THE BIRTHDAY GIFT.
Brightly and placidly, as the course of their own beautiful river, did
the days now pass to the inmates of Oakwood. Letters came from Edward so
frequently, so happily, that hope would rest calmly, joyously, even on
the thought of him. He never let an opportunity pass, writing always to
Mrs. Hamilton (which he had scarcely ever done before), and inclosing
his letters to Ellen open in hers. The tone, the frequency, were so
changed from his last, that his family now wondered they had been so
blind before in not perceiving that his very seeming liveliness was
unnatural and overstrained.
With Ellen, too, Mrs. Hamilton's anxious care was bringing in fair
promise of success--the mistaken influences of her childhood, and their
increased effect from a morbid imagination, produced from constant
suffering, appearing, indeed, about to be wholly eradicated. Anxious to
remove all sad associations connected with the library, Mrs. Hamilton
having determined herself to superintend Ellen's studies, passed long
mornings in that ancient room with her, so delightfully, that it became
associated only with the noble authors whose works, or extracts from
whom, she read and reveled in, and which filled her mind with such new
thoughts, such expansive ideas, such calming and earnest truths, that
she felt becoming to herself a new being. Lively and thoughtless as
Emmeline she could not now indeed become--alike as their dispositions
naturally were; but she was more quietly, enduringly happy than she had
ever remembered her self.
There was only one alloy, one sad thought, that would intrude causing a
resolution, which none suspected; for, open as she had become, she could
breathe it to none but Ellis, for she alone could assist her, though it
required many persuasions and many assurances, that she never could be
quite happy, unless it was accomplished, which could prevail on her to
grant it. Ellen knew, felt, more and more each week, that she could not
rest till she had labored for and obtained, and returned into her aunt's
hands the full sum she had so involuntarily appropriated. The only means
she could adopt demanded such a seemingly interminable period of
self-denial, patience, and perseverance, that at first as Ellis
represented and magnified all connected with it, she felt as if, indeed,
she could not nerve herself for the task, much as she desired to perform
it; but prayer enabled her to face the idea, till it lost its most
painful aspect, and three months after Edward's departure she commenced
the undertaking, resolved that neither time nor difficulty should deter
her from its accomplishment. What her plan was, and whether it
succeeded, we may not here inform our readers. Should we be permitted to
resume our History of the Hamilton Family, both will be revealed.
Greatly to Caroline's delight, the following October was fixed for them
to leave Oakwood, and, after a pleasant tour, to make the long
anticipated visit to London. There would then be three or four months'
quiet for her to have the benefit of masters, before she was introduced,
and Mrs. Hamilton fondly hoped, that the last year's residence at home,
fraught as it had been with so much of domestic trial, and displaying so
many hopeful and admirable traits in Caroline's disposition, would have
lessened the danger of the ordeal of admiration and gayety which she so
dreaded for her child--whether it had or not, a future page will
disclose.
To Emmeline this arrangement was a source of extreme regret,
individually, in which Ellen now quite sympathized. But Emmeline had
never forgotten her mother's gentle hint, that too great indulgence of
regret or sorrow becomes selfishness, and she tried very hard to create
some anticipation of pleasure, even in London. Ellen would not look to
pleasure, but merely tried to think about--and so, when called upon,
cheerfully to resign that which was now so intensely enjoyable--her
studies with her aunt--and so benefit by them as to give Miss Harcourt
no trouble when she was again under her care; as she knew she and
Emmeline must be, more than they had been yet, when Caroline's
introduction, and their residence in London, would take Mr. and Mrs.
Hamilton so much from domestic pursuits and pleasures, and, even when at
home, compel them to be so frequently engrossed with a large circle of
friends, and all the variety of claims on their attention and time,
which a season in London includes.
It was again the 7th of June, and Ellen's birthday. Accustomed from the
time she became an inmate of Oakwood to regard the anniversary of her
birth in the same serious light as Mrs. Hamilton had taught her
cousins--as a day of quiet reflection, as well as of thankfulness and
joy, as one that, closing and recommencing another year of their
individual lives, taught them that they were becoming more and more
responsible beings--it was not much wonder that Ellen, the whole of that
day, should seem somewhat less cheerful than usual. She had indeed had
many sources of thankfulness and joy during the past year, but a heart
and mind like hers could not recall its principal event without a return
of sorrow. Mrs. Hamilton would not notice her now unusual sadness until
the evening, when perceiving her standing engrossed in thought beside
one of the widely-opened windows, near which Caroline was watering some
lovely flowers on the terrace, she gently approached her, and, putting
her arm round her, said, fondly--
"You have thought quite seriously and quite long enough for to-day, my
dear Ellen; I must not have any more such very silent meditations. That
there is something to regret in the retrospect of the last year, I
acknowledge, but you must not let it poison all the sources of
thankfulness which it brings likewise."
"It was not of my past conduct, I was thinking at this moment, aunt
Emmeline--it was--"
"What, love? tell me without reserve."
"That I never, never can return in the smallest degree all I owe to
you," replied Ellen, with a sudden burst of emotion, most unusual to her
controlled and gentle character; "I never can do any thing to evince how
gratefully, how intensely I feel all the kindness, the goodness you have
shown me from the first moment you took me to your home--an unhappy,
neglected, ailing child, and this year more, more than ever. My own poor
mother left me in my dangerous illness, and what have you not done to
give me back not merely physical, but mental health? Day and night you
watched beside me, forgetting all the care, the misery, my conduct had
caused you, only thinking, only seeking, to give me back to health and
happiness. Oh, aunt Emmeline, your very household can evince gratitude
and love, in the performance of their respective duties--I can do
nothing, never can. If I only could."
"Do you remember the fable of the lion and the mouse, my dear Ellen, and
Miss Edgeworth's still prettier story on the same subject?" replied Mrs.
Hamilton, more affected than she chose to betray, though she drew her
niece closer to her, and kissed her fondly. "I hope I shall never be
caught in a net, nor exposed to such horrors and danger as poor Madame
de Fleury in the French Revolution; but for all that, and unlikely as it
seems now, my dear child, you may have many an opportunity to return all
that you so gratefully feel you owe me. Do not let any such thought
worry you; but believe me, when I assure you that affection and
confidence are the only return I require, united, as they are in you,
with such an earnest desire, and such persevering efforts to become all
your best friends can wish you."
She was interrupted by the entrance of Emmeline, with a small parcel in
her hand.
"Mamma, this has just arrived from Exeter for you; with an apologizing
message from Mr. Bennet, saying, it should have been here last night, as
he promised, but he could not get the articles from London in time. I am
so very curious as to what it possibly can be, that I would bring it to
you myself."
"Any other time I would punish your constant curiosity, Emmeline, by
refusing to gratify it. I can not do so now, however, for I should
punish myself as well. I did want it most particularly this morning; but
I am glad it was not delayed till the day was quite over. Your uncle and
I did not forget your birthday, my dear Ellen, though it seemed so." And
opening the parcel as she spoke, a very pretty jewel-case appeared,
containing the watch, cross, and all the other trinkets Ellen had placed
in Mrs. Langford's hand, and never had had the courage to inquire for,
and the few her aunt had kept for her, but so prettily arranged and
beautifully burnished, that she would scarcely have known them again.
"Did you never feel any curiosity as to the fate of your trinkets, my
love, that you have never asked about them?"
"I knew they were in better hands than my own," replied Ellen, with a
quivering lip. "I felt I had no further right to them, after attempting
to part with them."
"I know there are some very painful associations connected with these
trinkets, my dear Ellen, and, therefore, I would not return them to your
own care, till I could add to them a birthday-gift," and, lifting the
upper tray, she took out a gold chain, and a pair of bracelets of chaste
and beautiful workmanship--"that the sad memories of the one may be
forgotten in the pleasant thoughts of the other. I have only one
condition to make," she added, in an earnest lower tone, as Ellen tried
to speak her thanks, but could only cling to her aunt's neck and weep.
"If ever again you are tempted to dispose of them, dearest, promise me
to bring them to me, for my valuation first."
"You shall be put into fetters at once, Ellen," said Emmeline joyously,
as her cousin gave the required promise, so eagerly, that it was
evident, she felt how much security dwelt in it. "Mamma, make her put
them on; I want to see if she looks as interesting as Zenobia did in her
golden chains."
"I think you might find a prettier simile, Emmeline," replied Mrs.
Hamilton, smiling, as she granted her request, by throwing the chain
round Ellen's neck, and fastening the bracelets on her wrists.
"So I can, and so I will," replied the lively girl, altering, without
the smallest hesitation, the lines to suit her fancy--
"For thee, _rash girl_, no suppliant sues;
For thee may vengeance claim her dues;
Who, nurtured underneath our smile,
Repaid our cares with treacherous wile.
Dishonoring thus thy loyal name,
Fetters and warders _thou must claim_.
The chain of gold was quick unstrung,
Its links on that _fair neck were_ flung;
Then gently drew the glittering band,
And laid the clasp on Ellen's hand."
THE END