little pain, that Ellen shrunk from the idea of being well
enough to rejoin them, in actual suffering. Here again was an effect of
that same vivid imagination, of whose existence, until the late events,
in one so quiet, seemingly so cold, Mrs. Hamilton had not the least idea
of. Ellen had been so long accustomed to be silent as to her feelings,
in fact, carefully to conceal them, that much as she might wish and
intend to be unreserved, her aunt feared it would cause her some
difficulty to be so, and she could not hope to succeed in controlling
imagination, unless she were. That night, however, Ellen's unreserved
confidence gave her hope. When the devotional exercises, in which she
had joined with even more than usual earnestness and fervor, were
concluded, she said, with almost Emmeline's confidence, as she laid her
hand on her aunt's--
"I am so very, very happy to-night, dear aunt, that I am afraid I do not
think enough of what is past. I did so dread my uncle's return--so
tremble at what his sentence would be on Edward and myself, that even
your kindness would not remove the weight; and now, that I have found it
all so groundless, and he is so kind--so indulgent, I am so relieved,
that I fear I must have thought more of his anger than the anger of God.
My sin remains the same in His sight, though you and uncle Hamilton have
so fully forgiven it, and--and--I do not think I ought to feel so
happy."
"Indeed, my dear Ellen, I think you may. Our Heavenly Father is still
more merciful than man, as Mr. Howard so clearly proved to you, in the
long conversation you had with him. We know, by His Holy Word, that all
he asks is sincere repentance for sin, and a firm conviction that in Him
only we are made sufficiently righteous for our penitence to be
accepted. I believe, Ellen, that His forgiveness was yours, long before
I could give you mine, for He could read your heart, and saw the reason
of your silence, and all the remorse and suffering, which, from the
appearances, against you, I might not even guess; and that, in His
compassionating love and pity, He permitted your increased trial;
ordaining even the failure of the relief to Edward, to convince you,
that, not even in such a fearful case as yours, might error, however
involuntary, prosper. I can trace His loving providence even in the fact
of your finding one more note than you wanted, that discovery might
thence come, which, without such a seeming chance, was, humanly
speaking, impossible. He has shown compassion and love for you and
Edward, in the very sufferings He ordained. So do not check your
returning happiness, fearing it must be unacceptable to Him. Try to
trace all things, either of joy or sorrow, to Him. Associate Him with
your every thought, and believe me, my own Ellen, your very happiness
will both draw you nearer to Him, and be an acceptable offering in his
sight."
Ellen listened eagerly, gratefully; she felt as if, with every word Mrs.
Hamilton said, the film of doubt and vague fancies was dissolving from
her mind, and, after a short pause, she said--
"Then you do not think, aunt Emmeline, my inability to pray for so long
a time, was a proof that God had utterly forsaken me? It made me still
more wretched, for I thought it was a sure sign that I was so
irredeemably wicked, He had left me to the devices of my own heart, and
would never love or have mercy on me again. Even after you had quite
forgiven me, and proved to me my promise was a mistaken one and not
binding, I still felt the difficulty to pray, and it was so painful."
"Such inability is very often so entirely physical, my dear Ellen, that
we must not think too much about it. Our simple duty is to persevere,
however little satisfactory our devotions; and put our firm trust in our
heavenly Father, that He will heal us, and permit His countenance so to
shine upon us again, as to derive _comfort_ from our prayers. Your
inability before your illness was the natural consequence of Mr.
Howard's severe representations, which he has since assured me, he never
would have used, if he could have had the least idea of the cause of
your silence. You, my poor child, were suffering too much, from a
complete chaos of conflicting feelings and duties, to be able to realize
this, and I am not at all astonished, that when you most yearned for the
comfort of prayer and trust, the thought that by your silence you were
failing in your duty to me and so disobeying God, should utterly have
prevented it. Since your severe illness the inability has been entirely
physical. As strength and peace return, you will regain the power, and
realize all its comfort. Try, and under all feelings trust in and love
God, and do not be too much elated, when you can think seriously and
pray joyfully, nor too desponding when both fail you. In our present
state, _physical_ causes alone, so often occasion these differences of
feeling in hours of devotion, that if we thought too much about them, we
should constantly think wrong, and be very miserable. Try and prove your
desire to love and serve God, in your _daily conduct_ and _secret
thoughts_, my Ellen, and you will be able to judge of your spiritual
improvement by _action_ and _feeling_, far more truly and justly than by
the mood in which you pray."
The earnestness of truth and feeling was always so impressed on Mrs.
Hamilton's manner, whenever she addressed her youthful charge, that her
simplest word had weight. Happy indeed is it when youth--that season of
bewildering doubt and question, and vivid, often mistaken fancies, and
too impetuous feeling--has the rich blessing of such affectionate
counsels, such a friend. Why will not woman rise superior to the petty
employments and feelings too often alone attributed to her, and endeavor
to fit herself for such a thrice blessed mission; and by sympathy with
young enjoyments--young hopes--young feelings, so attract young
affections, that similar counsels, similar experiences, may so help and
guide, that the restless mind and eager heart quiesce into all the calm,
deep, beautiful characteristics, which so shine forth in the true
English wife--the true English mother!
A fortnight after Mr. Hamilton's arrival, Ellen was well enough to go
down stairs for part of the day, and even to read and write a little.
She was so very anxious to recommence her studies, which for many months
had been so painfully neglected, that it was a great trial to her, to
find her head was not yet strong enough for the necessary application.
There were many, very many privations and trials, attendant on
convalescence after so severe an illness, known only to Ellen's own
heart, and to her aunt's quick sympathy; and she very quickly learned in
them the meaning of Mrs. Hamilton's words regarding religion in conduct
and feeling, as well as in prayer. She tried never to murmur, or dwell
on the wish for pleasures which were denied her, but to think only on
the many blessings which surrounded her. It was not an easy task so to
conquer natural feeling, especially as the trial and its conquest was
often known only to herself; but the earnest wish, indeed, to become
holy in daily conduct, as well as in daily prayer, never left her mind,
and so enabled her at length fully to obtain it.
If Mrs. Hamilton had wanted evidence of her husband's public as well as
domestic worth, she would have had it fully now. His danger and his
preservation once known, letters of regard and congratulation poured
upon him, and Montrose Grahame made a journey down to Oakwood expressly
to welcome back, and express his individual gratitude for his friend's
safety to his youthful preserver. But Edward so shrunk from praise or
admiration, that his uncle, rejoicing at the feeling, would not press
him, as he had first intended, to accompany him to Oxford, where he went
to see his sons. Percy rated him soundly in a letter for not coming.
Herbert seemed, as if he could only think of his father's danger, and
thank God for his safety, and for permitting Edward to be the means. So
great was the desire of Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton to re-assemble all their
happy family once more, before Edward left them, that the young men
made an exception to their general rule, and promised to spend Easter
week at home. It was early in March, and anticipated by the home party
with the greatest delight.