A HOME SCENE, AND A PARTING.
"Caroline! Emmeline! come to the music-room, for pity's sake, and give
me some delicious harmony," exclaimed Percy, as soon as lights came, and
the excitement of the last two hours had a little subsided. "Sit
quiet--unless I have some amusement for my ears--I neither can nor
will. I will have some music to lull my tired senses, and a waltz to
excite my wearied frame."
"And rest your limbs," said Edward, dryly.
"Don't you know, master sailor, that when fatigued with one kind of
exercise, the best rest is to take another? Now I have been standing up,
playing the agreeable, for two mortal hours, and I mean to have a waltz
to bring back the stagnant circulation, and to be pleased for the
fatigue of pleasing. Caroline and Emmeline, away with you both. Ellen,
love, I will only ask you to come with us, and be pleased, too. Be off,
Edward, no one shall be my cousin's cavalier but myself; Herbert has had
her all day. Take my mother, if you like. Father, escort Miss Harcourt.
That's all right, as it always is, when I have my own way!"
His own way, this time, gave universal satisfaction. The talents of his
sisters has been so cultivated, as a means of enhancing home-happiness,
and increasing their own resources, that their musical evenings were
always perfect enjoyment. Caroline, indeed, improved as she was, still
retained her love of admiration sufficiently, to find still greater
enjoyment in playing and singing when there were more to listen to her,
than merely her own family, but the feeling, in the security and pure
atmosphere of Oakwood, was kept under control, and she could find real
pleasure in gratifying her brothers, though not quite to the same extent
as Emmeline.
Percy after comfortably settling Ellen, threw himself on the most
luxurious chair that he could find, stretched out his legs, placed his
head in what he called the best position for listening and enjoying, and
then called for duets on the harp and piano, single pieces on both, and
song after song with the most merciless rapidity.
"Your sisters shall neither play nor sing to you any more," his mother,
at length, laughingly said, "unless you rouse yourself from this
disgracefully idle fit, and take your flute, and join them."
"Mother, you are lost to every sensation of mercy! after all my
exertions, where am I to find breath?"
"You have had plenty of time to rest, you lazy fellow; letting your
sisters fatigue themselves without remorse, and refusing your share,"
expostulated Edward. "Caroline, Emmeline take my advice, and strike!
don't play another note."
"You young rebel! teaching my sisters to revolt against the authority of
such an important person as myself. However, I will be condescending for
once; Tiny, there's a love, fetch me my flute."
It was so very close to him as he approached the piano, that his sister
comically took his hand, and placed it on it, and two or three very
pretty trios were performed, Percy declared with professional _eclat_.
"Now don't go, Percy we want your voice in a song. Emmy, sing that
pretty one to your harp, that we wish papa so much to hear; Percy and I
will join when wanted."
"Caroline, I have not the genius to sing at sight."
"Oh, you have often! and the words will inspire you. Come, Herbert, we
want you, too; Edward's singing voice, has deserted him, or I should
enlist him also. Emmeline, what are you waiting for?"
"I can not sing it, dear Caroline; do not ask me," answered Emmeline,
with a confusion and timidity, which, at home, were perfectly
incomprehensible.
"Why, my little Emmy, I am quite curious to hear this new song; do not
disappoint me!" said her father encouragingly.
"But after Caroline I can not sing worth hearing," still pleaded
Emmeline.
"My dear child, I never heard you make such a foolish excuse before;
your mother and myself never find any difference in the pleasure that
listening to your music bestows, however one performer may be more
naturally gifted than the other."
"I declare I must sing it if it be only for the mystery of Tiny's
refusing," said Percy, laughing. "Come, Bertie--a MS. too--what a trial
for one's nerves!"
The words, however, seemed sufficiently satisfactory for them readily to
join in it. Emmeline still hesitated, almost painfully; but then
gathering courage, she sat down to her harp, and, without any notes
before her, played a few bars of one of those sweet, thrilling Irish
melodies so suited to her instrument, and then commenced her song, the
sweetness of her voice, and clearness of articulation atoning well for
her deficiency in the power and brilliancy which characterized her
sister. The words were exceedingly simple, but sung with deep feeling,
and heart-appealing as they were, from the subject, we hope our readers
will judge them as leniently as Emmeline's hearers.
EMMELINE'S SONG.
"Joy! joy! No more shall sorrow cloud
The home by Love enshrined:
The hearts, in Care's cold fetters bow'd,
Now loveliest flowers have twined;
And dove-eyed Peace, with brooding wing,
Hath made her dwelling here;
And Hope and Love sweet incense fling,
To welcome and endear.
"He has return'd!--and starless night
No longer o'er us lowers.
Joy! joy! The future is all bright
With rosy-blossom'd hours.
What gladness with our Father fled!
What gladness He'll restore!
He has return'd, through perils dread,
To bless his own once more!
"Joy' joy! Oh! let our voices raise
Their glad and grateful lay,
And pour forth thanksgiving and praise
That grief hath passed away!
That he was snatched from storm and wave,
To dry pale Sorrow's tear;
Restored! his home from woe to save--
Oh! welcome, Father dear!"
Emmeline's voice had at first trembled audibly, but seeming to derive
courage from her sister and brother's accompaniment, which, from their
knowledge of music, was so beautifully modulated as to permit her sweet
voice to be heard above all, and every word clearly distinguished, it
became firmer and more earnest as she continued, till she forgot every
thing but the subject of her song. For full a minute there was silence
as she ceased, but with an irresistible impulse Mr. Hamilton rose from
his seat, and, as Emmeline left her harp, he clasped her in his arms.
"How can I thank you, my Emmeline, and all my children, for this fond
greeting?" he exclaimed, with more emotion than he generally permitted
to be visible. "Where could you find such appropriate words? What!
tears, my little girl," he added, as, completely overcome by the
excitement of her song and her father's praise, Emmeline most
unexpectedly burst into tears. "What business have they to come when you
have given your parents nothing but pleasure? Drive them away, love;
what! still no smile? We must appeal to mamma's influence, then, to
explain and soothe them."
"Where did you get them, Tiny? explain, for I am positively faint from
curiosity," comically demanded Percy, as Emmeline, breaking from her
father, sat down on her favorite stool at her mother's feet, and hid her
face in her lap. Mrs. Hamilton laid her hand caressingly on those soft
curls, but, though she smiled, she did not speak.
"She will not tell, and you will none of you guess," said Caroline,
laughing.
"You are in the secret, so out with it," said Edward.
"Not I; I am pledged to silence."
"Mother, dear, tell us for pity," pleaded Herbert.
"I can only guess, for I am not in her confidence, I assure you," she
replied, in the same playful tone, and raising Emmeline's lowered head,
she looked a moment in those conscious eyes. "Dictated by my Emmeline's
affectionate little heart, they were found in this pretty shape, in the
recesses of her own fanciful brain--is not that it, dearest?"
"There, Emmy, I knew mamma would find it out, however we might be
silent," said Caroline, triumphantly, as her sister's face was again
concealed.
"Emmeline turned poet! Angels and ministers of grace defend me! I must
hide my diminished head!" spouted Percy. "I thought at least I might
retain my crown as the poet of the family, and to be rivaled by you--a
light-footed fawn--wild gazelle--airy sprite--my especial Tiny! it is
unbearable!"
"But we must all thank you, notwithstanding, Emmy," continued Herbert.
"Ah, but I have very little to do with it; the arrangement of the words
to the air, and the accompaniment, are Caroline's; I could not have done
that," said Emmeline; her tears changed to her most joyous smiles.
Percy and his father turned directly to Caroline, the former with a Sir
Charles Grandison's bow, the other with a most affectionate kiss; and
her mother looked at her with such an expression of gratified pleasure,
that she could not help acknowledging to herself, such pure enjoyment
was not to be found in the praise and admiration of strangers.
"Now, Emmeline, you have still a mystery to explain," said Edward. "Why
did you not own your offspring, instead of, by silence, almost denying
them?"
"And here I really can not help you," answered Mrs. Hamilton; "I can not
imagine why my Emmy should conceal a fact that could only give pleasure
to us all."
"I think I know," said Ellen, timidly; "Emmeline was thinking of all you
said about controlling an impulse, and not always encouraging that which
she termed inspiration, and perhaps she thought you did not quite
approve of her writing, and so wished to conceal it."
"How could you guess so exactly, Ellen?" hastily answered Emmeline,
forgetting, in her surprise at her cousin's penetration, that she
betrayed herself.
"Because I should have felt the same," said Ellen, simply.
"Then I must have explained myself very badly, my dear children, or you
must have both misunderstood me. I did not mean you to neglect such on
enjoyment as poetry, but only to keep it in its proper sphere, and not
allow it to take the place of resources, equally intellectual, but which
have and may still cost you more patience and labor. Poetry is a
dangerous gift, my dear child; but as long as you bring it to the common
treasury of Home, and regard it merely as a recreation, only to be
enjoyed when less attractive duties and studies are completed, you have
my full permission to cultivate--and try, by the study of our best
authors, and whatever other help I can obtain for you, to improve
yourself in it. No talent that is lent us should be thrown aside, my
Emmeline; our only care must be, not--by loving and pursuing it too
intensely--to _abuse_ it; but I must not lecture you any longer, or
Percy's patience will fail; I see he has placed Miss Harcourt already at
the piano, and Edward and Caroline are ready for their waltz."
"And so I transform one Muse into another," exclaimed Percy, who, in his
sister's absorbed attention, had neared her unobserved, and catching her
round the waist, bore her to the upper end of the room, and a minute
afterward she was enjoying her waltz, with as much childish glee, as if
neither poetry nor reflection could have any thing to do with her.
"Why is poetry a dangerous gift, dear aunt?" inquired Ellen, who had
listened earnestly to all Mrs. Hamilton had said.
"Because, my love, it is very apt to excite and encourage an over-excess
of feeling; gives a habit of seeing things other than they really are,
and engenders a species of romantic enthusiasm, most dangerous to the
young, especially of our sex, whose feelings generally require control
and repression, even when not joined to poetry. To a well-regulated mind
and temper, the danger is not of the same serious kind as to the
irregulated, but merely consists in the powerful temptation it too often
presents to neglect duties and employments of more consequence, for its
indulgence. There is a species of fascination in the composition of even
the most inferior poetry, which urges its pursuit, as giving so little
trouble, compared to the perseverance necessary for music and drawing,
and such a vast amount of pleasure, that it is difficult to withdraw
from it. This is still more strongly the case when the young first
become conscious of the gift, as Emmeline is now. As she gets older, and
her taste improves, she will not be satisfied with her efforts, unless
they are very superior to the present, and the trouble she will take in
correcting and improving, will remove a great deal of the too dangerous
fascination attending it now; still I am not anxious, while she retains
her confidence in my affection and experience, and will so control the
enjoyment, as not to permit its interference with her other more serious
employments."
Ellen listened eagerly, and they continued conversing on many similar
topics of interest and improvement, till the prayer bell rang, and
startled her into the recollection that she had always retired nearly an
hour before, and so had avoided entering the library, which she still
quite shrunk from. Percy stopped his dance, which he had converted from
a waltz into a most inspiring gallopade, the last importation, he
declared, from Almack's; Miss Harcourt closed the piano; and Herbert
paused in his conversation with his father. Nothing like gloom ever
marked the signal for the hour of devotion, but lighter pleasures always
ceased a few minutes before, that they might better realize the more
serious thought and service.
Mrs. Hamilton had never ceased to regret the disgrace she had inflicted
on Ellen, in not permitting her to retain her own place with the family,
at least in the hours of devotion, for it seemed more difficult to
remove that impression than any of her other trials. Returning her
niece's startled look with one of the sincerest affection, she said--
"You will remain with us to-night, my dear Ellen, will you not?"
"If you wish it, aunt."
"I do wish it, dearest, most earnestly. It is so long since I have had
the happiness of seeing all my children round me in this solemn hour,
and till you join us, I can not feel quite sure that you have indeed
forgiven an act of severity, which, could I but have suspected the
truth, I should never have inflicted."
"Forgiven!--you!" repeated Ellen, in utter astonishment, but rising
instantly. "Aunt Emmeline, dear aunt Emmeline, pray, do not speak so;
why did you not tell me your wish before? I would have conquered my own
disinclination to enter the library, weeks ago; indeed, indeed, it only
seemed associated with my own guilt and misery."
Mrs. Hamilton drew her arm fondly in hers, refusing for her the aid of
either of the young men, who had all hastened toward her, and led her
herself to the library, and to her usual place beside Emmeline. Many an
eager but respectful look of affectionate admiration was directed toward
her by the assembled household, the greater part of whom had not seen
her since the night of Edward's confession; and the alteration in her
appearance, the universal sympathy which her dangerous illness and its
cause had called forth, even in the humblest and most ignorant--for it
is the _heart_, not the _mind_, which is required for the comprehension
of self-devotion--her very youth seeming to increase its magnitude, had
inspired such a feeling of love, that could she have known it, would
have prevented that painful sensation of shyness.
Many, many thoughts thronged her mind, as her uncle's impressive voice
fell on her ear; thoughts which, though they prevented her following the
words of the prayers, and caused the tears, spite of every effort, to
stream through her slender fingers, yet turned into thankfulness and
praise, ere the service ceased, that, fiery as the ordeal had been, she
could still recognize a hand of love, and bless God, not only for the
detection of her involuntary sin, but for every pang she had endured.
The next day was Sunday, bringing with it all sorts of quiet, sober
pleasures of its own, only alloyed by the thought that it was the last
day of Percy's and Herbert's visit. The following morning they started
for Oxford, Mr. Hamilton and Edward intending to accompany them part of
the way, and then to proceed to Ashburton, where the former had
business, and then make a little tour through Plymouth home. The next
day was so beautifully fine and genial, that Emmeline declared it would
do Ellen the greatest possible good to go with her a few miles out of
the park, to see a waterfall she had lately discovered, and which she
had been longing for Ellen to see, as Caroline would not admire it as
much as it deserved. Miss Harcourt accompanied them, and on their
return, its beauties were described to Mrs. Hamilton in the most
animating strain; Emmeline declaring the air was more deliciously fresh,
the trees more green, the sky more brilliantly blue, than they had ever
been before; and that the very sound of the water, as it dashed down a
black rock, and threw up spray, which the rays of the sun rendered so
beautifully iridescent, as to seem like a succession of rainbows, was a
whole volume of poetry in itself.
"And what extraordinary vision do you think that silly cousin of mine
chose to fancy she saw coming down the Ashburton road, mamma? Actually
the apparitions of papa and Edward. She will persist in the fancy. Miss
Harcourt and I could only see two men on horseback, at too great a
distance for any identity to be recognized--but it must be their
wraiths, if it be, for they had no idea of coming home to-day."
"I am sure I was not mistaken, Emmeline," said Ellen (whom her aunt now
observed looked agitated and flushed); "and they were riding so fast,
something very pressing must have recalled them."
"And you are frightening yourself at shadows, my dear! but indeed I
think you must be mistaken, for your uncle told me, he should be
particularly engaged to-day," said Mrs. Hamilton.
"She is not mistaken, though," exclaimed Caroline, who was standing at
one of the windows; "for here they both are, true enough, and riding
quite fast down the avenue. However, the mystery will soon be solved."
Mr. Hamilton and Edward entered almost immediately afterward, the latter
evidently very much agitated, the former so tranquil and cheerful that
the momentary anxiety of his wife was calmed directly. He laughed at
their bewilderment, and said that an important letter had reached him at
Ashburton, summoning him to Plymouth, and so he thought he would just
see how all was going on at Oakwood first. This was not at all a
satisfactory reason from Mr. Hamilton. Edward evidently tried to answer
Ellen's inquiries quietly, but he could not, and exclaiming, "You tell
her, my dear uncle! I can not," ran out of the room. Mr. Hamilton
instantly changed his jesting manner, so far as quietly and
affectionately to seat his niece beside him, and tell her, cautiously
and kindly, the real cause of their unexpected return. Orders had been
sent to the Sea Queen, to sail much sooner than was expected, and
therefore he had deferred his business, and returned with Edward
directly.
"It is a trial, my dear Ellen, a very hard one just now, under all
circumstances; but I am sure you will bear it with fortitude, for
Edward's sake. The only drawback to his happiness in being again
permitted to follow his profession, is the thought of the trial, it will
be to you."
"But when must we part? When must he leave Oakwood?" was all poor Ellen
could ask; but in such a tone of quiet sorrow, her uncle could not for
the moment reply.
"The Sea Queen leaves Plymouth, wind permitting, the end of the week,
but--Edward must be on board to-morrow."
A low cry escaped involuntarily from Ellen's lips, as she buried her
face on the cushion of the couch where she was sitting, and an
exclamation of surprise and regret broke from all. Mrs. Hamilton felt it
almost as much as Ellen, from not only her own unspoken anxiety, as to
whether indeed his home influence would save him from temptation in
future, but that she could enter into every thought and feeling which in
Ellen must so aggravate the actual parting--always a sorrow in itself.
After a few minutes Ellen raised her head, and, though her cheek was
perfectly colorless, every tear was checked.
"Tell Edward he need not fear my weakness, dear Emmeline," she said,
trying hard to speak quite calmly. "Only beg him to come to me, that we
may spend the little time we have together; I will be as cheerful as
himself." And, effort as it was, she kept her word; so controlling
sorrow, to enter into his naturally glad anticipations, that her brother
felt as if he could not love, nor venerate her enough.
He was obliged to leave Oakwood (accompanied by his uncle) so early the
next morning, that all his preparations had to be completed by that
night. Ellis's activity, though she could not endure the idea of his
going, speedily and satisfactorily settled that matter. Robert Langford,
who had only regained his natural light-heartedness since Ellen had
taken her usual place in the family, always declaring his carelessness
had been the origin of all her misery, was another so active in his
service, that Edward had only to give a hint of any thing he wanted,
even if it could only be procured at some distance, and it was instantly
obtained.
The hours wore on, the evening devotions were concluded, but still the
family lingered in the library: so many things there seemed to say, for
Mr. Hamilton and Miss Harcourt would not let the conversation flag, and
Edward would talk and laugh, as if he were only going from home for a
few days. Midnight chimed, but still Mrs. Hamilton felt as if she could
not give the signal for separation: but when one struck, there was a
general start, and an unanimous declaration it could not be so late.
"I assure you it is," Mrs. Hamilton cheerfully said; "and poor Edward
will get no sleep, if we do not separate at once. He must certainly send
you a box of artificial roses, for this unusual dissipation will bear
all the natural ones away. Ellen, love, I must be cruel enough to resist
that pleading look; remember, your full strength has not yet returned."
She spoke kindly, but firmly, and there was a general move. Edward
laughingly promised to send his cousins the very best box of rouge he
could procure at Plymouth, and wished them good night as gayly as if
they should meet as usual the next morning. Once only his voice
faltered--"Ellen, love, good night! My own sister, God in Heaven bless
you!" were all he said, the last sentence escaping as if involuntarily,
as if he had merely meant to say good night; and for more than a minute
the brother and sister were clasped in each other's arms. There were
tears in Mrs. Hamilton's eyes, and her husband's were most unwontedly
dim, for words were not needed to reveal to them the trial of that
moment to those two young hearts. To Ellen's especially, for her lot was
woman's--to _endure_ until time should prove the reality of Edward's
resolution, and mark him indeed the noble character his disposition so
fondly promised. His was active service, the banishment of _thought_ by
_deed_. Breaking from her brother, and not daring to address either her
aunt or uncle, lest her control should fail her too soon, Ellen hastened
from the room.
"Go to her, aunt Emmeline; oh, tell her I will never, never cause her to
suffer again!" implored Edward, as soon as he could speak, and clasping
his aunt's hand. "She has been struggling with herself the whole evening
for my sake, and she will suffer for it to-morrow, unless she give it
vent, and she will weep less painfully if you speak of comfort."
"She will be better alone a little while, my dear boy; young as she is,
she knows where to seek and find comfort, and her tears would flow more
freely, conscious only of the presence and healing of her God. I shall
not part from you now. Ellis wanted me for some directions about your
things, and I will come to you in your room afterward."
Mrs. Hamilton knew the human heart well. When she went to Ellen, the
paroxysm of natural sorrow had had vent, and her sympathy, her earnestly
expressed conviction that the trial of beholding error and remorse in
one so beloved would not occur again, could bring comfort. The tears
indeed might still have flowed the faster, perhaps, at the voice of
kindness, but there was healing in them; and when her aunt left her to
go to Edward, she sent him a fond message that she was better, and in a
few days would be happy, quite happy, for his sake.
It was late before Mrs. Hamilton quitted her nephew. We will not repeat
all that passed between them, all that that fond watchful relative so
earnestly, so appealingly said. Not much in actual words of counsel had
she ever before addressed to him, feeling that that duty was better
performed by Mr. Howard and his uncle. She had simply tried to influence
him by the power of love, of forbearance, of sympathy with his remorse,
and pity for his errors. In the wretchedness, the fearful anxiety,
Ellen's danger and painful illness had occasioned herself individually,
she had never spoken, or even let fall a sentence which could reproach
him as the cause of all; and therefore, now that she did give her
anxious affection words, they were so spoken, that her nephew never
forgot them.
"I feel now," he had said, near the conclusion of their interview, "as
if nothing could tempt me to err again; but oh, aunt Emmeline, so I
thought when I left home before; and its influences all left me as if
they had never been. It may be so again and--and--are there not such
doomed wretches, making all they love best most miserable?"
"Not, indeed, if they will take their home influences with them, my
beloved boy. They deserted you before because, by the insidious
sentiments of a most unhappy man, your religion was shaken, and you
flung aside with scorn and misbelief the _only safety_ for the
young--God's most Holy Word. The influences of your home are based on
that alone, my Edward. They appear perhaps to the casual observer as
only love, indulgence, peace, and the joy springing from innocent and
happy hearts; but these are mere flowers springing from one immortal
root. In God's Word alone is our safety, there alone our strength and
our joy; and that may be yours still, my boy, though far away from us,
and in a little world with interests and temptations of its own. Take
this little Bible; it has been my constant companion for eighteen years,
and to none but to yourself would I part with it. If you fear your
better feelings failing, read it, be guided by it, if at first only for
the sake of those you love; I do not fear, but that very soon you will
do so for its own sake. It bears a name within it which I think will
ever keep it sacred in your care, as it has been in mine."
Edward opened it eagerly, "Charles Manvers!" he exclaimed; "My own
sailor-uncle, whose memory you have so taught me to love. It is indeed a
spell, dear aunt, and you shall never regret a gift so precious. But how
came it yours?"
"He came to me just before starting for his last trip, entreating me to
exchange Bibles with him, that in our most serious moments we might
think of each other. It was such an unusually serious speech for him,
that it seemed to thrill me with a vague forboding, which was only too
soon realized. I never saw him again; and that little book indeed
increased in value."
Her voice faltered, for even yet the memory of her brother was so dear
to her that she could never speak of him without emotion. Edward
reiterated his eager assurance that it should be equally valuable to
him, adding--
"I have often had strange fancies about uncle Charles, aunt, and longed
for the command of a ship, to scour the coast of Algiers, and learn
something more about the Leander. Somehow or other, I never can believe
he was drowned, and yet to think of him as a slave is terrible."
"And not likely, my dear boy; think of the lapse of years. But painful
as it is, we must separate, Edward: I must not detain you from rest and
sleep any longer. Only give me one promise--if ever you are led into
temptation and error again, and it may be--for our strongest resolutions
sometimes fail us--write to me without the smallest hesitation, openly,
freely; tell me all, and if you need aid, ask it, and I will give it;
and, if it be possible, avert your uncle's displeasure. I have no fear
that, in telling you this, I am weakening your resolution, but only to
prevent one fault becoming many by concealment--from dread of anger, and
therein the supposed impossibility of amendment. Remember, my beloved
boy, you have a claim on me which no error nor fault can remove; as,
under providence, the preserver of my husband, I can _never_ change the
anxious love I bear you. You may indeed make me very miserable, but I
know you will not: you _will_ let me look on your noble deed with all
the love, the admiration, it deserves. Promise me that, under any
difficulty or error, small or great, you will write to me as you would
have done to your own beloved mother, and I shall have no fear
remaining."
Edward did promise, but his heart was so full he could not restrain
himself any longer, and as Mrs. Hamilton folded him to her heart, in a
silent but tearful embrace, he wept on her shoulder like a child.