Mrs. Hamilton sat silently revolving in her mind all Caroline's late
conduct, but vainly endeavouring to discover one single good reason to
justify her rejection of St. Eval. In vain striving to believe all must
have been mistaken, she had not given him encouragement. That her
affections could have become secretly engaged was a thing so unlikely,
that even when Mrs. Hamilton suggested it, both she and her husband
banished the idea as impossible; for St. Eval alone had she evinced any
marked preference.
"You must speak to her, Emmeline, I dare not; for I feel too angry and
disappointed to argue calmly. She has deceived us; all your cares appear
to have been of no avail; all the watchful tenderness with which she had
been treated thus returned! I could have forgiven it, I would not have
said another word, if she had conducted herself towards him with
propriety; but to give him encouragement, such as all who have seen them
together must have remarked; to attract him by every winning art, to
chain him to her side, and then reject him with scorn. What could have
caused her conduct, but the wish to display her power, her triumph over
one so superior? Well might he say she had sunk in his estimation. Why
did we not question her, instead of thus fondly trusting in her
integrity? Emmeline, we have trusted our child too confidently, and thus
our reliance is rewarded."
Seldom, if ever, had Mrs. Hamilton seen her husband so disturbed; for
some little time she remained with him, and succeeded partly in soothing
his natural displeasure. She then left him to compose her own troubled
and disappointed feelings ere she desired the presence of her child.
Meanwhile, as the happy Emmeline went to prepare her little packet for
her dear old nurse, the thought suddenly arose that St. Eval had sent
his remembrances and adieus to Ellen only, he had not mentioned
Caroline; and unsophisticated as she was, this struck her as something
very strange, and she was not long in connecting this circumstance with
his sudden departure. Wild, sportive, and innocent as Emmeline was, she
yet possessed a depth of reflection and clearness of perception, which
those who only knew her casually might not have expected. She had marked
with extreme pleasure that which she believed the mutual attachment of
St. Eval and her sister; and with her ready fancy ever at work, had
indulged very often in airy visions, in which she beheld Caroline
Countess St. Eval, and mistress of that beautiful estate in Cornwall,
which she had heard Mrs. Hamilton say had been presented by the Marquis
of Malvern to his son on his twenty-first birthday. Emmeline had
indulged these fancies, and noticed the conduct of Caroline and St.
Eval till she really believed their union would take place. She had been
so delighted at the receipt of Mary's letter, that she had no time to
remember the young Earl's departure; but when she was alone, that truth
suddenly flashed across her mind, and another strange incident, though
at the time she had not remarked it, when she had said as her brother
she would remember him, he had repeated, with startling emphasis, "as
her _friend_." "What could it all mean?" she thought. "Caroline cannot
have rejected him? No, that is quite impossible. My sister would surely
not be such a practised coquette. I must seek her and have the mystery
solved. Surely she will be sorry St. Eval leaves us so soon."
Emmeline hastened first to Ellen, begging her to pack up the little
packet for Mrs. Langford, for she knew such an opportunity would be as
acceptable to her cousin as to herself; for Ellen never forgot the
humble kindness and prompt attention she had received from the widow
during her long and tedious illness; and by little offerings, and what
the good woman still more valued, by a few kind and playful lines, which
ever accompanied them, she endeavoured to prove her sense of Widow
Langford's conduct.
In five minutes more Emmeline was in her sister's room. Caroline was
partly dressed as if for a morning drive, and her attendant leaving just
as her sister entered. She looked pale and more fatigued than usual,
from the gaiety of the preceding night. Happy she certainly did not
look, and forgetting in that sight the indignation which the very
supposition of coquetry in her sister had excited, Emmeline gently
approached her, and kissing her cheek, said fondly--
"What is the matter, dear Caroline? You look ill, wearied, and even
melancholy. Did you dance more than usual last night?"
"No," replied Caroline; "I believe not. I do not think I am more tired
than usual. But what do you come for, Emmeline? Some reason must bring
you here, for you are generally hard at work at this time of the day."
"My wits have been so disturbed by Mary's letter, that I have been
unable to settle to anything," replied her sister, laughing; "and to add
to their disturbance, I have just heard something so strange, that I
could not resist coming to tell you."
"Of what nature?"
"St. Eval leaves London to-day for Castle Malvern, and next week quits
England. Now is not that extraordinary?"
Caroline became suddenly flushed with crimson, which quickly receding,
left her even paler than before.
"She is innocent," thought Emmeline. "She loves him. St. Eval must have
behaved ill to her; and yet he certainly looked more sinned against than
sinning."
"To-day: does he leave to-day?" Caroline said, at length, speaking, it
appeared, with effort, and turning to avoid her sister's glance.
"In little more than an hour's time; but I am sorry I told you, dear
Caroline, if the news has pained you."
"Pained me," repeated her sister, with returning haughtiness; "what can
you mean, Emmeline? Lord St. Eval is nothing to me."
"Nothing!" repeated the astonished girl. "Caroline, you are
incomprehensible. Why did you treat him with such marked attention if
you cared nothing for him?"
"For a very simple reason; because it gave me pleasure to prove that it
was in my power to do that for which other girls have tried in
vain--compel the proud lordly St. Eval to bow to a woman's will." Pride
had returned again. She felt the pleasure of triumphant power, and her
eyes sparkled and her cheek again flushed, but with a different emotion
to that she had felt before.
"Do you mean, then, that you have never loved him, and merely sported
with his feelings, for your own amusement? Caroline, I will not believe
it. You could not have acted with such cruelty; you do love him, but you
reject my confidence. I do not ask you to confide in me, though I did
hope I should have been your chosen friend; but I beseech, I implore
you, Caroline, only to say that you are jesting. You do love him."
"You are mistaken, Emmeline, never more so in your life. I have refused
his offered hand; if you wish my confidence on this subject, I give it
you. As he is a favourite of yours, I do not doubt your preserving his
secret inviolate. I might have been Countess of St. Eval, but my end was
accomplished, and I dismissed my devoted cavalier."
"And can you, dare you jest on such a subject?" exclaimed Emmeline,
indignantly. "Is it possible you can have wilfully acted thus? sported
with the feelings of such a man as St. Eval, laughed at his pain, called
forth his love to gratify your desire of power? Caroline, shame on you!"
"I am not in the habit of being schooled as to right and wrong by a
younger sister, nor will I put up with it now, Emmeline. I never
interfere with your conduct, and therefore you will, if you please, do
the same with me. I am not responsible to you for my actions, nor shall
I ever be," replied Caroline, with cold yet angry pride.
"But I will speak, when I know you have acted contrary to those
principles mamma has ever endeavoured to instill into us both," replied
Emmeline, still indignantly; "and you are and have been ever welcome to
remonstrate with me. I am not so weak as I once was, fearful to speak my
sentiments even when I knew them to be right. You have acted shamefully,
cruelly, Caroline, and I will tell you what I think, angry as it may
make you."
A haughty and contemptuous answer rose to Caroline's lips, but she was
prevented giving it utterance by the entrance of Martyn, her mother's
maid, with her lady's commands that Miss Hamilton should attend her in
the boudoir.
"How provoking!" she exclaimed. "I expect Annie to call for me every
minute, and mamma will perhaps detain me half an hour;" and most
unwillingly she obeyed the summons.
"Annie," repeated Emmeline, when her sister had left the room,
"Annie--this is her work; if my sister had not been thus intimate with
her she never would have acted in this manner." And so disturbed was the
gentle girl at this confirmation of her fears, that it was some little
time before she could recover sufficient serenity to rejoin Ellen in
arranging the widow's packet.
Mrs. Langford had the charge of Oakwood during the absence of the
family, and Mrs. Hamilton, recollecting some affairs concerning the
village schools she wished the widow to attend to, was writing her
directions as Caroline entered, much to the latter's increased
annoyance, as her mother's business with her would thus be retarded, and
every minute drew the time of Annie's appointment nearer. She could
scarcely conceal her impatience, and did venture to beg her mother to
tell her what she required.
"Your attention, Caroline, for a time," she replied, so coldly, that her
daughter felt instantly something was wrong, though what she guessed
not, for she knew not that St. Eval had obtained the sanction of her
parents for his addresses; and she little imagined he could have
anything to do with the displeasure she saw so clearly marked.
"You will wait, if you please, till I have finished writing, as this
cannot be delayed. Lord St. Eval leaves town in a very short time, and I
send this by him."
"Lord St. Eval," thought Caroline, suddenly becoming alarmed, "surely
mamma and papa know nothing of his offer."
A few minutes passed in silence, which was broken by the sound of
carriage-wheels stopping at the door, and Robert almost instantly after
entered with Miss Grahame's love, saying she could not wait a minute,
and hoped Miss Hamilton was ready.
"Miss Grahame!" repeated Mrs. Hamilton, in an accent of surprise, before
Caroline had time to make any answer; "Caroline, why have you not
mentioned this engagement? You do not generally make appointments
without at least consulting me, if you no longer think it necessary to
request my permission. Where are you going with Annie?"
"To Oxford Street, I believe," she answered carelessly, to conceal her
rising indignation at this interference of her mother.
"If you require anything there, you can go with me by and bye. Robert,
give my compliments to Miss Grahame, and say from me, Miss Hamilton is
particularly engaged with me at present, and therefore cannot keep her
engagement to-day. Return here as soon as you have delivered my
message."
"Mother!" burst from Caroline's lips, in an accent of uncontrollable
anger, as soon as the servant had left the room; but with a strong
effort she checked herself, and hastily walked to the window.
An expression of extreme pain passed across her mother's features as she
looked towards her, but she took no notice till Robert had returned, and
had been dismissed with her note to be given to Emmeline to transmit
with hers.
"Caroline," she then said, with dignity, yet perhaps less coldly than
before, "if you will give me your attention for a short time, you will
learn the cause of my displeasure, which is perhaps at present
incomprehensible, unless, indeed, your own conscience has already
reproached you; but before I commence on any other subject, I must
request that you will make no more appointments with Miss Grahame
without my permission. This is not the first time you have done so; I
have not noticed it previously, because I thought your own good sense
would have told you that you were acting wrong, and contrary to those
principles of candour I believed you to possess."
"You were always prejudiced against Annie," answered Caroline, with
rising anger, for she had quite determined not to sit silent while her
mother spoke, cost what it might.
"I am not speaking of Annie, Caroline, but to you. The change in your
conduct since you have become thus intimate with her, might indeed
justify my prejudice, but on that I am not now dwelling. I do not
consider Miss Malison a fit chaperon for my daughter, and therefore I
desire you will not again join her in her drives."
"Every other girl of my station has the privilege of at least choosing
her own companions without animadversion," replied Caroline,
indignantly, "and in the simple thing of making appointments without
interference it is hard that I alone am to be an exception."
"If you look around the circle in which I visit intimately, Caroline,
you will find that did you act according to your own wishes, you would
stand more alone than were you to regard mine. I have done wrong in ever
allowing you to be as intimate with Miss Grahame as you are. You looked
surprised and angry when I mentioned the change that had taken place in
your conduct."
"I had sufficient reason for surprise," replied Caroline, impatiently,
"I was not aware that my character was so weak, as to turn and change
with every new acquaintance."
"Are you then the same girl you were at Oakwood?" demanded Mrs.
Hamilton, gravely yet sadly.
A sudden pang of conscience smote the heart of the mistaken girl at
these words, a sob rose choking in her throat, and she longed to have
given vent to the tears which pride, anger, and remorse were summoning,
but she would not, and answered according to those evil whisperings,
which before she had only indulged in secret.
"If I am changed," she answered passionately, "it is because neither you
nor papa are the same. At Oakwood I was free, I had full liberty to act,
speak, think as I pleased, while here a chain is thrown around my
simplest action; my very words are turned into weapons against me; my
friendship disapproved of, and in that at least surely I may have
liberty to choose for myself."
"You have," replied Mrs. Hamilton mildly. "I complain not, Caroline, of
the pain you have inflicted upon me, in so completely withdrawing your
confidence and friendship, to bestow them upon a young girl. I control
not your affection, but it is my duty, and I will obey it, to warn you
when I see your favourite companion likely to lead you wrong. Had your
every thought and feeling been open to my inspection as at Oakwood,
would you have trifled as you have with the most sacred feelings of a
fellow-creature? would you have called forth love by every winning art,
by marked preference to reject it, when acknowledged, with scorn, with
triumph ill concealed? would you have sported thus with a heart whose
affections would do honour to the favoured one on whom they were
bestowed? would you have cast aside in this manner all that integrity
and honour I hoped and believed were your own? Caroline, you have
disappointed and deceived your parents; you have blighted their fondest
hopes, and destroyed, sinfully destroyed, the peace of a noble,
virtuous, excellent young man, who loved you with all the deep fervour
of an enthusiastic soul. To have beheld him your husband would have
fulfilled every wish, every hope entertained by your father and myself.
I would have intrusted your happiness to his care without one doubt
arising within me; and you have spurned his offer, rejected him without
reason, without regret, without sympathy for his wounded and
disappointed feelings, without giving him one hope that in time his
affection might be returned. Caroline, why have you thus decidedly
rejected him? what is there in the young man you see to bid you tremble
for your future happiness?"
Caroline answered not; she had leaned her arms on the cushion of the
couch, and buried her face upon them, while her mother spoke, and Mrs.
Hamilton in vain waited for her reply.
"Caroline," she continued, in a tone of such appealing affection, it
seemed strange that it touched not the heart of her child, "Caroline, I
will not intrude on your confidence, but one question I must ask, and I
implore you to answer me truly--do you love another?"
Still Caroline spoke not, moved not. Her mother continued, "If you do,
why should you hide it from me, your own mother, Caroline? You believe
my conduct changed towards you, but you have condemned me without proof.
You have abandoned my sympathy--shrunk from my love. Try me now, my
sweet child; if you love another, confess it, and we will do what we can
to make that love happy; if it be returned, why should you conceal it?
and if it be not, Caroline, my child, will you refuse even the poor
comfort your mother can bestow?"
She spoke in vain; but could she have read her daughter's heart at that
moment, maternal affection might not have been so deeply pained as it
was by this strange silence. Regret, deep, though unavailing, had been
Caroline's portion, from the moment she had reflected soberly on her
rejection of St. Eval. She recalled his every word, his looks of
respectful yet ardent admiration, and she wept at that infatuation which
had bade her act as she had done; and then his look of controlled
contempt stung her to the quick. He meant not, perhaps, that his glance
should have so clearly denoted that she had sunk in his estimation, it
did not at the moment, but it did when in solitude she recalled it, and
she felt that she deserved it. In vain in those moments did she struggle
to call up the vision of Lord Alphingham, his words of love, his looks
of even more fervid passion, his image would not rise to banish that of
St. Eval; and if Caroline had not still been blinded by the influence
and arguments of Annie, had she given her own good sense one half-hour's
uncontrolled dominion, she would have discovered, that if love had
secretly and unsuspiciously entered her heart, it was not for Lord
Alphingham. Had she really loved him, she could not have resisted the
fond appeal of her mother; but to express in words all the confused and
indefinable emotions then filling her heart was impossible. She
continued for several minutes silent, and Mrs. Hamilton felt too deeply
pained and disappointed to speak again. Her daughter had spoken to her
that morning as she had seldom done even in her childhood. Then her
mother could look forward to years of reason and maturity for the
improvement of those errors; now others had arisen, and if her control
were once so entirely thrown aside, could she ever regain sufficient
influence to lead her right. Seldom had Caroline's conduct given her so
much pain as in the disclosures and events of that morning.
"Is it absolutely necessary," Caroline at length said, summoning, as her
aunt Eleanor had often done, pride to drown the whisperings of
conscience, "that I must love another, because I rejected Lord St. Eval?
In such an important step as marriage, I should imagine my own
inclinations were the first to be consulted. It would be strange indeed,
if, after all I have heard you say on the evil of forcing young women to
marry, that you should compel your own child to accept the first offer
she received."
"You do me injustice, Caroline," replied her mother, controlling with an
effort natural displeasure; "St. Eval would not accept an unwilling
bride, nor after what has passed would your father and myself deem you
worthy to become his wife."
"Then long may this paragon of excellence remain away," replied
Caroline, with indignant haughtiness kindling in every feature. "I have
no wish ever to associate again with one by whose side I am deemed so
unworthy, even by my parents."
"Those who love you best, Caroline, are ever the first to behold and
deplore your faults. Have you acted honourably? have you done worthily
in exciting love merely to give pain, to amuse and gratify your own love
of power?"
"I have done no more than other girls do with impunity, without even
notice; and surely that which is so generally practised cannot demand
such severe censure as you bestow on it."
"And therefore you would make custom an excuse for sin, Caroline. Would
you have spoken thus a few months since? would you have questioned the
justice of your mother's sentences? and yet you say you are not changed.
Is it any excuse for a wrong action, because others do it? Had you been
differently instructed it might be, but not when from your earliest
years I have endeavoured to reason with, and to convince you of the sin
of coquetry, to which from a child you have been inclined. You have
acted more sinfully than many whose coquetry has been more general. You
devoted yourself to one alone, encouraged, flattered, because you saw he
was already attracted, instead of adhering to that distant behaviour
which would have at once told him you could feel no more for him than as
a friend. You would have prevented future suffering, by banishing from
the first all secret hopes; but no, you wished to prove you could
accomplish more than others, by captivating one so reserved and superior
as St. Eval. Do not interrupt me by a denial, Caroline, for you dare not
deliberately say such was not your motive. That noble integrity which I
have so long believed your own, you have exiled from your heart. Your
entire conduct towards St. Eval has been one continued falsehood, and
are you then worthy to be united to one who is truth, honour, nobleness
itself? Had you loved another, your rejection of this young man might
have been excused, but not your behaviour towards him; for that not one
good reason can be brought forward in excuse. I am speaking severely,
Caroline, and perhaps my every word may alienate your confidence and
affection still farther from me; but my duty shall be done, painful as
it may be both to yourself and me. I cannot speak tamely on a subject in
which the future character and welfare of my child are concerned. I can
no longer trust in your integrity. Spite of your change in manner and in
feeling towards me, I still confided in your unsullied honour; that I
can no longer do, you have forfeited my confidence, Caroline, and not
until I see a total change of conduct can you ever hope to regain it.
That perhaps will not grieve you, as it would once have done; but unless
you redeem your character," she continued "the serious displeasure of
both your father and myself will be yours, and we shall, in all
probability, find some means of withdrawing you from the society which
has been so injurious to the purity of your character. Whatever others
may do, it is your duty to act according to the principles of your
parents, and not to those of others; and therefore, for the future, I
desire you will abide by my criterion of right and wrong, and not by the
misleading laws of custom. When you have conquered the irritation and
anger which my words have occasioned, you may perhaps agree to the
justice of what I have said, till then I do not expect it; but whether
your reason approves of it or not, I desire your implicit obedience. If
you have anything you desire to do, you may leave me, Caroline, I do not
wish to detain you any longer."
In silence, too sullen to give any hope of a repentant feeling or
judgment, convinced, Caroline had listened to her mother's words. They
were indeed unusually severe; but her manner from the beginning of that
interview could not have lessened the displeasure which she already
felt. We have known Mrs. Hamilton from the commencement of her career,
when as a girl not older than Caroline herself, she mingled with the
world, and we cannot fail to have perceived her detestation of the
fashionable sin of coquetry. The remembrance of Eleanor and all the
evils she entailed upon herself by the indulgence of that sinful fault,
were still vividly acute, and cost what it might, both to herself and,
who was dearer still, her child, she would do her duty, and endeavour to
turn her from the evil path. She saw that Caroline was in no mood for
gentle words and tenderness to have any effect, and therefore, though at
variance as it was to her nature, she spoke with some severity and her
usual unwavering decision. She could read no promise of amendment or
contrition in those haughty and sullen features, but she urged no more,
for it might only exasperate and lead her farther from conviction.
For some few minutes Caroline remained in that same posture. Evil
passions of varied nature suddenly appeared to gain ascendancy in that
innately noble heart, and prevented all expressions that might have
soothed her mother's solicitude. Hastily rising, without a word, she
abruptly left the room, and retired to her own, where she gave vent to a
brief but passionate flood of tears, but they cooled not the fever of
her brain; her haughty spirit revolted from her mother's just severity.
"To be scolded, threatened, desired to obey, like a child, an infant;
what girl of my age would bear it tamely? Well might Annie say I was a
slave, not permitted to act or even think according to my own
discretion; well might she say no other mother behaved to her daughters
as mine; to be kept in complete thraldom; to be threatened, if I do not
behave better, to be removed from the scenes I so much love, buried
again at home I suppose; is it a wonder I am changed? Is it strange that
I should no longer feel for mamma as formerly? and even Emmeline must
condemn me, call me to account for my actions, and my intimacy with
Annie is made a subject of reproach; but if I do not see her as often as
before, I can write, thank heaven, and at least her sympathy and
affection will be mine."
Such was the tenor of her secret thoughts, and she followed them up by
writing to her friend a lengthened and heightened description of all
that had occurred that morning, dwelling long and indignantly on what
she termed the cruel and unjust severity of her mother, and imploring,
as such confidential letters generally did, Annie's secrecy and
sympathy. The epistle was despatched, and quickly answered, in a style
which, as might be imagined, increased all Caroline's feelings of
indignation towards her parents, and bade her rely still more
confidingly on her false friend, who, she taught herself to believe, was
almost the only person who really cared for her best interests.
Days passed, but neither Mr. nor Mrs. Hamilton changed in the coldness
of their manner towards their child. Perhaps such conduct added fire to
the already resentful girl; but surely they might be pardoned for acting
as they did. Caroline's irritability increased, and Annie's secret
letters were ever at hand to soothe while they excited. She ever
endeavoured to turn her friend's attention from what she termed her
severe trials to the devotion felt towards her by Lord Alphingham,
declaring that each interview confirmed more and more her belief in his
passionate admiration. The evil influence which Miss Grahame's letters
had upon the mind of Caroline in her private hours, was apparent in her
manner to Lord Alphingham, when they chanced to meet, but even more
guarded than she had hitherto been, did Caroline become in her behaviour
towards him when her parents were present. Their conduct had confirmed,
to her heated and mistaken fancy, Annie's representation of their
unjustifiable severity, and that, indignant at her rejection of St.
Eval, they would unhesitatingly refuse their consent to her acceptance
of the Viscount. Caroline thought not to ask herself how then is my
intimacy with him to end? She only enjoyed the present as much as she
could, while the coldness of her parents, amidst all her pride and
boasted stoicism, still tortured her; and to the future Annie as yet
completely prevented her looking. Miss Grahame's plans appeared indeed
to thrive, and many were the confidential and triumphant conversations
she held upon the subject with Miss Malison, who became more and more
indignant at Mrs. Hamilton's intrusive conduct in taking so much notice
of Lilla, notwithstanding the tales industriously circulated against
her. Her own severity and malevolence, however, appeared about to become
her foes; for about this time a slight change with regard to the
happiness of her injured pupil took place, which threatened to banish
her from Mr. Grahame's family.
One morning Mrs. Hamilton, accompanied by Ellen, called on Lady Helen
rather earlier than usual, but found their friend not yet visible, an
attack of indisposition confining her to her couch later than usual,
but Lady Helen sending to entreat her friend not to leave her house
without seeing her, Mrs. Hamilton determined on waiting. Annie had gone
out with Miss Malison.
"No wonder our poor Lilla proceeds but slowly in her education,"
remarked Mrs. Hamilton, when the footman gave her this information. "If
she be so much neglected, her father has no right to expect much
progress. I wish from my heart that I could think of some plan that
would tend not only to the happiness of this poor girl, but in the end
to that of her father also. Were those faults now apparent in her
character judiciously removed, I feel confident Mr. Grahame would have
more comfort in her than in either of his other children."
"She is always very different when she is with us," observed Ellen. "I
can never discover those evil passions of which so many accuse her;
passionate she is, but that might be controlled."
"It never can he while Miss Malison remains with her, for her treatment
is such that each year but increases the evil." A sound as of some one
sobbing violently in the adjoining room interrupted their conversation.
Fancying it came from the object of their conversation, Mrs. Hamilton
opened the folding-doors, and discovered her young friend weeping
violently, almost convulsively, on the sofa. Ever alive to sorrow, of
whatever nature or at whatever age, Mrs. Hamilton, followed by Ellen,
hastened towards her.
"What has happened, Lilla?" she said, soothingly. "What has chanced to
call forth this violent grief? tell me, my love. You know you need not
hesitate to trust me with your sorrows."
Unused, save from that one dear friend, to hear the voice of sympathy
and kindness, Lilla flung her arms passionately round her neck, and
clung to her for some few minutes till her choking sobs permitted her to
speak.
"Aunt Augusta says I am so wicked, so very wicked, that mamma ought not
to keep me at home, that I am not at all too old to go to school, and
mamma says that I shall go--and--and"--
"But what occasioned your aunt to advise such an alternative?" demanded
Mrs. Hamilton, gently.
"Oh, because--because I know I was very wicked, but I could not help it.
Miss Malison had been tormenting me all the morning, and exciting my
anger; and then Annie chose to do all she could to call it forth before
mamma, and so I just told her what I thought of both her and her amiable
confidant. I hate them both," she continued, with a vehemence even the
presence of Mrs. Hamilton could not restrain, "and I wish from my heart
I could never see them more."
"If you gave vent to such sinful words before your mother," replied Mrs.
Hamilton, gravely, "I do not wonder at your aunt's suggesting what she
did. How often have I entreated you to leave the room when your sister
commences her unkind endeavours to excite your anger, and thus give your
mother a proof of your consideration for her present state of health,
and evince to your sister, that if you cannot calmly listen to her
words, you can at least avoid them."
"Mamma never takes any notice, however much I may endeavour to please
her; if she would only caress me, and praise me sometimes, I know I
should be a very different girl. Then I could bear all Annie's cruel
words; but I will not, I will never put up with them, and permit either
her or Miss Malison to govern me and chain down my spirit, as they try
all they can to do. No one can ever know the constant ill-treatment
which I receive from both; everything I do, every word I speak, is
altered to suit their purpose, and mamma believes all they say. They
shall feel my power one day when they least expect it. I will not be
made so constantly miserable unrevenged."
"Lilla, dear Lilla," exclaimed Ellen, imploringly, "do not speak thus;
you do not know what you say. You would not return evil for evil, and on
your sister. Do not, pray do not let your anger, however just, obtain so
much dominion."
"Annie never treats me as a sister, and I do not see why I should
practise such forbearance towards her; but I will do all I can, indeed I
will, if you will persuade papa not to send me from home. Oh, do not
look at me so gravely and sadly, dearest, dearest Mrs. Hamilton,"
continued the impetuous and misguided but naturally right feeling child.
"I can bear any one's displeasure but yours; but when you look
displeased with me I feel so very, very wretched. I know I deserve to
lose all your kindness, for I never follow your advice; I deserve that
you should hate me, as every one else does; but you do not know all I
have to endure. Oh! do not let me go from home."
"I cannot persuade your father to let you remain at home, my dear girl,"
replied Mrs. Hamilton, drawing her young companion closer to her, and
speaking with soothing tenderness, "because I agree with your aunt in
thinking it would be really the best thing for you."
"Then I have lost every hope," exclaimed the impatient girl, clasping
her hands despairingly. "Papa would never have consented, if you had
advised him not, and you, you must think me as wicked as aunt Augusta
does;" and the tears she had checked now burst violently forth anew.
"You mistake me, my love, quite mistake me; it is not because I believe
you are not fitted to associate with your domestic circle. I believe if
she were but properly encouraged, my little Lilla would add much to the
comfort of both her parents; and I do not at all despair of seeing that
the case. But at present I must advise your leaving home for a few
years, because I really do think it would add much to your happiness."
"Happiness!" repeated Lilla, in an accent of extreme surprise. "School
bring happiness?"
"Are you happy at home, my love? is not your life at present one
continued scene of wretchedness? What is it that you so much dislike in
the idea of school?"
"The control, the subordination, the irksome formula of lessons, prim
governesses, satirical scholars." Neither Mrs. Hamilton nor Ellen could
prevent a smile.
"If such things are all you dread, my dear, I have no fear of soon
overcoming them," the former said, playfully. "I will do all I can to
persuade your father not to send you to a large fashionable seminary,
where such things may be the case; but I know a lady who lives at
Hampstead, and under whose kind guidance I am sure you will be happy,
much more so than you are now. If you would only think calmly on the
subject, I am sure you would agree in all I urge."
"But no one treats me as a reasonable person at home. If mamma sends me
to school, it will not be for my happiness, but because everybody thinks
me so wicked, there is no managing me at home; and then in the holidays
I shall hear nothing but the wonderful improvement school discipline has
made, it will be no credit to my own efforts, and so there will be no
pleasure in making any."
"Will there be no pleasure in making your father happy, Lilla? Will his
approbation be nothing?"
"But he never praises me; I am too much afraid of him to go and caress
him, as I often wish to do, and tell him if he will only call me his
dear Lilla, I would be good and gentle, and learn all he desires. If he
would but let me love him I should be much happier than I am."
Mrs. Hamilton thought so too; and deeply she regretted that mistaken
sternness which had so completely alienated the affections of his child.
Soothingly she answered--
"But your father dearly loves you, Lilla, though, perhaps your violent
conduct has of late prevented his showing it. If you were, for his sake,
to become gentle and amiable, and overcome your fears of his sternness,
believe me, my dear Lilla, you would be rendering him and yourself much
happier. You always tell me you believe everything I say. Suppose you
trust in my assertion, and try the experiment; and if you want a second
voice on my side, I appear to your friend Ellen for her vote as to the
truth of what I say."
Mrs. Hamilton spoke playfully, and Ellen answered in the same spirit.
Lilla's passionate tears had been checked by the kind treatment she
received, and in a softened mood she answered--
"But I cannot become so while Miss Malison has anything to do with me.
I cannot bear her treatment gently. Papa does not know all I have to
endure with her."
"And therefore do I so earnestly wish you would consent to my persuading
your father to let you go to Hampstead," answered Mrs. Hamilton, gently.
"But then papa will not think it is for his sake I endeavour to correct
my faults; he will say it is the school, and not my own efforts; and if
I go, I shall never, never see you, nor go to dear Moorlands, for I
shall be away while papa and mamma are there; away from everybody I
love. Oh, that would not make me happy!" and clinging to Mrs. Hamilton,
the really affectionate girl again burst into tears.
"What am I to urge in reply to these very weighty objections, my dear
Lilla?" replied Mrs. Hamilton. "In the first place, your father shall
know that every conquest you make is for his sake; he shall not think
you were forced to submission. In the next, compulsion is not in my
friend's system, and as I am very intimate with Mrs. Douglas, I shall
very often come and see you when I am in town, your midsummer holidays
will also occur during that time: and, lastly, if your papa and mamma
will consent, you shall see Moorlands every year; for I shall ask Mr.
Grahame to bring you with him in his annual Christmas visit to his
estate, and petition that he will leave you behind him to spend the
whole of your winter vacation with me and Ellen at Oakwood. Now, are all
objections waived, or has my very determined opponent any more to bring
forward?"
Lilla did not answer, but she raised her head from her kind friend's
shoulder, and pushing back the disordered locks of her bright hair,
looked up in her face as if no more sorrow could be her portion.
"Oh, I would remain at school a whole year together, if I might spend my
vacation at Oakwood with you, and Ellen, and Emmeline, and all!" she
exclaimed, with a glee as wild and childish as all her former emotion
had been. Lady Helen at that instant entered, and after languidly
greeting Mrs. Hamilton and Ellen, exclaimed--
"For heaven's sake, Lilla, go away! your appearance is enough to
frighten any one. I should be absolutely ashamed of you, if any friend
were to come in unexpectedly. Perhaps you may choose to obey me now that
Mrs. Hamilton is present; she little knows what a trouble you are at
home," she continued, languidly.
The flush of passion again mounted to Lilla's cheek, but Ellen, taking
her arm, entreated to go with her, and they left the room together,
while Lady Helen amused her friend by a long account of her domestic
misfortunes, the insolence of her upper domestics, the heedlessness of
her elder, and the fearful passions of her younger daughter, even the
carelessness of her husband's manner towards her, notwithstanding her
evidently declining health, all these and similar sorrows were poured
into the sympathising ear of Mrs. Hamilton, and giving clearer and
clearer evidence of Lady Helen's extreme and increasing weakness of mind
and character.
Great, indeed, was the astonishment of this indolent mother when Mrs.
Hamilton urged the necessity of sending Lilla to school. Without
accusing Miss Malison of any want of judgment, she was yet enabled to
work on Lady Augusta Denhain's words, and prove the good effects that a
removal from home for a few years might produce on Lilla's character.
Lady Augusta's advice had been merely remembered during that lady's
presence, but seconded as it now was by the earnest pleadings of Mrs.
Hamilton, she determined on rousing herself sufficiently to put it in
force, if her husband consented; but to obtain his approbation was a
task too terrible for her nerves, and she entreated Mrs. Hamilton to
speak with him on the subject. Willingly she consented, only requesting
that Lady Helen would not mention her intentions either to Annie or Miss
Malison till her husband had been consulted, and to this Lady Helen
willingly consented, for in secret she dreaded Miss Malison's
lamentations and reproaches, when this arrangement should be known.
When Mr. Grahame, in compliance with Mrs. Hamilton's message, called on
her the following morning, and heard the cause of his summons, his
surprise almost equalled that of his wife. He knew her dislike to the
plan of sending girls to school, however it might be in vogue; and
almost in terror he asked if she proposed this scheme because the evil
character of his child required some such desperate expedient. It was
easy to prove to him such was very far from her meaning. She spoke more
openly on the character of Lilla than she had yet done, for she thought
their long years of intimacy demanded candour on her part; and each
year, while it increased the evil of Lilla's present situation
heightened her earnest desire to draw the father and child more closely
together. She did not palliate her faults, but she proved that they were
increased by the constant contradiction and irritation which she had to
encounter. She repeated all that had passed between them the preceding
day, unconsciously and cautiously condemning Grahame's excessive
sternness, by relating, almost verbatim, Lilla's simply expressed wish
that her father would let her love him.
She gained her point. The softened and agitated father felt
self-condemned as she proceeded; and earnestly implored her to give him
one more proof of her friendship, by recommending him some lady under
whose care he could with safety place his erring, yet naturally
noble-minded and warm-hearted child. A fashionable seminary, he was
sure, would do her more harm than good, and he listened with eagerness
to Mrs. Hamilton's description of Mrs. Douglas. The widow of a naval
officer, who had for several years been in the habit of educating ten
young ladies of the highest rank, and she mentioned one or two who had
been her pupils, whose worth and mental endowments were well known to
Grahame.
"Do not be guided entirely by me on a subject so important," she said,
after recalling those families to his mind, whose daughters had been
placed there; "make inquiries of all who know Mrs. Douglas, and see her
yourself before you quite decide. That I have a very high opinion of her
is certain; but I should be sorry if you were to place Lilla with her
upon my advice alone, when, in all probability," she added, with a
smile, "you will find all Lady Helen's family opposed to the
arrangement."
"As they have never guided me right when they have interfered with my
children, their approbation or disapproval will have little weight in my
determination," answered Grahame. "You have awakened me to a sense of
my duty, Mrs. Hamilton, for which I cannot sufficiently express my
gratitude. With too much reliance upon the opinions of others I have
regarded the many tales brought against my poor child, and now I see how
greatly her faults have been occasioned by mistaken treatment. I thought
once I could never have parted with a daughter for school, but now I see
it will be a kindness to do so; and pain me as it will, now I know that
I may in time win her affections, your advice shall be followed."
"You must consent to part with her for one vacation also," replied Mrs.
Hamilton, playfully. "I have promised, in answer to her weighty
objection that she shall never see Moorlands again, to persuade you to
let her spend Christmas at Oakwood. You must consent, or I shall teach
Lilla a lesson of rebellion, and carry her off from Mrs. Douglas by
force."
"Willingly, gratefully," exclaimed Mr. Grahame.
"And you will promise me to permit her to love you, to use her own
simple affectionate words before she leaves you; you will not terrify
her by the cold sternness you frequently manifest towards her, and prove
that you take sufficient interest in her, to love her more for every
conquest she makes."
"Faithfully, faithfully I promise, my kind friend."
"Then I am satisfied," replied Mrs. Hamilton, her countenance glowing
with benevolent pleasure. "I shall, I trust, one day succeed in making
my little Lilla happy, and thus add to the comfort of her parents. We
are old friends, Mr. Grahame," she added, "and therefore I do not
hesitate to express the pleasure you have given me by thus promising to
think upon my advice. I began to fear that you would be displeased at
my interference, deeming my advice impertinent and needless. I have
endeavoured to impress upon Lilla the necessity of a temporary absence
from home, and have in part succeeded; and having Lady Helen's sanction
to speak with you, I could hesitate no longer."
"Nor do I hesitate one moment to act upon your disinterested advice, my
dear friend. Your word is enough; but as you so earnestly wish it, I
will this very hour seek those of my friends who are acquainted with
Mrs. Douglas. I must leave Lilla to express her gratitude for her father
and herself."
Mrs. Hamilton was soon placed at rest regarding the destination of her
young friend. There was not a dissenting voice as to Mrs. Douglas's
worth, one general opinion of satisfaction prevailed; but the most
gratifying tribute Grahame felt, was the affection and esteem which her
former pupils still fondly encouraged towards her. Thus prepossessed,
her appearance and manners did much to strengthen his resolve, and
Grahame now felt armed for all encounters with those who, presuming on
their near relationship to his wife, would bring forward numberless
objections to his plans; but he was agreeably mistaken. Lilla was looked
upon by them all as such an evil-minded, ill-informed girl, that it
signified little where she was placed, as she generally brought
discredit on all who had anything to do with her. Miss Malison, however,
excited their sympathy, and Annie declared it was a shameful and
dishonourable thing to dismiss her without notice, after so many years
of devoted service to their family. Poor Lady Helen had to encounter the
storm of upbraiding from her daughter, and the tears and sobs of the
governess, at the ill-treatment she received. In vain Lady Helen
accepted her protestations that she had done her duty; that she was sure
all that could be done for Miss Lilla had been done. Annie declared
that, though her services were no longer required for her ungrateful
sister, she could not do without Miss Malison, for her mother's health
seldom permitted her to walk or drive out. She should absolutely die of
_ennui_ without some one to act in those cases as her chaperon. In this
she was ably seconded by all her mother's family, whose _protégée_ Miss
Malison had long been, and, against his better judgment, Grahame at
length consented that Miss Malison should remain in his family till she
should get another situation as finishing governess. This, of course,
Miss Grahame had determined should not be for some little time.
Mrs. Hamilton had been particularly cautious, in her interview with Mr.
Grahame, not to speak any word for or against Miss Malison; perhaps had
she said what she really thought, even this concession would not have
been made.
Mr. Grahame's fixed and sudden determination to send Lilla to school
was, of course, laid by Annie and her confidant to Mrs. Hamilton's
charge, and increased not a little their prejudice against her, adding
fresh incentive to their schemes for the destruction of her peace, which
Caroline's self-willed conduct now rendered even more easy than it had
previously been.
When all was arranged, when it was decidedly settled that Lilla should
join Mrs. Douglas's establishment at the conclusion of the midsummer
vacation, her father quietly entered the study where she was alone, to
give her this information, and his really fond heart could not gaze on
her without admiration. She was now nearly fifteen, though in looks,
manners, and conversation, from being kept under such continual
restraint, she always appeared at first sight very much younger.
Childlike in every movement, even her impetuosity might have aided the
deception; and Lady Helen herself had so often indolently answered
questions concerning her daughter's age, she believed she was about
twelve or thirteen, that at length she really believed it was so. It was
Annie and Miss Malison's interest to preserve this illusion; for were
she recognised as fifteen, many privileges might have been acceded to
her, very much at variance with their interest. Annie had no desire for
a rival to present herself, which, had her sister appeared in public,
would undoubtedly have been the case; Lilla gave promise of beauty,
which, though not perhaps really so perfect as Annie's, would certainly
have attracted fully as much notice. She was drawing a tiny wreath of
brilliant flowers on a small portfolio, which she was regarding with a
complacency that added brilliancy to her animated features. At her
father's well-known step she looked up in some little terror, and rose,
as was her custom whenever she first saw him in the morning; her fear
could not check the sparkling lustre of her eye, and Grahame, taking her
hand, said kindly--
"I have some news for my little girl, which I trust will prove as
agreeable as I have every reason to hope they may. Mrs. Douglas will
gladly consent to receive my Lilla as an inmate of her happy family."
The flush of animation, the sparkling lustre of her eye faded on the
instant, and she turned away.
"Why, our kind friend, Mrs. Hamilton, bade me hope this would be
pleasing intelligence; has she deceived me, love?" continued her father,
drawing her with such unwonted tenderness to him, that, after a glance
of bewilderment, she flung her arms round his neck, and for the first
time in her life wept passionately on her father's shoulder.
"Can it be pleasure to hear I am to go from you and mamma?" she
exclaimed, clinging to him with all the passionate warmth of her nature,
and forgetting all her terror in that one moment of uncontrolled
feeling. Her simple words confirmed at once all that Mrs. Hamilton had
said in her favour, and the now gratified father seated her, as he would
a little child, on his knee, and with affectionate caresses gradually
soothed her to composure. Long did they converse together, and from that
moment Lilla's happiness commenced. She could not at once lose her dread
of her father's sternness, but the slightest hint from him was enough;
and frequently, as Grahame felt her affectionate manner, would he wonder
he had been blind to her character so long. The idea of school lost its
repugnance. Her father's kindness enabled her to keep her determination,
to prove, by the indulgence of the highest spirits, that going to
school, instead of being a punishment, as her aunt Augusta intended it
to be, was a privilege and a pleasure. That she was accused of want of
feeling she little heeded, now that her father invited and encouraged
her affection. Lady Helen wondered at her change of manner, but
indolence and the prejudice constantly instilled by Annie and Miss
Malison, prevented all indulgence of more kindly feelings. As things
remained in this state for some weeks in Mr. Grahame's establishment, we
will now return to Mr. Hamilton's family.
It was about this time, some three or four weeks before the end of the
Oxford term, that letters arrived from Percy and Herbert, containing
matters of interesting information, and others which caused some anxiety
in the breast of Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton. On the first subject both the
brothers wrote, so deeply interested had they become in it. Among the
servitors or free scholars of their college was a young man, whom they
had frequently noticed the last year, but never recollected having seen
before. He shrunk, as it appeared in sensitiveness from every eye, kept
aloof from all companions, as if he felt himself above those who held
the same rank in the University. Herbert's gentle and quickly
sympathising heart had ever felt pained, when he first went to college,
to see the broad distinction made between the servitors and other
collegians. He felt it pain to see them, as, in their plain gowns and
caps, they stood or sat apart from their brother students at their
meals, but perceiving by degrees they were all happy in their rank,
being, in general, sons of the poorer and less elevated classes of
society, happy to obtain an excellent education free of expense, he had
conquered these feelings, and imagined justly that they were, in all
probability, indifferent to the distinction of rank. But one amongst
them had recalled all these kindly sentiments, not only in the heart of
Herbert but in that of Percy, who was in general too reckless to regard
matters so minutely as his brother. The subject of their notice was a
young man, perhaps some two or three years older than the heir of
Oakwood, but with an expression of melancholy, which frequently amounted
almost to anguish, ever stamped on his high and thoughtful brow, and his
large, searching, dark grey eye. He was pale, but it appeared more from
mental suffering than disease, and at times there was a proud even a
haughty curl on his lip, that might have whispered he had seen better
days. He was never observed to be familiar with his brother servitors,
and shrunk with proud humility from the notice of his superiors. The
servile offices exacted from those of his degree were performed with
scrupulous exactness, but Herbert frequently beheld at such times a
flush of suffering mount into his cheek, and when his task was done, he
would fold his arms in his gown, and drop his head upon them, as if his
spirit revolted in agony from its employment. The other servitors were
fond of aping their superiors, by a studied affectation of similar dress
and manner, but this young man was never once seen to alter his plain
even coarse costume, and kept aloof from all appearance that would
assimilate him with those above him; and yet he was their
laughing-stock, the butt against which the pointed arrows of scorn,
contumely, ridicule, and censure were ever hurled, with a malevolence
that appeared strange to the benevolent hearts of the young Hamiltons,
who vainly endeavoured to check the public torrent. "He was not always
as he is now, and then, poor Welshman as he _is_, he always lorded it
over us, and we will requite him now," was the only reply they obtained;
but the first sentence touched a chord in Herbert's heart. Misfortune
might have reduced him to the rank he now held, and perhaps he struggled
vainly to teach his spirit submission; but how could he obtain his
friendship, in what manner succeed in introducing himself. Herbert was
naturally too reserved to make advances, however inclination prompted,
and some months passed in inactivity, though the wish to know him, and
by kindness remove his despondency, became more and more powerful to the
brothers.
A side attack one day on the young Welshman, made with unwonted and
bitter sarcasm by an effeminate and luxurious scion of nobility, roused
the indignation of Percy. Retorting haughtily on the defensive, a
regular war of tongues took place. The masterly eloquence of Percy
carried the day, and he hoped young Myrvin was free from all further
attacks. He was mistaken: another party, headed by the defeated but
enraged Lord, who had been roused to a state of fury by young Hamilton's
appearance, surrounded the unhappy young man in the college court, and
preventing all egress, heaped every sarcastic insult upon him, words
that could not fail to sting his haughty spirit to the quick. Myrvin's
eye flashed with sudden and unwonted lustre, and ere Herbert, who with
his brother had hastily joined the throng, could prevent it, he had
raised his arm and felled his insulting opponent to the ground. A wild
uproar ensued, the civil officers appeared, and young Myrvin was
committed, under the charge of wilfully, and without provocation,
attacking the person of the right honourable Marquis of --.
The indignation of Percy and Herbert was now at its height; and without
hesitation the former sought the principal of his college, and in a few
brief but emphatic sentences placed the whole affair before him in its
true light, condemning with much feeling the cowardly and cruel conduct
of the true aggressors, and so convinced the worthy man of the injustice
done towards the person of young Myrvin, that he was instantly
released, with every honour that could soothe his troubled feelings,
and a severe reprimand bestowed on the real authors of the affray.
Percy pursued his advantage; the noble heart of the young Welshman was
touched by this generous interference in his behalf, and when the
brothers followed him in his solitary walk the following day, he
resisted them not. Gratefully he acknowledged the debt he owed them,
confessed he would rather have received such a benefit from them than
from any others in the college, and at length, unable to resist the
frankly proffered friendship of Percy, the silent entreaty of Herbert,
he grasped with convulsive pressure their offered hands, and promised
faithfully he would avoid them no more. From that hour the weight of his
reverses was less difficult to bear. In the society, the conversation of
Herbert, he forgot his cares; innate nobleness was visible in Myrvin's
every thought, act, and word, and he became dear indeed to the soul of
Herbert Hamilton, even as a brother he loved him. Warm, equally warm
perhaps, was the mutual regard of Myrvin and Percy, though the latter
was not formed for such deep unchanging emotion evinced in the character
of his brother. But it was not until some time after the commencement of
their friendship that Herbert could elicit from his companion the
history of his former life.
It was simply this:--Arthur Myrvin was the only child of the rector of
Llangwillan, a small village in Wales, about ten or twelve miles from
Swansea. The living was not a rich one, but its emoluments enabled Mr.
Myrvin to live in comparative affluence and comfort; beloved, revered by
his parishioners, enabled to do good, to bestow happiness, to impart
the knowledge of the Christian faith, he beheld his flock indeed walking
in the paths of their Heavenly Shepherd. He had been enabled by the
economy of years to save sufficient to place his son respectably and
comfortably at college, and it was with no little pride he looked
forward to the time when those savings would be used for their
long-destined purpose. Arthur had grown beneath his eye; he had never
left his father's roof, and Mr. Myrvin trusted had imbibed principles
that would preserve him from the temptations of college life, and so
strong was this hope, that he parted from his son without one throb of
fear.
The sudden change in his life was, however, too tempting an ordeal for
the young man. He associated with those above him both in rank and
fortune, who leading him into their extravagant follies, quickly
dissipated his allowance, which, though ample, permitted not
extravagance. About this time the noble proprietor of the Llangwillan
parish died, and its patronage fell to the disposal of a gay and
dissipated young man, who succeeded to the large estates. Inordinately
selfish, surrounded by ready flatterers, eager of gain, he was a
complete tyrant in his domains.
The excessive beauty and fertility of Llangwillan, the industry and
simple habits of the inhabitants, excited the desire of possessing it in
the mind of one of these humble sycophants, and his point was very
speedily gained. Justice and humanity were alike banished from the code
of laws now in action, and, without preparation or excuse, Mr. Myrvin
was desired to quit that parish which had been his so long. His
incumbency expired with the death of the proprietor, and it had been
already disposed of. The grief of the old man and his humble friends was
long and deep; it was not openly displayed, the lessons of their beloved
pastor had too well instructed them in the duty of resignation; but aged
cheeks were wet with unwonted tears, and mingled with the sobs of
childhood. Men, women, youth, and little children alike wept, when their
pastor departed from the village. He who had been the shepherd of his
flock so long, was now cast aside as a worthless thing, and the old
man's heart was wellnigh broken. In a rude cot, forced on his acceptance
by a wealthy parishioner, situated some eight or ten miles from the
scene of his happiness, he took up his abode, and to him would the
villagers still throng each Sabbath, as formerly to the humble church,
and old Myrvin, in the midst of his own misfortunes, found time to pray
for that misguided and evil-directed man who had succeeded him in his
ministry, and brought down shame on his profession, and utterly
destroyed the peace which Llangwillan had enjoyed so long.
Resignation by degrees spread over Myrvin's mind, but the conduct of his
son caused him fresh anxiety. The news of the change in his father's
life awakened Arthur from his lethargy; he saw the folly, the imprudence
of which he had been guilty; his father could no longer support him at
college. In three years he had squandered away that which, with economy,
would have served as maintenance for ten, and now he must leave the
college, or do that from which at first his very soul revolted; but the
image of his father, his injured father, rose before him. He could not
inflict upon him a disappointment so severe as his departure from
college would be. He would yet atone for his folly, and fulfil his
father's long-cherished hopes, and without consulting him, in a moment
of desperation, he sought the resident head of the University, and
imparted his wishes. The preliminaries were quickly settled, and the
next letter from Oxford which Mr. Myrvin received, contained the
intelligence that his son had reconciled his mind to the change, and
become a servitor.
A glow of thanksgiving suffused the old man's heart, but he knew all the
inward and outward trials with which his son had to contend. Had he at
the first joined the college in the rank which he now held, he might not
have felt the change so keenly; but as it was, the pride and haughtiness
which had characterised him before, were now, as we have seen, returned
tenfold upon himself. He clothed himself outwardly in an invulnerable
armour of self-control and cold reserve, but inwardly his blood was in
one continued fever, until the friendship of Percy and Herbert soothed
his troubled feelings. The name of Hamilton, Herbert continued to state,
for it was he who wrote particularly of Arthur, the young man had
declared he knew well; but where he had heard it, or how, appeared like
a dream. He thought he had even seen Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton once, not
very many years ago; but so many changes in his life had occurred since
then, that the particulars of that meeting he could not remember.
"Myrvin and Llangwillan appear equally familiar to me," wrote Herbert;
"but even more than to Arthur they seem as the remembrances of an
indistinct dream. It has sometimes occurred to me that they are combined
with the recollection of my aunt, Mrs. Fortescue, and Arthur, to whom I
mentioned her death, suddenly recalled a dying lady and her two
children, in whom his father was very much interested. Fortescue he does
not well remember, but the little girl's name was Ellen, a pale,
dark-eyed and dark-haired, melancholy child, whom he used to call his
wife, and my cousin certainly answers this description. If it be indeed
the same, it is strange we should thus come together; and oh! my dearest
father, the benefit our family received from this venerable and injured
man, bids me long more intently that we could do something for him, and
that Arthur should be restored to his former position. He is of full
age, and quite capable of taking orders, and I have often thought, could
he reside with Mr. Howard the year previous to his ordination, it would
tend much more to his happiness and welfare than remaining here, even if
he was released from that grade, the oppression of which now hangs so
heavily upon him. Follies have been his, but they have been nobly
repented; and something within me whispers that the knowledge he is my
dearest and most intimate friend, that we mutually feel we are of
service to each other, will plead his cause and my request to my kind
and indulgent father, with even more force than the mere relation of
facts, interesting as that alone would be."
He was right. The friend, the chosen and most intimate friend of their
younger son would ever have been an object of interest to Mr. and Mrs.
Hamilton. That he was the son of the same good man who had acted so
benevolently towards Eleanor and her orphan children, who had soothed
her dying bed, and reconciled the parting sinner to her Maker, added
weight to the simple yet pathetic eloquence with which Herbert had
related his story. The injury he had sustained excited their just
indignation, and if the benevolence of their kind hearts had required
fresh incentives, the unfeigned grief of Ellen, as the tale of the old
man was related to her, would have given it.
"Oh, that I had it in my power to offer a sufficient sum to tempt the
sordid and selfish being in whose possession Llangwillan now is," she
was heard one day to exclaim, when she imagined herself alone, "that I
might but restore it to Mr. Myrvin; that I might feel that good old man
was passing his latter years in the spot and amongst all those he so
much loved; that Arthur could break the chain that now so bitterly and
painfully distresses him. Dear, dear Mr. Myrvin, oh, how little did I
imagine, when my thoughts have wandered to you and Arthur, who was such
a dear consoling friend in my childish sorrow, that misery such as this
had been your portion; and I can do nothing, nothing to prove how often
I have thought of and loved you both--and my dear mother's grave, in the
midst of strangers," and she wept bitterly, little imagining her
soliloquy had been overheard by her aunt and uncle, who were almost
surprised at her vivid remembrance of those whom for the last seven
years she had scarcely seen, and of whom she so seldom heard; but it
heightened their desire to be of service to him who had once been so
kind a friend to their family.
The contents of Percy's letter, to the rather alarming and mysterious
nature of which we have already alluded, will be found in the next
chapter.