"Gertrude's letters this morning have brought her some extraordinarily
agreeable tidings," exclaimed Lady Florence Lyle, gaily, as her sister
entered the breakfast-room, rather later than usual.
"On my honour, her countenance is rather a clearer index than usual
to-day," observed the Marquis, laughing. "Well, Gertrude, what is it?"
"News from Eugene," exclaimed Lady Emily and Lord Louis in a breath; "he
is going to be married. Either Miss Manvers or Miss Greville have
consented to take him for better or worse," added Lord Louis, laughing.
"Gertrude, allow me to congratulate you on the gift of a new sister,
who, as the wife of my right honourable brother the Earl of St. Eval,
will be dearer to you than any other bearing the same relationship."
"Reserve your congratulations, Louis, till they are needed," replied
Lady Gertrude, fixing her eyes steadily on Caroline's face, which was
rapidly changing from pale to crimson.
"I have no such exciting news to communicate," she added, very quietly.
"Eugene is in England, and alone."
"In England!" repeated Percy, starting up; "I am delighted to hear it.
I just know enough of him to wish most ardently to know more. Will he
not join us? He surely will not winter at Castle Malvern alone, like a
hermit, surrounded by snows; if he do, he is a bachelor confirmed: not a
hope for his restoration to the congenial warmth of life."
"He has no such intention," replied Lady Gertrude, smiling; "our present
happy circle has too many attractions to permit his resting quietly in
solitude, and, with Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton's kind permission, will join
us here by Christmas Eve."
"There are few whom we shall be so pleased to welcome as my noble young
friend St. Eval," answered Mr. Hamilton, instantly; "few whose society I
so much prize, both for myself and my sons."
"And the minstrel's harp shall sleep no more, but wake her boldest
chords to welcome such a guest to Oakwood's aged walls," exclaimed
Emmeline, gaily.
"Thus I give you leave to welcome him, but if he take my place with you
in our evening walks, I shall wish him back again at Monte Rosa in a
twinkling," observed Lord Louis, in the same gay tone, and looking
archly at his fair companion; "when Eugene appears my reign is always
over."
"Louis, I shall put you under the command of Sir George Wilmot," said
his father, laughing, however, with the rest of the circle.
"Ay, ay, do; the sea is just the berth for such youngsters as these,"
remarked the old Admiral, clapping his hand kindly on the lad's
shoulder.
While such _badinage_ was passing, serious thoughts were occupying the
minds of more than one individual of that circle. It would be difficult
to define the feelings of Caroline as she heard that St. Eval was in
England, and coming to Oakwood. Had he so soon conquered his affections,
that he could associate with lier on terms of friendly intimacy? She
longed to confess to her mother her many conflicting feelings; she felt
that her earnest prayers were her own, but shame prevented all
disclosure. She could not admit she now loved that very man whom she had
once treated with such contempt and scorn, rejected with proud
indifference. Even her mother, her fond mother, would say her present
feelings were a just punishment for the past; and that she could not
bear. Inwardly she resolved that not a word should pass her lips; she
would suffer unshrinkingly, and in silence.
Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton, and the Marquis and Marchioness of Malvern also
became engrossed with the same subject; the latter had seen and highly
approved of their son's attentions to Caroline, and appeared gratified
by the manner in which she accepted them. Disappointment and indignation
for a time succeeded the young Earl's departure for the Continent, but
the friendship so long subsisting between the families prevented all
unpleasant feeling, except, perhaps, a little towards Caroline herself.
They gladly welcomed the intelligence that St. Eval was in England, and
wished to join them at Oakwood, for they hailed it as a sign that his
fancy had been but fleeting, and was now entirely conquered. Mr. and
Mrs. Hamilton thought the same, though to them it was far more a matter
of disappointment than rejoicing; but hope mingled almost unconsciously
with regret, and they too were pleased that he was about to become their
guest.
Lady Gertrude's eyes were more than once during that morning fixed on
Caroline, as the subject of St. Eval's travels and residence abroad were
discussed, but she was silent; whatever were her secret reflections,
they were confined within the recesses of her own heart.
Lord St. Eval came, and with him fresh enjoyment for Percy and Herbert;
and even for young Myrvin, who found nothing in the society of the young
nobleman to wound his pride by recalling to his mind his own inferior
rank. Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton fancied they had read his character before;
but their previous intimacy had not discovered those many pleasing
qualifications which domestic amusements and occupations betrayed. Much
of his reserve was now banished; his manners were as easy and as free
from pride or hauteur as his conversation, though chaste and
intellectual, was from pedantry. To all the individuals of that happy
circle he was the same; as kind and as gay to Emmeline and Ellen as to
his own sisters; there might, perhaps, have been a degree of reserve in
his demeanour towards Caroline, but that, except to those principally
concerned, might not have been remarked, for his intercourse with her
was even more general than with others. Emmeline and Ellen, or even
Lilla, was often his selected companion for a walk, but such an
invitation never extended to Caroline, and yet he could never be said
either to neglect or shun her; and she shrinking from attracting his
notice as much as she had once before courted it, an impassable yet
invisible barrier seemed to exist between them. In St. Eval's manner,
his mother and Lady Gertrude read that his feelings were not conquered;
that he was struggling to subdue them, and putting their subjection to
the proof; but Caroline and her parents imagined, and with bitter pain,
that much as he had once esteemed and loved her, a feeling of
indifference now possessed him.
Herbert found pleasure in the society of the young Earl, for St. Eval
had penetrated the secret of his and Mary's love; though with innate
delicacy he refrained from noticing it farther than constantly to make
Mary his theme during his walks with Herbert, and speaking of her
continually to the family, warming the heart of Emmeline yet more in his
favour, by his sincere admiration of her friend. He gave an excellent
account of her health, which she had desired him to assure her friends
the air of Italy had quite restored. He spoke in warm admiration of her
enthusiasm, her love of nature, of all which called forth the more
exalting feelings; of her unaffected goodness, which had rendered her a
favourite, spite of her being a foreigner and a Protestant, throughout
the whole hamlet of Monte Rosa, and as he thus spoke, the anxious eye of
Mrs. Hamilton ever rested on her Herbert, who could read in that glance
how true and fond was the sympathy, which not once since he had confided
in her his happiness, had he regretted that he had sought.
The remaining period of the Marquis of Malvern's sojourn at Oakwood
passed rapidly away without any event of sufficient importance to find a
place in these pages. They left Oakwood at the latter end of January for
St. Eval's beautiful estate in Cornwall, where they intended to remain a
month ere they went to London, about the same time as Mr. Hamilton's
family. That month was a quiet one at Oakwood; all their guests had
departed, and, except occasional visits from Arthur Myrvin and St.
Eval, their solitude was uninterrupted.
St. Eval's estate was situated a few miles inland from the banks of the
Tamar, one of the most beautiful spots bordering that most beautiful
river. He was wont leisurely to sail down the stream to Plymouth, and
thence to Oakwood, declaring the distance was a mere trifle; but
nevertheless it was sufficiently long for Mr. Hamilton sometimes to
marvel at the taste of his noble friend, which led him often twice and
regularly once a week to spend a few hours, never more, at Oakwood, when
he knew they should so soon meet in London. St. Eval did not solve the
mystery, but continued his visits, bringing cheerfulness and pleasure
whenever he appeared, and bidding hope glow unconsciously in each
parent's heart, though had they looked for its foundation, they would
have found nothing in the young Earl's manner to justify its
encouragement.
In March Mr. Hamilton's family once more sought their residence in
Berkeley Square, about a week after the Marquis of Malvern's arrival;
and this season, the feelings of the sisters, relative to the gaieties
in which they were now both to mingle, were more equal. The bright hues
with which Caroline had before regarded them had faded--too soon and too
painfully, indeed.
She had been deceived, and in that word, when applied to a young,
aspiring, trusting mind, what anguish does it not comprise. True, she
deserved her chastisement, not only that she had acted the part of a
deceiver to one who trusted her far more than she had done Lord
Alphingham, but wilfully she had blinded herself to her own feelings,
that she might prove her independence; yet these facts lessened not the
bitterness of feeling which was now often hers. But she did not
relinquish society; the dread of encountering Lord Alphingham was not
strong enough to overcome her secret wish that, by her conduct in
society, she might prove to St. Eval that, although unworthy to be
selected as his wife, she would yet endeavour to regain his esteem. She
had resolved to think less of herself and more of others, and thus
become more amiable in their sight, and not feel so many mortifications,
as by her constant desire for universal homage, she had previously
endured. She knew the task was difficult so to conquer herself, and
doubting her own strength, was led to seek it where alone it could be
found. To none did she confess these secret feelings and determination;
calmly and steadily she looked forward, and so successfully had she
schooled herself to submission, that no word or sign as yet betrayed to
her parents the real state of her affections.
Emmeline's dislike to London had abated as much as had her sister's
glowing anticipations. They were now only to be four months in the
metropolis; the strict routine of masters, etc., was at an end, and she
was to accompany Mrs. Hamilton whenever she went out. She left Oakwood
with regret, and the society and conversation of Arthur Myrvin were
missed more often in London than she chose to confess, but enjoyment was
ever found for Emmeline--life was still a romance to her. In the society
of London, as in the cottages of Oakwood, she was beloved, and she was
happy; but those of the opposite sex, much as they thronged around her,
had no more thought of demanding such a being in marriage, than she had
of what is termed making conquests. It was therefore with feelings of
much less anxiety Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton mingled in society this season,
for the conduct of both their daughters was such as to afford them
satisfaction.
Some changes had taken place in many of the personages with whom we are
acquainted, since the last time we beheld them. Short and evanescent is
fashionable popularity. Lord Alphingham's reign might be, in a degree,
considered over. Some rumours had been floating over the town at that
time of the year when, in all probability, he thought himself most
secure, that is, when London society is dispersed; rumours which had the
effect of excluding him from most of those circles in which Mr.
Hamilton's family mingled, and withdrawing from him in a great measure
the friendship of Montrose Grahame, who, the soul of honour himself,
shrunk from any connection with one whose reputation the faintest breath
had stained. Yet still there were many who regarded these rumours as the
mere whisperings of envy, and with them he was as much a favourite as
ever. Amongst these was Annie Grahame, whose marked preference more than
atoned to the Viscount for her father's coldness. In vain Grahame
commanded that his daughter should change her manner towards him. She,
who had prevailed on a daughter to disobey this very mandate from the
lips of an indulgent parent, was not likely to regard that of the father
whose sternness and often uncalled-for severity had completely alienated
her affections, and Lord Alphingham had now another urgent reason to
flatter Annie's vanity and make her his own.
A distant relation and godmother of Lady Helen Grahame had, most
unexpectedly, left her at her death sole heiress to a handsome fortune,
which was to descend undivided to her elder daughter, and thus to
Annie's other attractions was now added that all-omnipotent charm, the
knowledge that she was an heiress, not perhaps to any very large
property, but quite sufficient to most agreeably enlarge the fortune of
any gentleman who would venture to take her for better or worse. One
would have supposed that now every wish of this aspiring young lady was
gratified; but no. It mattered not, though crowds were at her feet, that
when they met, which was very seldom, even Caroline was no longer her
rival, all the affection she possessed was lavished without scruple on
Lord Alphingham, and every thought was turned, every effort directed
towards the accomplishment of that one design. So deeply engrossed was
she in this resolution, that she had no time nor thought to annoy
Caroline, as she had intended, except in exercising to its full extent
her power over Lord Alphingham whenever she was present, in which the
Viscount's own irritated feelings towards her ably assisted. Caroline
felt the truth of her mother's words, that Lord Alphingham, indeed, had
never honourably loved her; that Annie's conduct justified Mrs.
Hamilton's prejudice, and as her heart shrunk in sadness from the
retrospection of these, truths, it swelled in yet warmer affection, not
only towards her fond and watchful mother, but towards the friends that
mother's judicious choice selected and approved.
Cecil Grahame had been continually in the habit of drawing upon his
mother's cash for the indulgence of his extravagant pleasures, and Lady
Helen had thoughtlessly satisfied all his wishes, without being in the
least aware of the evil propensities she was thus encouraging. It was
not till Cecil was about to leave Eton for the University, that she was
at all startled at the amount of his debts, and then her principal alarm
arose more from the dread of her husband's anger towards her son, if he
discovered the fact, than from any maternal anxiety for Cecil's unsteady
principles. Her only wish was to pay off these numerous debts, without
disclosing them to the husband she so weakly dreaded. How could she
obtain so large a sum, even from her own banker, and thus apply it,
without his knowledge and assistance? The very anticipation of so much
trouble terrified her almost into a fit of illness; and rather than
exert her energies or expose her son to his father's wrath, she would
descend to deceit, and implore his assistance in obtaining the whole
amount, on pretence that she required it for the payment of her own
expenses and debts of honour. She imagined that she had sunk too low in
her husband's esteem to sink much lower; and therefore, if her requiring
money to discharge debts of honour exposed her yet more to his contempt,
it was not of much consequence; besides if it were, she could not help
it, a phrase with which Lady Helen ever contrived to silence the rebukes
of conscience when they troubled her, which, however, was not often.
She acted accordingly; but as she met the glance of her husband, a
glance in which sadness triumphed over severity, she was tempted to
throw herself at his feet, and beseech him not to imagine her the
dissipated woman her words betrayed, for Lady Helen loved her husband as
much as such a nature could love; but, of all things, she hated a scene,
and though every limb trembled with emotion, she permitted him to leave
her, stung almost to madness by the disclosure her request implied. Did
she play? was that fatal propensity added to her numerous other errors?
and yet never had anything fallen under his eye to prove that she did.
And what debts had she contracted to demand such a sum? Grahame felt she
had deceived him; that the money had never been expended on herself; but
he would not torture himself by demanding a true and full disclosure.
The conduct of his children had ever grieved him, and fearing too justly
the request of his wife related to them, madly and despairingly he
closed his eyes and his lips, thus probably encouraging an evil which he
might have prevented. He delivered the stated sum, and that same day
made over to his wife's own unchecked disposal the whole of that fortune
which, when first inherited, she had voluntarily placed in his hands as
trustee for herself and for her daughter, to whom it would descend.
Briefly he resigned the office she had entreated him to take, sternly
observing, that Annie had better moderate her expectations, as, did Lady
Helen frequently incur such heavy debts, not much was likely to descend
to her daughter. It was a great deal too much trouble for Lady Helen to
expostulate, and if any feeling predominated to conquer the pang
occasioned by Grahame's determination, it was relief, that she might now
assist Cecil, if he should require it, without applying to his father.
Montrose Grahame was naturally not only an excellent but a judicious
man; but to a great extent, his judgment had deserted him when he
selected Lady Helen as his wife. Had he been united to a woman in whose
judgment and firmness he could confide, he would have been quite as much
respected and beloved in his family as were Mr. Hamilton and the Marquis
of Malvern in theirs; but now neither respect nor affection was
extended towards him, except, perhaps, by Lilla, and unconsciously by
Lady Helen. Severity constantly indulged, was degenerating into
moroseness; and feelings continually controlled, giving place to
coldness and distrust. It was fortunate for Lilla's happiness and, as it
afterwards proved, for her father's, that she was now under the kindly
care of Mrs. Douglas, for constantly irritated with his elder girl, who,
it must be owned, gave him abundant cause, that irritation and suspicion
would undoubtedly have extended towards his younger, and at once have
destroyed the gentleness and amiability which Mrs. Douglas was so
carefully and tenderly fostering. Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton saw this change,
and regretted it; but their influence, powerful as it was, could be of
no avail in counteracting the effect of domestic annoyances, paternal
anxiety, and constantly aroused irritation. Of all the evils in life,
domestic discord is one of the greatest, one under which the heart
bleeds the most; want of sympathy always prevents or banishes affection.
Had Grahame been a careless, selfish man, he might possibly have been
happier; his very sensitiveness was his bane. The silly weaknesses of
his wife might partially have lessened his love for her, but his
children, with all their faults, were dear to their father; they knew
not, guessed not, how much his happiness was centred in theirs; how his
heart was rent with anguish every time that duty, as he imagined, called
on him to be severe. Had he followed the dictates of his nature, he
would rather have ruined his children by over-indulgence than severity;
but the hope of counteracting the effect of their mother's weakness had
guided his mistaken treatment. Could his inmost soul have been read by
those who condemned his harshness, they would have sincerely pitied the
keen and agonized sensitiveness with which he felt the alienation of
their affections. Much as he saw to blame in Annie, had she ever given
him one proof of filial love, all would have been forgiven, and the
blessing of a parent been her own in all she did or wished. Had Cecil
confessed those errors of which he was conscious that he was guilty to
his father, he would have found a true and tender friend, who would have
led his naturally good, though too yielding, character aright, and
misery to both might have been spared, but such was not to be; and in
the fates of Alfred Greville and Cecil Grahame we may chance to perceive
that, whatever may be the difficulties surrounding her, however blighted
may appear the produce of her anxious labours, yet reward will attend
the firm, religious mother, however difficult may be the actual
fulfilment of her duties; while that mother who, surrounded by luxury
and prosperity, believes, by unqualified indulgence, she is firmly
binding her offspring in the observance of love and duty, will reap but
too bitter fruit.
It was when in the presence of the Duchess of Rothbury Caroline felt
most uncomfortable. The family were as cordial as ever, but there was
somewhat in the cold, penetrating eye of her Grace, that bade her almost
unconsciously shrink from meeting its glance. In the previous season the
Duchess had ever singled Caroline out as an object of her especial
regard, a circumstance so unusual in one of her character, that it
rendered her present haughty coldness more difficult to bear. Caroline
would have borne it in silence had it only extended towards herself, but
it appeared as if both Emmeline and Ellen shared the contempt she
perhaps had justly called forth on herself, as the Duchess, tenacious of
her penetrative powers, feared to honour either of them with her favour,
lest she should be again deceived. Caroline longed to undeceive her on
this point, to give her a just estimate of both her sister and cousin's
character, acknowledge how far superior in filial respect and affection,
as well as in innate integrity and uprightness, they were to herself;
but her mother entreated her to let time do its work, and wait till the
Duchess herself discovered they were not what she either believed they
were or might be, and she checked her wish.
We will here mention a circumstance which occurred in Mr. Hamilton's
family soon after their arrival in town, which occasioned Mrs. Hamilton
some uneasiness. Ellen's health was now perfectly re-established, and on
Miss Harcourt's unexpected departure, Mrs. Hamilton had determined on
introducing her niece with Emmeline in the present season. If Lucy had
remained in her family, Ellen would not have made her _début_ till the
following year, not that her age was any obstacle, for there were only
eight months difference between her and Emmeline, but her retiring
disposition and delicacy of constitution caused Mrs. Hamilton to think
this plan the most advisable. When, however, there was no longer any
excuse with regard to failing health, and no Miss Harcourt with whom her
evenings at home might be more agreeably spent, Mrs. Hamilton, by the
advice of her husband, changed her intention; and Emmeline even made a
joke with Ellen on the admirable fun they should have together,
rejoicing that such an important event in the lives of each should take
place on the same day. It so happened that Ellen never appeared to enter
into her cousin's everlasting merriment on this subject; still she said
nothing for or against till the day all-important with the ordering
their elegant dresses for the occasion. Timidly and hesitatingly she
then ventured to entreat her aunt still to adhere to her first plan, and
allow her to remain quietly at home, under the care of Ellis, till the
following year. Mrs. Hamilton and her cousins looked at her with
astonishment; but the former smilingly replied she could not indulge her
niece in what appeared an unfounded fancy. The dress she should order,
for she hoped Ellen would change her mind before the day arrived, as,
unless a very good reason were given, she could not grant her request.
Ellen appeared distressed; but the conversation changed, and the subject
was not resumed till the day actually arrived, in the evening of which
she was to accompany her aunt to a ball at the Marchioness of Malvern's,
and two days after they were all engaged at a dinner-party at the Earl
of Elmore's.
Summoning all her courage, Ellen entered her aunt's boudoir in the
morning, and again made her request with an earnestness that almost
startled Mrs. Hamilton, particularly as it was accompanied by a
depression of manner, which she now did not very often permit to obtain
ascendency. With affectionate persuasiveness she demanded the reason of
this extraordinary resolution, and surprise gave way to some
displeasure, when she found Ellen had really none to give. Her only
entreaty was that she might not be desired to go out till the next year.
"But why, my dear Ellen? You must have some reason for this intended
seclusion. Last year I fancied you wished much to accompany us, and I
ever regretted your delicate health prevented it. What has made you
change your mind so completely? Have you any distaste for the society in
which I mingle?"
Falteringly, and almost inaudibly, Ellen answered, "None."
"Is it a religious motive? Do your principles revolt from the amusements
which are now before you? Tell me candidly, Ellen. You know nothing
displeases me so much as mystery? I can forgive everything else, for
then I know our relative positions, and am satisfied you are not going
far wrong; but when every reason is studiously concealed, I cannot guess
the truth, and I must fancy it is, at least, a mistaken notion blinding
your better judgment. I did not expect a second mystery from you,
Ellen."
Mrs. Hamilton's expressive voice clearly denoted she was displeased, and
her niece, after two or three ineffectual efforts to prevent it, finally
burst into tears.
"I do not wish to be harsh with you, or accuse you unjustly," continued
her aunt, softened at the unaffected grief she beheld, "but if your
reason be a good one, why do you so carefully conceal it? You have been
lately so very open with me, and appeared to regard me so truly as your
friend, that your present conduct is to me not only a riddle, but a
painful reflection. Is it because your conscience forbids? Perhaps in
your solitary moments you have fancied that worldly amusements, even in
the moderate way in which we regard them, unfits us for more serious
considerations, and you fear perhaps to confess that such is your
reason, because it will seem a reproach to me. If such really be your
motive, do not fear to confess it, my dear girl; I should be the very
last to urge you to do anything that is against your idea of what is
right. To prove the fallacy of such reasoning, to show you that you may
be truly religions without eccentricity, I certainly should endeavour to
do, but I would not force you to go out with me till my arguments had
convinced you. I fancy, by your blushing cheek, that I have really
guessed the cause of your extraordinary resolution, and sorry as I shall
be if I have, yet any reason, however mistaken, is better than a
continued mystery."
"Indeed, indeed, I am not so good as you believe me," replied Ellen,
with much emotion. "It is not the religious motive you imagine that
urges me to act contrary to your wishes. Did you know my reason, I am
sure you would not blame me; but do not, pray do not command me to tell
you. I must obey, if you do, and then"--
"And then, if I approve of your reason, as you say I shall, what is it
that you fear? Why, if your conscience does not reproach you, do you
still hide it from me?"
Ellen was painfully silent. Mrs. Hamilton continued, in a tone of marked
displeasure, "I fear I am to find myself again deceived in you, Ellen,
though in what manner as yet I know not. I will not do such extreme
violence to your inclinations as to command you to yield to my wishes.
If you desire so much to remain at home, do so; but I cannot engage to
make any excuse for you. Neither failing health nor being too young, can
I now bring forward; I must answer all inquiries for you with the truth,
that your own wishes, which I could not by persuasion overcome, alone
keep you at, home. My conscience will still be clear from the
reproaches so plentifully showered on me by the world last season, that
I feared to bring forward my orphan niece with my daughters, lest her
charms should rival theirs."
"Did the ill-natured and ignorant dare to say such a thing of you?"
demanded Ellen, startled at this remark.
"They knew not the cause of your never appearing in public, and
therefore, as appearances were against me, scrupled not to condemn."
"And do you heed them? Do these remarks affect you?" exclaimed Ellen,
earnestly.
"No, Ellen. I have done my duty; I will still do it, undisturbed by such
idle calumnies, even should they now be believed by those whose opinions
I value, who, from your seclusion, may imagine they have good reason. In
my conduct towards you the last two years I have nothing to reproach
myself."
"The last two years. Oh, never, never, from the first moment I was under
your care, never can your conduct to me have given you cause for
self-reproach, dearest aunt. Oh, do not say that the gratification of my
wishes will give rise to a suspicion so unjust, so unfounded," entreated
Ellen, seizing with impetuosity the hand of her aunt.
"In all probability it will; but do not speak in this strain now, Ellen,
it accords not well with the mystery of your words," and Mrs. Hamilton
coldly withdrew her hand. There was a moment's silence, for Ellen had
turned away, pained to her heart's core, and soon after she quitted the
room to seek her own, where, throwing herself on a low seat by the side
of her couch, she gave way to an unrestrained and violent flow of tears.
Mrs. Hamilton little knew the internal struggle her niece was enduring,
the cause of her seclusion; that the term of her self-condemned
probation was not fulfilled, that the long, tedious task was not
accomplished; that it was for this purpose she so earnestly desired that
her time might not be occupied by amusement, till her task was done, the
errors of her earlier years atoned. Mrs. Hamilton had seldom felt more
thoroughly displeased and hurt with her niece than at the present
moment. Gentle, and invulnerable as she ever seemed to irritation, open
as the day herself, she had ever endeavoured to frame her children's
characters in the like manner; ingenuousness always obtained
forgiveness, whatever might have been the mistake or fault. Ellen had
always been a subject of anxiety and watchfulness; but the last two
years her reserve had so entirely given place to candour, that
solicitude had much decreased, till recalled by the resolution we have
recorded. Had Ellen alleged any reason whatever, all would have been
well; Mrs. Hamilton would not have thought on the subject so seriously.
A mystery in her conduct had once before been so productive of anguish,
that Mrs. Hamilton could not think with her usual calmness and temper on
the circumstance.
It was so long before Ellen regained her composure that traces of tears
were visible even when she joined the family at dinner, and were
remarked by her uncle, who jestingly demanded what could occasion signs
of grief at such an important era in her life. Vainly Ellen hoped her
aunt would spare her the pain of answering by even expressing her
displeasure at her resolution, but she waited in vain, and she was
compelled to own that the era of her life, to which her uncle so
playfully referred, was postponed by her own earnest desire till the
next season.
Mr. Hamilton put down his knife and fork in unfeigned astonishment.
"Why, what is the meaning of this sudden change?" he exclaimed. "You
were not wont to be capricious, Ellen. Will your aunt explain this
marvellous mystery?"
"I am sorry I cannot," Mrs. Hamilton replied, in a tone that plainly
betrayed to the quick ears of her husband that she was more than usually
disturbed. "I am not in Ellen's confidence; her resolution is as
extraordinary to me as to you, for she has given me no reason." Mr.
Hamilton said no more, but he looked vexed, and Ellen did not feel more
comfortable. He detained her as she was about to leave the room, and
briefly demanded in what manner she intended to employ the many hours,
which now that Miss Harcourt was away she would have to herself. A
crimson flush mounted to Ellen's temples as she spoke, a flush that,
combined with the hesitating tone in which she answered, "to read and
work," might well justify the sternness of tone and manner with which
her uncle replied.
"Ellen, had you never deceived us, I might trust you, spite of that
flushed cheek and hesitating tone; as it is, your conduct the last two
years urges me to do so, notwithstanding appearances, and all I say is,
beware how you deceive me a second time."
Ellen's cheek lost its colour, and became for the space of a minute pale
as death, so much so, that Mrs. Hamilton regretted her husband should
have spoken so severely. Rallying her energies, Ellen replied, in a
steady but very low voice--
"My conduct, uncle, during my aunt's and your absence from home, has
been and shall ever be open to the inspection of all your household. I
am too well aware that I am undeserving of your confidence, but I appeal
to Ellis, on whose fidelity I know you rely, to prove to you in this
case you suspect me unjustly." The last word was audible, but that was
all, and, deeply pained, Ellen retired to her own room, which she did
not quit, even to see her favourite cousin decked for the ball. Emmeline
sought her, however, and tried by kisses to recall the truant rose, the
banished smile, but Mrs. Hamilton did not come to wish her good night,
and Ellen's heart was heavy.
Some few days passed, and Mrs. Hamilton accepted three several
invitations without again expressing her wishes, but though the subject
was not resumed, equal perplexity existed in the minds of both aunt and
niece. Ellen did not accuse Mrs. Hamilton of unkindness, but she could
not fail to perceive that she no longer retained her confidence, and
that knowledge painfully distressed the orphan's easily excited
feelings. Another circumstance gave additional pain; her strange and
apparently capricious behaviour had been casually mentioned to Herbert,
and he, aware that his advice was always acceptable to Ellen, ventured
to remonstrate with her, and playfully to reason her out of what he
termed her extraordinary fancy for seclusion. Some indefinable sensation
ever prevented Ellen from speaking or writing to Herbert as she would
have done to any other member of the family, but she answered him,
acknowledging she deserved his hinted reproach, but owning that she
could not change her conduct, even in compliance with his request;
nevertheless, it grieved her much to know that he, whose approbation
she unconsciously but ardently wished to gain, should believe her the
capricious, unaccountable being it was evident he did: still she
persevered. These, and whatever more she might have to endure, were but
petty trials, to which her secretly chastened mind might bend but should
not weakly bow. She knew, if her aunt were conscious of her attention,
much as perhaps she might approve of the motive, she would deem it a
needless sacrifice, and probably prohibit its continuance; or, if she
permitted and encouraged it, the merit of her action would no longer
exist, nor could she indeed, while in the enjoyment of praise, have
finished a task, commenced and carried on purely for the sake of duty,
and as an atonement for the past, by the sacrifice of inclination, make
peace with the gracious God she had offended. Petty trials were welcome
then, for if she met them with a Christian temper, a Christian spirit,
she might hope that, whatever she might endure, she was progressing in
His paths, "whose ways are pleasantness, and whose paths are peace;"
could she but remove the lingering displeasure and distrust of her aunt
and uncle, she would be quite happy.
It so happened that Emmeline's next engagement was to the Opera, which
was always Ellen's greatest conquest of inclination. She had amused
herself by superintending her cousin's dressing, and a sigh so audibly
escaped, that Emmeline instantly exclaimed--
"Ellen, you know you would like to go with us. In the name of all that
is incomprehensible, why do you stay at home?"
"Because, much as I own I should like to go with you, I like better to
stay at home."
"You really are the spirit of contradiction, Ellen. What did you sigh
for?"
"Not for the Opera, Emmeline."
"Then why?"
"Because I cannot bear to feel my aunt has lost all her confidence in
me."
"You are marvellously silly, Ellen; mamma is just the same to you as
usual, I have observed no difference."
"Dear Emmeline, coldness is not _seen_, it is _felt_, and as you have
been so happy as never to have felt it, you cannot understand what I
mean."
"Nor do I ever wish to feel it. But do not look so sorrowful, dear
Ellen; mamma's coldness is an awful thing to encounter, I own."
"If you have never felt it, how can you judge?" said a playful voice
beside them, for Emmeline had been too deeply engrossed in arranging and
disarranging a wreath of roses in her hair, and Ellen too much engaged
in her own thoughts, to notice the entrance of Mrs. Hamilton.
"Is it possible you are not yet ready, Emmeline? what have you been
about?"
"Teasing Ellen, mamma; besides Fanny was engaged, and I could not please
myself."
"Or rather you were disinclined for exertion. I have been watching you
the last few moments, and you have played with that pretty wreath till
it is nearly spoiled."
"I plead guilty, dear mamma, but let Fanny come, and I will be ready in
a second," answered Emmeline, looking archly and caressingly in her
mother's face. Mrs. Hamilton smiled, and turned as if to speak to her
niece, but Ellen was gone. She was sitting in her own room a few minutes
afterwards, endeavouring to collect her thoughts sufficiently to
understand the book of the new opera which her cousin had lent her, when
she was interrupted by a hand gently placed upon the leaves.
"So coldness is felt, not seen, is it, my dear Ellen? well, then, let
that kiss banish it for ever," exclaimed Mrs. Hamilton, encircling the
delicate form of her niece with her arm. "I have been more distant and
unkind perhaps than was necessary, but your mysterious resolution
irritated me beyond forbearance, and I have been very unjust and very
cruel, have I not? will you forgive me?"
Ellen looked up in her face, and, unable to control her feelings, threw
her arms around her and burst into tears.
"Nay, dearest, do not let me leave you in tears. I am satisfied you have
some good reason for your conduct, though my usual penetration is
entirely at fault. Will you quite content me by looking steadily in my
face, and assuring me that your conscience never reproaches your
conduct. I shall not have one lingering doubt then."
Ellen smiled through her tears, as she tried to obey, but her lip so
quivered as she answered, that Mrs. Hamilton laughingly added, "That
would never do in a court of justice, my silly little girl, no one would
pronounce you innocent if thus tearfully affirmed; but as you generally
compel me to regret severity, when I do venture to use it, I must be
content to let you follow your own inclinations this year at least. Next
season, I give you no such licences, _nolens volens_, as Percy would
say, I must take you out with me, you shall not hide yourself in
solitude; but I do not fancy your resolution will hold good, even the
remainder of this season," she added, smilingly.
"Do not, pray do not try to turn me from it, my dear, kind aunt," said
Ellen, earnestly; "I do not deserve this indulgence from you, for I know
how much you dislike concealment, but indeed, indeed, you shall never
regret your kindness. I do not, I will not abuse it, it is only because,
because--" She hesitated.
"Do not excite my curiosity too painfully, Ellen, in return for my
indulgence," said Mrs. Hamilton, sportively.
"No, dear aunt, I only wish to finish a task I have set myself, and my
various avocations during the day prevent my having any time, unless I
take it from such amusements," said Ellen, blushing as she spoke;
"indeed, that is my real and only reason."
Mrs. Hamilton fixed an anxious glance upon her, but though she really
felt satisfied at this avowal, the actual truth never entered her mind.
"You have quite satisfied me, my dear girl! I will not ask more, and you
may stay at home as often as you please. Your uncle and I have both been
very unjust and very severe upon our little Ellen, but you have quite
disarmed us; so you shall neither feel nor fancy my coldness any more.
There is Emmeline calling as loudly for me as if I were after my time.
Good night, love. God bless you! do not sit up too late, and be as happy
as you can."
"I am quite happy now," exclaimed Ellen, returning, with delighted
eagerness, Mrs. Hamilton's fond embrace, and she was happy. For a moment
she felt lonely, as the door closed on her aunt's retreating form, but
as she roused herself to seek her work, that feeling fled. When the
nature of her work was sufficiently simple to require but little
thought, Ellen was accustomed to improve herself by committing to memory
many parts of the Bible suited for prayer, confession, or praise, so
that her thoughts might riot wander during those solitary hours in the
paths of folly or of sin, but once centred on serious things, her mind
might thence become strengthened and her judgment ripened.
These lonely hours did much towards the formation of the orphan's
character. Accustomed thus to commune with her Creator, to gather
strength in the solitude of her chamber, she was enabled, when her trial
came, to meet it with a spirit most acceptable to Him who had ordained
it.