CHAPTER IV.

"Ellen, I give you joy!" exclaimed Emmeline, entering the room where her

mother and cousin were sitting one afternoon, and speaking with some of

her former cheerfulness. "There is a carriage coming down the avenue,

and though I cannot quite distinguish it, I have second sight sufficient

to fancy it is papa's. Edward declared he would not tell us when he was

coming home, and therefore there is nothing at all improbable in the

idea, that he will fire a broadside on us, as he calls it,

unexpectedly."

"I would willingly stand fire, to see him safe anchored off this

coast," replied Ellen, smiling. "Lord N----'s ball will lose half its

charms if he be not there."

"What! with all your enthusiastic admiration of her Royal Highness, whom

you will have the honour of seeing? For shame, Ellen."

"My enthusiastic admiration; rather yours, my dear Emmeline. Mine is so

quiet that it does not deserve the name of enthusiasm," replied Ellen,

laughing. "Nor could I have imagined you would have honoured me so far

as to give me an attribute in your eyes so precious."

"I am getting old and learning wisdom," answered Emmeline, making an

effort to continue her playfulness, "and therefore admire quietness more

than formerly."

"And therefore you are sometimes so silent and sad, to atone for the

past, my Emmeline," remarked her mother, somewhat sorrowfully.

"Sad, nay, dearest mother, do me not injustice; I cannot be sad, when so

many, many blessings are around me," replied the affectionate girl.

"Silent I may be sometimes, but that is only because I do not feel quite

so strong perhaps as I once did, and it appears an exertion to rattle on

as I used upon trifling subjects."

"I shall not be contented, then, my own Emmeline, till that strength

returns, and I hear you delighted, even as of old, with little things

again."

"And yet you have sometimes smiled at my romance, and bade me think of

self-control, dearest mother. Must I be saucy enough to call you

changeable?" answered Emmeline, smiling, as she looked in her mother's

face.

Mrs. Hamilton was prevented replying by Ellen's delighted exclamation

that it was her uncle's carriage, and Edward was waving a white

handkerchief, as if impatient to reach them, an impatience which was

speedily satisfied by his arrival, bounding into the room, but suddenly

pausing at the door to permit his uncle and another gentleman's

entrance, to which latter he respectfully raised his cap, and then

sprung forward to clasp the extended hands of his cousin and sister.

"Allow me to congratulate you, madam," said Sir Edward Manly, after

returning with easy politeness the courteous greeting of Mrs. Hamilton,

"on the promotion of one of the bravest officers and most noble-minded

youths of the British navy, and introduce all here present to Lieutenant

Fortescue, of his Majesty's frigate the Royal Neptune, whose unconquered

and acknowledged dominion over the seas I have not the very slightest

doubt he will be one of the most eager to preserve."

"Nor can I doubt it, Sir Edward," replied Mrs. Hamilton, smiling, as she

glanced on the flushing cheek of her gallant nephew, adding, as she held

out her hand to him, "God bless you, my dear boy! I do indeed rejoice in

your promotion, for I believe it well deserved."

"You are right, madam, it is well deserved," replied Sir Edward, with an

accent so marked on the last sentence that the attention of all was

arrested. "Hamilton, I have been silent to you on the subject, for I

wished to speak it first before all those who are so deeply interested

in this young man's fate. The lad," he added, striking his hand frankly

on Edward's shoulder, "the lad whose conscience shrunk from receiving

public testimonials of his worth as a sailor, while his private

character was stained, while there was that upon it which, if known, he

believed would effectually prevent his promotion; who, at the risk of

disappointment to his dearest wishes, of disgrace, want of honour,

possessed sufficient courage to confess to his captain that his

log-book, the first years of his seamanship, told a false tale--the lad,

I say, who can so nobly command himself, is well worthy to govern

others. He who has known so well the evil of disobedience will be firm

in the discipline of his men, while he who is so stern to his own faults

will, I doubt not, be charitable to those of others. The sword presented

to him for his brave preservation of the crew of the Syren will never be

stained by dishonour, while he looks upon it and remembers the past, and

even as in those of my own son, shall I henceforward rejoice in using my

best endeavours to promote the fortunes of Edward Fortescue."

The return of Edward, the honours he had received, the perfect happiness

beaming on his bright face, all caused Ellen to look forward to the ball

with greater pleasure than she had ever regarded gaiety of that sort

before; and Mrs. Hamilton would sometimes playfully declare that she and

Emmeline had for a time exchanged characters, although Edward's

never-failing liveliness, his odd tales and joyous laugh, had appeared

partly to rouse the latter's usual spirits, and dissipate slightly her

mother's anxiety.

The festive night arrived, and anticipation itself was not disappointed

in the pleasure it bestowed. All the nobility of the country, for miles

round, had assembled in respect to the royal guests who had honoured

the distinguished commander with their august presence; and Mrs.

Hamilton's natural feelings of pride were indeed gratified that night,

as she glanced on her Caroline, who now appeared in public for the first

time since her marriage, attired in simple elegance, yet with a richness

appropriate to her rank, attracting every eye, even that of their Royal

Highnesses themselves, by the graceful dignity of her tall and

commanding figure, by the quiet repose and polished ease which

characterised her every movement. If Lord St. Eval looked proud of his

young wife, there were few there who would have blamed him. The Lady

Florence Lyle was with her brother, enjoying with unfeigned pleasure, as

did Ellen, and to all appearance Emmeline, the scene before them.

The brilliant uniforms of the army, and the handsome but less striking

ones of the navy, imparted additional gaiety and splendour to the rooms,

forming picturesque groups, when contrasting with the chaste and elegant

costumes of the fairer sex. But on the fascinating scene we may not

linger, nor attempt to describe the happiness which the festivities

occasioned the entire party, nor on the gratification of Lieutenant

Fortescue, when Sir Edward Manly begged the honour of an introduction

for his young friend to his Royal Highness the Duke of Clarence, who,

with his amiable consort, the Princess Adelaide, had honoured Lord

N----with their august presence. Upon one incident alone we must be

permitted to dwell, as affording a great and unexpected pleasure to our

friend Ellen.

Edward and Ellen were for some time perfectly unconscious that they were

objects of the most earnest, penetrating scrutiny of a lady, leaning on

the arm of a young and handsome man in regimentals, near them.

"It must be them; that likeness cannot be that of a stranger," were the

words, uttered in an earnest, persuading tone, addressed by the young

officer to the lady, who might be his mother, which were the first to

attract the attention of the little group, though the speaker appeared

quite unconscious he was overheard. "Let me speak to him, and at least

ask the question."

"No, no, Walter," the lady replied, in a low tone. "Changed as are our

situations now, I could not wish, even if it be them, to intrude upon

their remembrance."

An exclamation of suppressed impatience escaped from the lips of the

young man, but instantly checking it, he said, respectfully and

tenderly--

"Dearest mother, do not say so, if" (the name was lost) "grew up as she

was a child, she would be glad to welcome the friend of her father, the

companion of her childhood."

"But it cannot be, Walter; that beautiful girl is not like my poor

child, though her brother may strangely resemble those we have known."

"Have you not often told me, mother, we never change so much as from

childhood into youth? Ellen was always ill, now she may be well, and

that makes all the difference in the world. I am much mistaken if those

large, mournful eyes can belong to any but"--

He paused abruptly; for convinced that they must be the subject of

conversation, and feeling they were listening to language not meant for

their ears, Edward and Ellen turned towards the speakers, who to the

former appeared perfect strangers, not so to the latter. Feelings,

thoughts of her earliest infancy and childhood, came thronging over her

as a spell, as she gazed on the lady's countenance, which, by its

expression, denoted that sorrow had been her portion; it was changed,

much changed from that which it had been; but the rush of memory on

Ellen's young soul told her that face had been seen before. A night of

horror and subsequent suffering flashed before her eyes, in which that

face had beamed in fondness and in soothing kindness over her; that

voice had spoken accents of love in times when even a mother's words

were harsh and cold.

"Forgive me, sir, but is not your name Fortescue?" inquired the young

man, somewhat hesitatingly, yet frankly, as he met Edward's glance.

"You have the advantage of me, sir," he replied, with equal frankness;

"such is my name, but yours I cannot guess."

"I beg your pardon, but am I speaking to the son of Colonel Fortescue,

who fell in India during a skirmish against the natives, nearly ten

years ago?"

"The same, sir."

"Then it is--it is Mrs. Cameron; I am not, I knew I could not be

mistaken," exclaimed Ellen, in an accent of delight, and bounding

forward, she clasped the lady's eagerly-extended hand in both hers, and

gazing in her face with eyes glistening with starting tears. "And would

you, could you have passed me, without one word to say my friend, the

wife of my father's dearest friend, was so near to me? you who in my

childhood so often soothed and tended my sufferings, dearest Mrs.

Cameron?" and tears of memory and of feeling fell upon the hand she

held, while young Cameron gazed on her with an admiration which utterly

prevented his replying coherently to the questions, the reminiscences of

former years, when they were playmates together in India, which Edward,

discovering by his sister's exclamation who he was, was now pouring in

his ear.

"I did not, could not think I should have been thus affectionately, thus

faithfully remembered, my dear Ellen, after a lapse of so many years,"

replied Mrs. Cameron, visibly affected at her young companion's warmth.

"I could not imagine the memory of a young child, such as you were when

we parted, would have been so acute."

"Then my niece must have been all these years mistaken, and you too did

not understand her, though she fancied you did," said Mrs. Hamilton,

with a smile, advancing to relieve Ellen's agitation, which the

association of her long-lamented father with Mrs. Cameron rendered

almost painful. "I could have told you, from the moment she was placed

under my care, that she never would forget those who had once been kind

to her. I have known you so long, from Ellen's report, that glad am I

indeed to make your acquaintance; you to whom my lamented sister was so

much indebted."

Gratified and soothed by this address, for the sight of Ellen had

awakened many sad associations, she too being now a widow, Mrs. Cameron

rallied her energies, and replied to Mrs. Hamilton, in her naturally

easy and friendly manner. Ellen looked on the black dress she wore, and

turned inquiringly to young Cameron, who answered hurriedly, for he

guessed her thoughts.

"Ask not of my father, he is beside Colonel Fortescue; he shared his

laurels and his grave."

An expression of deep sympathy passed over Ellen's countenance,

rendering her features, to the eager glance of the young man, yet more

attractive.

"You have, I see, much to say and inquire, my dear Ellen," said her

aunt, kindly, as she marked her flushed cheek and eager eye. "Perhaps

Mrs. Cameron will indulge you by retiring with you into one of those

quiet, little refreshment-rooms, where you can talk as much as you

please without remark."

"Can I ask my dear young friend to resign the pleasures of the dance,

and agreeable companionship of the friends I see thronging round her, to

listen to an old woman's tale?" said Mrs. Cameron, smiling.

"I think you are answered," replied Mrs. Hamilton, playfully, as Ellen

passed her arm through that of Mrs. Cameron and looked caressingly and

persuadingly in her face.

Mrs. Cameron's tale was soon told. She had returned to England, for

India had become painful to her, from the many bereavements which had

there unhappily darkened her lot. Captain Cameron had fallen in an

engagement, two or three years after Mrs. Fortescue's departure; and out

of seven apparently healthy children, which had been hers when Ellen

knew her, only three now remained. It was after the death of her eldest

daughter, a promising girl of eighteen, her own health having suffered

so exceedingly from the shock, that her son Walter, fearing for her

life, effected an exchange, and being ordered to return with his

regiment to England--for he now held his father's rank of captain--he

succeeded in persuading his mother to accompany him with his sisters. He

was quartered at Devonport, where it appeared they had been residing

the last eight months, visited, even courted, by most of the military

and naval officers who had known and respected his father; amongst whom

was Lord N--, who had persuaded Mrs. Cameron to so far honour his ball

as there to introduce her daughter Flora, using arguments she could not

resist, and consequently delighting her affectionate children, by once

more appearing in public.

"And this is Walter, the kind Walter, who used ever to take my part,

though he did scold me for always looking so sad," exclaimed Ellen,

after hearing her friend's tale, and answering all her questions

concerning herself, looking up as she spoke on the young man, who had

again joined them, and blushing with timidity at her boldness in thus

speaking to one who had grown into a stranger.

The young man's heart throbbed as he heard himself addressed as Walter

by the beautiful girl beside him; and he found it difficult to summon

sufficient courage to ask her to dance with him; frankly, however, she

consented.

Ellen found pleasure, also, in renewing acquaintance with the timid

Flora, whom she had left a playful child of seven, and who was now

merging into bright and beautiful girlhood; eager to return her kindly

warmth in the delight of finding one of her own age among that

glittering crowd of strangers.

But few more incidents of note occurred that night; dancing continued

with unabated spirit, even after the departure of the royal guests, and

pleasure was the prevailing feeling to the last. The notice of the Duke,

and the benignant spirit of the Duchess, her gentle and kindly manners,

had penetrated many a young and ardent soul, and fixed at once and

unwaveringly the stamp of future loyalty within.

Once introduced to Mrs. Cameron, and aware that she resided so near

them, Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton cultivated her acquaintance; speedily they

became intimate. In Mrs. Fortescue's broken and dying narrative, she had

more than once mentioned them as the friends of her husband, and having

been most kind to herself. Edward had alluded to Captain Cameron's care

of him, and parting advice, when about to embark for England; and Ellen

had frequently spoken of Mrs. Cameron's kindness to her when a child.

All those who had shown kindness to her sister were objects of

attraction to Mrs. Hamilton, and the widow speedily became so attached

to her and her amiable family, that, on Walter being suddenly ordered

out to Ireland (which commands, by the way, the young man obeyed with

very evident reluctance), she gladly consented to rent a small

picturesque cottage between Moorlands and Oakwood, an arrangement which

added much to the young people's enjoyment; while the quiet repose of

her present life, the society of Mrs. Hamilton and her worthy husband,

as also that of Mr. Howard, restored the widow to happiness, which had

not been her portion since her husband's death; and now, for the first

time, Mrs. Hamilton became acquainted with those minute particulars

which she had for the last nine years desired to know, concerning the

early childhood of those orphans then committed to her care. That her

sister had been partial, it was very easy to discover; but the extent of

the evil, and the many little trials Ellen's very infancy had to

encounter, were only subjects of conjecture, for she could not bear to

lead them to speak on any topic that might in the least have reflected

on the memory of their mother.

The intelligence therefore which she now obtained explained all that had

been a matter of mystery and surprise in Ellen's character, and rendered

clearer than ever to Mrs. Hamilton the painful feelings which had in

opening youth actuated her niece's conduct; and often, as she listened

to Mrs. Cameron's account of her infant sufferings and her mother's

harshness and neglect, did Mrs. Hamilton wish such facts had from the

first been known to her; much sorrow, she felt assured, might have been

spared to all. She would perchance have been enabled to have so trained

her and soothed her early-wounded sensibility, that all the wretchedness

of her previous years might have been avoided, but she would not long

allow her mind to dwell on such things. She looked on her niece as

dearer than ever, from the narrative she had heard, and she was thankful

to behold her thus in radiant health and beauty, and, she hoped, in

happiness, although at times there was still a deeper shade of

seriousness than she loved to see imprinted on her brow, and dimming the

lustre of her eye, but it caused her no anxiety. Ellen's character had

never been one of light-hearted glee; it would have been unnatural to

see it now, and she believed that appearance of melancholy to be her

natural disposition, and so too, perhaps, the orphan regarded it

herself.

A very few weeks after Lord N----'s ball, Edward again departed from

Oakwood to join his ship. He parted gaily with his friends, for he knew

his voyage was to be but a short one; and that now the first and most

toilsome step to promotion had been gained, he should have very many

more opportunities of taking a run home and catching a glimpse, he said,

joyously, of the whole crew who were so dear to him, on board that tough

old ship Oakwood; and Ellen, too, could share his gaiety even the night

previous to his departure, for this was not like either their first or

second parting. She had all to hope and but little to fear; for her

trust was too firmly fixed on Him who had guarded that beloved brother

through so many previous dangers and temptations to bid her waver now.

Even Mrs. Hamilton's anxious bosom trembled not as she parted from the

son of her affections, the preserver of her husband; and though Oakwood

felt dull and gloomy on the first departure of the mischief-loving,

mirthful sailor, it was not the gloom of sorrow. February passed, and

Mrs. Hamilton's solicitude with regard to Emmeline still continued.

There were times when, deceived by her daughter's manner, lively and

playful apparently as usual, she permitted herself to feel less anxious;

but the pale cheek, the dulled eye, the air of languor, and sometimes,

though not often, of depression, which pervaded every movement, very

quickly recalled anxiety and apprehension. Mr. Maitland could not

understand her. If for a moment he imagined it was mental suffering, her

manner was such the next time he saw her as entirely to baffle that

fancy, and convince him that the symptoms which caused Mrs. Hamilton's

alarm were, in reality, of no consequence. Determined to use every

effort to deceive him, lest he should betray to her parents the real

cause of her sufferings, Emmeline generally rallied every effort and

rattled on with him, as from a child she had been accustomed, therefore

it was no wonder the worthy surgeon was deceived; and often, very

often, did the poor girl wish she could deceive herself as easily. It

was now nearly three months since she and young Myrvin had so painfully

parted, and her feelings, instead of diminishing in their intensity,

appeared to become more powerful. She had hoped, by studiously employing

herself, by never indulging in one idle hour, to partially efface his

remembrance, but the effort was fruitless. The letters from Lady

Florence and Lady Emily Lyle became subjects of feverish interest, for

in them alone she heard unprejudiced accounts of Arthur, of whose

praises, they declared, the epistles of their brother Louis were always

full; so much so, Lady Emily said, that she certainly should fall in

love with him, for the purpose of making a romantic story. Sadly did

poor Emmeline feel there was but little romance in her feelings; cold

clinging despair had overcome her. She longed for the comfort of her

mother's sympathy, but his character was not yet cleared. Mr. Hamilton

evidently mistrusted the praises so lavishly bestowed on the young man

by Lord Malvern's family; and how could she defend him, if accused of

presumption towards herself? Presumption there had not been; indeed, his

conduct throughout had done him honour. She fancied her mother would be

displeased, might imagine she had encouraged the feeling of romantic

admiration till it became an ideal passion, and made herself miserable.

Perhaps an unknown yet ever-lingering hope existed within, spite of

despair; perhaps aerial visions would mingle in the darkness, and

Emmeline shrunk, unconsciously, from their utter annihilation by the

stern prohibition of her parents. Such was the constant tenour of her

thoughts; but one moment of excited feeling betrayed that which she had

deemed would never pass her lips.

But a very few days had elapsed since Edward's departure from Oakwood

when, one afternoon, Mr. Hamilton entered the usual sitting-room of the

family, apparently much disturbed. Mrs. Hamilton and Ellen were engaged

in work, and Emmeline sat at a small table in the embrasure of one of

the deep gothic windows, silently yet busily employed it seemed in

drawing. She knew her father had gone that morning to the village, and

as usual felt uneasy and feverish, fearing, reasonably or unreasonably,

that on his return she would hear something unpleasant concerning

Arthur; as she this day marked the countenance of her father, her heart

throbbed, and her cheek, which had been flushed by the action of

stooping, paled even unto death.

"What mishap has chanced in the village, that you look so grave, my dear

love?" demanded his wife, playfully.

"I am perplexed in what matter to act, and grieved, deeply grieved, at

the intelligence I have learned; not only that my prejudice is

confirmed, but that the knowledge I have acquired concerning that

unhappy young man places me in a most awkward situation."

"You are not speaking very intelligibly, my dear husband, and therefore

I must guess what you mean; I fear it is young Myrvin of whom you

speak," said Mrs. Hamilton, her playfulness gone.

"They surely have not been again bringing him forward to his discredit?"

observed Ellen, earnestly. "The poor young man is far away; why will

they still endeavour to prejudice you and Mr. Howard against him?"

"I admire your charity, my dear girl, but, I am sorry to say, in this

case it is unworthily bestowed. There are facts now come to light which,

I fear, unpleasant as will be the task, render it my duty to write to

Lord Malvern. Arthur Myrvin is no fit companion for his son."

"His poor, poor father!" murmured Ellen, dropping her work, and looking

sorrowfully, yet inquiringly, in her uncle's face.

"But are they facts, Arthur--are they proved? for that there is unjust

prejudice against him in the village, I am pretty certain."

"They are so far proved, that, by applying them to him, a mystery in the

village is cleared up, and also his violent haste to quit our

neighbourhood. You remember Mary Brookes?"

"That poor girl who died, it was said, of such a rapid decline?

Perfectly well."

"It was not a decline, my dear Emmeline; would that it had been. She was

beautiful, innocent, in conversation and manner far above her station.

There are many to say she loved, and believed, in the fond trust of

devotion, all that the tempter said. She was worthy to be his wife, and

she became his victim. His visits to her old grandmother's cottage I

myself know were frequent. He deserted her, and that wild agony broke

the strings of life which remorse had already loosened; ten days after

Myrvin quitted the village she died, giving birth to an unhappy child of

sin and sorrow. Her grandmother, ever dull in observation and sense, has

been silent, apparently stupefied by the sudden death of her Mary, and

cherishes the poor helpless infant left her by her darling. Suddenly she

has appeared awakened to indignation, and a desire of vengeance on the

destroyer of her child, which I could wish less violent. She implored

me, with almost frantic wildness, to obtain justice from the cruel

villain--accusing him by name, and bringing forward so many proofs,

which the lethargy of grief had before concealed, that I cannot doubt

for one moment who is the father of that poor babe--the cruel, the

heartless destroyer of innocence and life."

"But is there no evidence but hers? I wish there were, for Dame Williams

is so weak and dull, she may easily be imposed upon," observed Mrs.

Hamilton, thoughtfully. "It is indeed a tale of sorrow; one that I could

wish, if it indeed be true, might not be published, for did it reach his

father's ears"--

"It will break his heart, I know it will," interrupted Ellen, with an

uncontrolled burst of feeling. "Oh, do not condemn him without further

proofs," she added, appealingly.

"Every inquiry I have made confirms the old dame's story," replied Mr.

Hamilton, sadly. "We know Myrvin's life in college, before his change of

rank, was one of reckless gaiety. All say he was more often at Dame

Williams's cottage than at any other. Had he been more attentive to his

duties, we might have believed he sought to soothe by religion poor

Mary's sufferings, but we know such was not his wont. Jefferies

corroborates the old dame's tale, bringing forward circumstances he had

witnessed, too forcibly to doubt. And does not his hasty resignation of

a comfortable home, a promising living, evince his guilt more strongly

than every other proof? Why did he refuse to defend his conduct? Was it

not likely such a crime as this upon his conscience would occasion that

restlessness we all perceived, that extreme haste to depart? he would

not stay to see his victim die, or be charged with a child of sin. There

was a mystery in his sudden departure, but there is none now; it is all

too clear."

"_It is false!_" burst with startling almost overwhelming power from the

lips of Emmeline, as she sprung with the strength of agony from her

seat, and stood with the suddenness of a vision, before her parents, a

bright hectic spot burning on either cheek, rendering her usually mild

eyes painfully brilliant. She had sat as if spell-bound, drinking in

every word. She _knew_ the tale was false, but yet each word had fallen

like brands of heated iron on her already scorching brain; that they

should dare to breathe such a tale against him, whose fair fame she knew

was unstained, link his pure name with infamy; and her father, too,

believed it. She did not scream, though there was that within which

longed for such relief. She did not faint, though every limb had lost

its power. A moment's strength and energy alike returned, and she

bounded forward. "It is false!" she again exclaimed, and her parents

started in alarm at her agonized tone; "false as the false villain that

dared stain the fair fame of another with his own base crime. Arthur

Myrvin is not the father of that child; Arthur Myrvin was not the

destroyer of Mary Brookes. Go and ask Nurse Langford: she who hung over

poor Mary's dying bed; who received from her own cold lips the name of

the father of her child; she who was alone near her when she died. Ask

her, and she will tell you the wretch, who has prejudiced all minds

against the good, the pure, the noble; the villain, the cruel

despicable villain, who rested not till his base arts had ruined

the--the--virtuous; that Jefferies, the canting hypocrite, the wretched

miscreant, who has won all hearts because he speaks so fair, he, he

alone is guilty. Put the question to him; let Nurse Langford ask him if

the dying spoke falsely when she named him, and his guilt will be

written on his brow. Arthur Myrvin did visit that cottage; Mary had

confessed a crime, she said not what, and implored his prayers; he

soothed her bodily and mental sufferings, he robbed death of its

terrors, and his only grief at leaving the village was, that she would

miss his aid, for that crime could not be confessed to another; and they

dare to accuse him of sin, he who is as good, as pure, as--" For one

second she paused, choked by inward agony, but ere either her father or

mother could address her, she continued, in an even wilder tone,--"Why

did Arthur Myrvin leave this neighbourhood? why did he go hence so

suddenly--so painfully? because, because he loved me--because he knew

that I returned his love, and he saw the utter hopelessness that

surrounded us, and he went forth to do his duty; he left me to forget

him, to obtain peace in forgetfulness of one I may never see

again--forgetfulness! oh, not till my brain ceases to throb will that be

mine. He thought to leave me with his love unspoken, but the words came,

and that very hour we parted. He loved me, he knew I could not be his,

and it was for this his living was resigned, for this he departed; and

had he cause to blush for this? pure, honourable, as was his love, too

noble, too unselfish to urge aught that could bid Emmeline forget her

duty to her parents for love of him; bearing every calumny, even the

prejudice, the harshness of my father, rather than confess he loved me.

He is innocent of every charge that is brought against him--all, all,

save the purest, the most honourable love for me; and, oh, is that

indeed, indeed a crime?"

She had struggled to the very last to speak calmly, but now sobs, the

more convulsive because the more suppressed, rose choking in her throat,

and rendered the last words almost inaudible. She pressed both hands

against her heart and then her temples, as if to still their painful

throbbings, and speak yet more, but the effort was fruitless, and she

darted wildly, and fled as an arrow from the room.

Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton looked on each other in painful and alarmed

astonishment, and Ellen, deeply affected, rose hastily, as if with the

intention of following her agitated cousin, but her aunt and uncle

entreated her not, alleging Emmeline would sooner recover alone, asking

her at the same time if she had known anything relative to the

confession they had just heard. She answered truly in the negative.

Emmeline had scarcely ever spoken of young Myrvin in her hearing; but as

the truth was now discovered, many little instances rose to the

recollection of both parents to confirm the avowal of their child, and

increase their now painfully awakened solicitude. Her agitation the

night of Edward's return, when Lord St. Eval laughingly threatened her

with marriage, rose to the recollection of both parents; her extreme

excitement and subsequent depression; her visibly failing health since

Arthur's departure, all, all, too sadly confirmed her words, and

bitterly Mrs. Hamilton reproached herself for never having suspected

the truth before, for permitting the young man to be thus intimate at

her house, heedless of what might ensue, forgetful that Emmeline was

indeed no longer a child, that her temperament was one peculiarly liable

to be thus strongly excited.

For a few minutes Mr. Hamilton felt pride and anger struggling fiercely

in his bosom against Arthur, for having dared to love one so far above

him as his child, but very quickly his natural kindliness and charity

resumed their sway. Could he wonder at that, love for one so fond, so

gentle, so clinging, as his Emmeline? Would he not have deemed Arthur

cold and strange, had her charms indeed passed him unnoticed and unfelt;

he remembered the forbearance, the extreme temper the unhappy young man

had ever displayed towards him, and suddenly and unconsciously he felt

he must have done him wrong; he had been prejudiced, misguided. If Nurse

Langford's tale was right, and Jefferies had dared to accuse another of

the crime he had himself committed, might he not in the like manner have

prejudiced the whole neighbourhood against Arthur by false reports? But

while from the words of his child every kindly feeling rose up in the

young man's favour, Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton did not feel the less

painfully that Emmeline had indeed spoken rightly: hopelessness was her

lot. It seemed to both impossible that they could ever consent to behold

her the wife of Myrvin, even if his character were cleared of the

stigmas which had been cast upon it. Could they consent to expose their

fragile child, nursed as she had been in the lap of luxury and comfort,

to all the evils and annoyances of poverty? They had naturally

accustomed themselves to anticipate Emmeline's marrying happily in

their own sphere, and they could not thus suddenly consent to the

annihilation of hopes, which had been fondly cherished in the mind of

each.

Some little time they remained in conversation, and then Mrs. Hamilton

rose to seek the chamber of her suffering child, taking with her indeed

but little comfort, save her husband's earnest assurance that he would

leave no means untried to discover Jefferies' true character, and if

indeed Arthur had been accused unjustly.

It was with a trembling hand Mrs. Hamilton softly opened Emmeline's

door, and with a heart bleeding at the anguish she beheld, and which she

felt too truly she could not mitigate, she entered, and stood for

several minutes by her side unnoticed and unseen.

There are some dispositions in which it is acutely painful to witness

sorrow. Those whom we have ever seen radiant in health, in liveliness,

in joy--so full of buoyancy and hope, they seem as if formed for

sunshine alone, as if they could not live in the darkening clouds of woe

or care; whose pleasures have been pure and innocent as their own bright

beauty; who are as yet unknown to the whispering of inwardly working

sin; full of love and gentleness, and sympathy, ever ready to weep for

others, though for themselves tears are unknown; creatures, whose warm

enthusiastic feelings bind them to every heart capable of generous

emotions; those in whom we see life most beautified, most glad. Oh, it

is so sad to see them weep; to feel that even on them sorrow hath cast

its blight, and paled the cheek, and dimmed the laughing eye, the

speaking smile, and the first grief in such as these is agony indeed:

it is the breaking asunder of every former joy. They shrink from

retrospection, for they cannot bear to feel they are not now as then,

and the future shares to them the blackened shadows of the hopeless

present. As susceptible as they are to pleasure so are they to pain; and

raised far above others in the enjoyment of the one, so is their grief

doubled in comparison with those of more happy, because more even

temperaments. So it was with Emmeline; and her mother felt all this as

she stood beside her, watching with tearful sympathy the first real

grief of her darling child. Emmeline had cast herself on her knees

beside her couch; she had buried her face in her hands, while the sobs

that burst incessantly from her swelling bosom shook her frail figure

convulsively; the blue veins in her throat had swelled as if in

suffocation, and her fair hair, loosened from its confinement by her

agitation, hung wildly around her.

"Emmeline," Mrs. Hamilton said, gently and falteringly, but her child

heard her not, and she twined her arm around her, and tried to draw her

towards her.

"My own darling Emmeline, speak to me; I cannot bear to see you thus.

Look up, love; for my sake calm this excited feeling."

"May I not even weep? Would you deny me that poor comfort?" burst almost

passionately from the lips of Emmeline, for every faculty was bewildered

in that suddenly-excited woe. She looked up; her eyes were bloodshot and

haggard, her cheek flushed, and the veins drawn like cords across her

brow.

"Weep: would your mother forbid you that blessed comfort and relief, my

Emmeline? Could you indeed accuse me of such cruelty?" replied Mrs.

Hamilton, bending over her as she spoke, and removing from those flushed

temples the hair which hung heavy with moisture upon them, and as she

did so Emmeline felt the tears of her mother fall thick and fast on her

own scorching brow. She started from her knees, gazed wildly and

doubtingly upon her, and tottering from exhaustion, would have fallen,

had not Mrs. Hamilton, with a sudden movement, received her in her arms.

For a moment Emmeline struggled as if to break from her embrace, but

then, with a sudden transition of feeling, clasped her arms convulsively

about her mother's neck, and burst into a long and violent but relieving

flood of tears.

"I meant never, never to have revealed my secret," she exclaimed, in a

voice almost inaudible, as her mother, seating her on a couch near them,

pressed her to her heart, and permitted some minutes to pass away in

that silence of sympathy which to the afflicted is so dear. "And now

that it has been wrung from me, I know not what I do or say. Oh, if I

have spoken aught disrespectfully to you or papa just now, I meant it

not, indeed I did not; but they dared to speak false tales, and I could

not sit calmly to hear them," she added, shuddering.

"There was nothing in your words, my own love, to give us pain with

regard to ourselves," said Mrs. Hamilton, in her most soothing tone, as

again and again she pressed her quivering lips to that flushed cheek,

and tried to kiss away the now streaming tears. "Do not let that thought

add to your uneasiness, my own darling."

"And can you forgive me, mother?" and Emmeline buried her face yet more

closely in her mother's bosom.

"Forgive you, Emmeline! is there indeed aught in your acquaintance with

Arthur Myrvin which demands my forgiveness?" replied her mother, in a

tone of anxiety and almost alarm.

"Oh, no, no! but you may believe I have encouraged these weak emotions;

that I have wilfully thought on them till I have made myself thus

miserable; that I have called for his love--given him encouragement:

indeed, indeed I have not. I have struggled hard to obtain

forgetfulness--to think of him no more, to regain happiness, but it

would not come. I feel--I know I can never, never be again the joyous

light-hearted girl that I was once; all feels so changed."

"Do not say so, my own love; this it but the language of despondency,

now too naturally your own; but permit it not to gain too much

ascendency, dearest. Where is my Emmeline's firm, devoted faith in that

merciful Father, who for so many years has gilded her lot with such

unchecked happiness. Darker clouds are now indeed for a time around you,

but His blessing will remove them, love; trust still in Him."

Emmeline's convulsive sobs were somewhat checked; the fond and gentle

tones of sympathy had their effect on one to whom affection never

pleaded in vain.

"And why have you so carefully concealed the cause of the sufferings

that were so clearly visible, my Emmeline?" continued her mother,

tenderly. "Could that fear which you once avowed in a letter to Mary,

have mingled in your affection for me? Could fear, indeed, have kept you

silent? Can your too vivid fancy have bid you imagine I should reproach

you, or refuse my sympathy in this sad trial? Your perseverance in

active employments, your strivings for cheerfulness, all must, indeed,

confirm your assertion, that you have not encouraged weakening emotions.

I believe you, my own, and I believe, too, my Emmeline did not give

young Myrvin encouragement. Look up, love, and tell me that you do not

fear your mother--that you do not deem her harsh."

"Harsh? oh, no, no!" murmured the poor girl, still clinging to her neck,

as if she feared something would part them. "It is I who am capricious,

fanciful, miserable: oh, do not heed my incoherent words. Mother,

dearest mother, oh, let me but feel that you still love me, and I will

teach my heart to be satisfied with that."

"But if indeed I am not harsh, tell me all, my Emmeline--tell me when

you were first aware you loved Arthur Myrvin; all that has passed

between you. I promise you I will not add to your suffering on his

account by reproaches. Confide in the affection of your mother, and this

trial will not be so hard to bear."

Struggling to obtain composure and voice, Emmeline obeyed, and

faithfully repeated every circumstance connected with her and Arthur,

with which our readers are well acquainted; touching lightly, indeed, on

their parting interview, which Mrs. Hamilton easily perceived could not

be recalled even now, though some months had passed, without a renewal

of the distress it had caused. Her recital almost unconsciously exalted

the character of Arthur in the mind of Mrs. Hamilton, which was too

generous and kind to remain untouched by conduct so honourable,

forbearing, and praiseworthy.

"Do not weep any more for the cruel charges against him, my love," she

said, with soothing tenderness, as Emmeline's half-checked tears burst

forth again as she spoke of the agony she in secret endured, when in her

presence his character was traduced. "Your father will now leave no

means untried to discover whether indeed they are true or false.

Insinuations and reports have prejudiced his judgment more than is his

wont. He has gone now to Widow Langford, to hear her tale against

Jefferies, and if this last base charge he has brought against Arthur be

indeed proved against himself, it will be easy to convict him of other

calumnies; for the truth of this once made evident, it is clear that his

base machinations have been the secret engines of the prejudice against

Myrvin, for which no clear foundation has ever yet been discovered. You

will not doubt your father's earnestness in this proceeding, my

Emmeline, and you know him too well to believe he would for one moment

refrain from acknowledging to Mr. Myrvin the injustice he has done him,

if indeed it prove unfounded."

"And if his character be cleared from all stain--if not a whisper taint

his name, and his true excellence be known to all--oh, may we not hope?

mother, mother, you will not be inexorable; you will not, oh, you will

not condemn your child to misery!" exclaimed Emmeline, in a tone of

excitement, strongly contrasting with the hopelessness which had

breathed in every word before; and, bursting from her mother's detaining

hold, she suddenly knelt before her, and clasped her robe in the

wildness of her entreaty. "You will not refuse to make us happy; you

will not withhold your consent, on which alone depends the future

happiness of your Emmeline. You, who have been so good, so kind, so

fond,--oh, you will not sentence me to woe. Mother, oh, speak to me. I

care not how many years I wait: say, only say that, if his character be

cleared of all they have dared to cast upon it, I shall one day he his.

Do not turn from me, mother. Oh, bid me not despond; and yet and yet,

because he is poor, oh, would you, can you condemn me to despair?"

"Emmeline, Emmeline, do not wring my heart by these cruel words,"

replied Mrs. Hamilton, in a tone of such deep distress, that Emmeline's

imploring glance sunk before it, and feeling there was indeed no hope,

her weakened frame shook with the effort to restrain the bursting tears.

"Do not ask me to promise this; do not give me the bitter pain of

speaking that which you feel at this moment will only add to your

unhappiness. You yourself, by the words you have repeated, behold the

utter impossibility of such an union. Why, why then will you impose on

me the painful task of repeating it? Could I consent to part with you to

one who has not even a settled home to give you, whose labours scarcely

earn sufficient to maintain himself? You know not all the evils of such

an union, my sweet girl. You are not fitted to cope with poverty or

care, to bear with that passionate irritability and restlessness which

characterise young Myrvin, even when weightier charges are removed. And

could we feel ourselves justified in exposing you to privations and

sorrows, which our cooler judgment may perceive, though naturally

concealed from the eye of affection? Seldom, very seldom, are those

marriages happy in which such an extreme disparity exists, more

particularly when, as in this case, the superiority is on the side of

the wife. I know this sounds like cold and worldly reasoning, my

Emmeline; I know that this warm, fond heart revolts in agony from every

word, but do not, do not think me cruel, love, and shrink from my

embrace. How can I implore you, for my sake, still to struggle with

these sad feelings, to put every effort into force to conquer this

unhappy love? and yet my duty bids me do so; for, oh, I cannot part with

you for certain poverty and endless care. Speak to me, my own; promise

me that you will try and be contented with your father's exertions to

clear Arthur's character from all aspersions. You will not ask for

more?"

There was a moment's pause. Mrs. Hamilton had betrayed in every word the

real distress she suffered in thus speaking, when the gentle pleading of

her woman's heart would have bade her soothe by any and every means her

afflicted child; Emmeline knew this, and even in that moment she could

not bear to feel her mother grieved, and she had been the cause. Filial

devotion, filial duty, for a few minutes struggled painfully with the

fervid passion which shook her inmost soul; but they conquered, and when

she looked up, her tears were checked, and only the deadly paleness of

the cheek, the quivering of the lip and eye, betrayed the deep emotion

that still prevailed within.

"Be not thus distressed for me, my dear, my too indulgent mother,"

replied Emmeline, in a voice that struggled to be composed and firm,

though bodily weakness defied her efforts. "I meant not to have grieved

you, and yet I have done so. Oh, let not my foolish words give you pain,

you whose love would, I know, seek to spare me every suffering. My brain

feels confused and burning now, and I know not what I say; but it will

pass away soon, and then I will try to be all you can wish. You will

not, I know you will not be so cruel as to bid me wed another, and that

knowledge is enough. Let but his character be cleared, and I promise you

I will use every effort to be content. I knew that it was hopeless. Why,

oh, why did I bid your lips confirm it!" and again were those aching

eyes and brow concealed on Mrs. Hamilton's shoulder, while the

despairing calmness of her voice sounded even more acutely painful to

her mother than the extreme suffering it had expressed before.

"May God in His mercy bless you for this, my darling girl!" escaped

almost involuntarily from Mrs. Hamilton's lips, as the sweet disposition

of her child appeared to shine forth brighter than ever in this complete

surrender of her dearest hopes to the will of her parents. "And oh, that

He may soothe and comfort you will mingle in your mother's prayers. Tell

me but one thing more, my own. Have you never heard from this young man

since you parted?"

"He wrote to me, imploring me to use my influence with St. Eval, to aid

his obtaining the situation of tutor to Lord Louis," answered Emmeline.

"He did not allude to what had passed between us; his letter merely

contained this entreaty, as if he would thus prove to me that his

intention to quit England, and seek for calmness in the steady

performance of active duties, was not mere profession."

"Then your representations were the origin of Eugene's interest in

Arthur?" said Mrs. Hamilton, inquiringly.

Emmeline answered in the affirmative.

"And did you answer his letter?"

"No, mamma; it was enough for me and for him, too, his wishes were

granted. I would not indulge my secret wish to do so. Neither you nor

papa, nor indeed any of my family, knew what had passed between us.

Determined as I was to struggle for the conquest of myself, I did not

imagine in keeping that secret I was acting undutifully; but had I

written to him, or cherished, as my weak fondness bade me do,

his--his--why should I hide it--his precious letter, my conscience would

have added its pangs to the sufferings already mine. While that was free

and light, I could still meet your look and smile, and return your kiss,

however I might feel my heart was breaking; but if I had so deceived

you, so disregarded my duty, as to enter into a correspondence with him,

unknown to you, oh, the comfort of your love would have flown from me

for ever."

"And had my Emmeline indeed sufficient resolution to destroy that

letter?" demanded Mrs. Hamilton, surprise mingling with the admiration

and esteem which, though felt by a mother for a child, might well be

pardoned.

"It was my duty, mother, and I did it," replied Emmeline, with a

simplicity that filled the eyes of her mother with tears. "Could I

indeed forget those principles of integrity which, from my earliest

infancy, you have so carefully instilled?"

Mrs. Hamilton clasped her to her bosom, and imprinted kisses of the

fondest affection on her colourless and burning forehead.

"Well, indeed, are my cares repaid," she exclaimed. "Oh, that my

affection could soothe your sorrows as sweetly as your gentle yet

unwavering adherence to filial love and duty have comforted me. Will

you, for my sake, my own love, continue these painful yet virtuous

efforts at self-conquest, which you commenced merely from a sense of

duty? Will you not glad your mother's heart and let me have the comfort

of beholding you once more my own cheerful, happy Emmeline?"

"I will try," murmured Emmeline, struggling to smile; but oh, it was so

unlike herself, so lustreless and faint, that Mrs. Hamilton hastily

turned away to hide emotion. The dressing-bell at that instant sounded,

and Emmeline looked an entreaty to which her lips appeared unwilling to

give words. Her mother understood it.

"I will not ask you to join us at dinner, love. Do not look so

beseechingly, you will recover this agitation sooner and better alone;

and so much confidence have you compelled me to feel in you," she added,

trying to smile and speak playfully, "that I will not ask you to make an

exertion to which you do not feel equal, even if you wish to be alone

the whole evening. I know my Emmeline's solitary moments will not be

spent in vain repinings."

"You taught me whom to seek for comfort and relief in my childish

sorrows, and I will not, I do not forget that lesson now, mother,"

answered Emmeline, faintly yet expressively. "Let me be alone, indeed, a

few hours, and if I can but conquer this feeling of exhaustion, I will

join you at tea."

Mrs. Hamilton silently embraced and left her, with a heart swelling with

fond emotion, as she thought on the gentle yet decided character of her

child, who from her infancy had scarcely ever caused her pain, still

less anxiety. Now indeed solicitude was hers, for it was evident, alas!

too evident, that Emmeline's affections were unalterably engaged; that

this was not the mere fervour of the moment, a passion that would pass

away with the object, but one that Mrs. Hamilton felt forebodingly would

still continue to exist. Emmeline's was not a disposition to throw off

feelings such as these lightly and easily. Often had her mother inwardly

trembled when she thought of such a sentiment influencing her Emmeline,

and now the dreaded moment had come. How was she to act? She could not

consent to an union such as this would be. Few mothers possessed less

ambition than Mrs. Hamilton, few were so indulgent, so devoted to her

children, but to comply with the poor girl's feverish wishes would be

indeed but folly. Arthur had engaged himself to remain with Lord Louis

Lyle during the period of his residence in Germany, which was at that

time arranged to be three years. The future to young Myrvin must, she

knew, be a blank; years would in all probability elapse ere he could

obtain an advantageous living and means adequate to support a wife and

family; and would it not be greater cruelty to bid Emmeline live on in

lingering and sickening hope, than at once to appeal to her reason, and

entreat her, by the affection she bore her parents, to achieve this

painful conquest of herself, as their consent could not be given. They

felt sad, indeed, thus to add to the suffering of their afflicted child,

yet it was the better way, for had they promised to consent that when he

could support her she should be his own, it might indeed bring relief

for the moment, but it would be but the commencement of a life of

misery; her youth would fade away in that sickening anguish of hope

deferred, more bitter because more lingering than the absolute

infliction of brief though certain suffering. The hearts of both parents

grieved as they thought on all she had endured, and for a brief period

must still endure, but their path of duty once made clear, they swerved

not from it, however it might pain themselves.

Mrs. Hamilton was right. Emmeline's solitary moments were not spent in

vain repinings; she struggled to compose her thoughts, to cast the

burden of her sorrows upon Him, who in love and mercy had ordained them;

and she did so with that pure, that simple, beautiful faith so

peculiarly her own, and a calm at length stole over her wearied spirit

and exhausted frame, soothing her, even to sleep, with the words of

prayer yet lingering on her lips. She awoke, after above an hour's

slumber, composed in mind, but still feverish in body. Prayer had

brought its blessed influence, but that calm was more the quiescence

proceeding from over-excitement than natural feeling; she felt it so,

and dreaded the return of mental agony, as bodily sufferers await the

periodical paroxysms of pain. She resolved not to give way to the

exhaustion she still felt. She rejoined the family at tea, pale indeed,

but perfectly composed, and even faintly smiling on her father, who,

hastily rising as she languidly and unexpectedly entered the room,

carried her tenderly in his arms to a couch, compelled her to lie down,

and bending over her with that soothing fondness which she so much

loved, retained his seat by her side all the evening, though

participating and frequently inducing her to join in the conversation on

various topics, which Mrs. Hamilton and Ellen seemed determined to

maintain. Once during that evening Emmeline had looked up beseechingly

in her father's face, and that touching, silent eloquence told all she

would have said, far more expressively than words.

"Justice shall be done, my Emmeline," he replied, gently drawing her to

him, and speaking in a tone that was heard by her alone. "I have been

harsh, prejudiced, as cruelly unjust as blindly imposed on by a

comparative stranger; but I promise you, all shall be impartially

considered. I have done this unfortunate young man much wrong, for I

should have recollected his father has many enemies, and this may be one

of them, seeking from revenge to injure him. I am grateful to Arthur

Myrvin for his forbearance towards myself, for his truly noble conduct

towards you--right principles alone could have dictated both. Mrs.

Langford has confirmed all you said, and informed me of many little

circumstances which if, on a strict examination, I find are founded on

truth, Jefferies' character and base designs will not be difficult to

fathom. Myrvin's character shall be cleared from suspicion, if it be in

my power, my dear girl; rest as confident on my promise to that effect,

as I do on yours, that, this accomplished, _you will ask no more_."

Emmeline's head rested on his shoulder; he had marked the relief, the

gratitude her sweet face expressed during his first words, but as he

ceased, her eyes were hid upon his bosom, and he could read no more. It

was well for the steadiness of his determination that it was so, for the

wretchedness imprinted on every feature, every line of her countenance,

at his concluding sentence, would have wrung his soul.

Though persuaded by her parents to retire early, Emmeline did not do so

till the usual hour of separation after prayers. To Ellen's

silently-observing eye she appeared to shrink from being alone, and this

thought haunted her so incessantly, that, instead of composing herself

to rest, she softly traversed the short distance which separated their

apartments, and entered her cousin's room.

Emmeline was alone, undressed, a large wrapping robe flung carelessly

over her night attire, but instead of reading, which at that hour, and

in that guise, she generally did, that the word of God might be the last

book on which she looked ere she sought her rest, she was leaning

abstractedly over the fire, seated on a low stool, her hands pressed on

her temples, while the flickering flame cast a red and unnatural glare

on those pale cheeks. Ellen advanced, but her cousin moved not at her

entrance, nor even when she knelt by her side, and twined her arms

around her.

"Will you not go to bed, dearest Emmeline? it is so late, and you have

been so fearfully agitated to-day. Look up and speak to me, my own dear

cousin, or I shall fancy you are hurt with me for permitting so many

hours to pass without coming near you, when I knew you were in

suffering. Oh, you know not how I longed to come, but my aunt said you

had entreated to be left alone. I stood for some minutes by your door,

but all was so still, I thought I should disturb you did I enter. You do

not accuse me of unkindness, Emmeline?"

Housed by her cousin's affectionate words and imploring voice, Emmeline

resisted not her embrace, but clung to her in silence.

"You are ill, you are very ill, dearest, dearest Emmeline; do not sit up

thus; for my sake, for your mother's sake, try if sleep will not ease

this aching head," exclaimed Ellen, much alarmed at the burning heat and

quick throbbing of Emmeline's forehead, as it rested on her shoulder.

"I cannot sleep, Ellen, it is useless to attempt it; I feel as if my

eyes would never close again; as if years had passed over my head since

last night. I thought I could not be more miserable than I was

when--when we parted, and as I have been since; but that was

nothing--nothing to this. I thought I had not indulged in hope, for I

knew that it was vain, but now, now I feel I must have done so, and it

is its utter, utter annihilation that bows me to the earth. Oh, why am I

so changed, I who was once so glad, so free, so full of hope and

happiness, looking forward to days as bright as those that fled; and now

what am I, and what is life? a thing from which all happiness has flown,

but clothed in darker shadows, from its contrast with the past."

"Oh, do not say so, dearest," replied Ellen, affected almost to tears by

the despairing tone in which these words were said. "The blessing, the

comfort of your parents, your brothers, of all who know you as you are,

do not say your life will be without joy; its most cherished flower, its

most precious gem may have passed away, but others will spring up in

time, to fill that yearning void. You, whose presence ever brings with

it such enjoyment to others, oh, you too will be blessed. You cannot

long continue miserable, when you feel the power you have of making so

many of your fellow-creatures happy. You are ill, exhausted now, and

therefore all around you looks so full of gloom and pain, yet when this

shall have passed, you will not reject the comfort that remains. Have

you not an approving conscience to support you, the consciousness that

you have proved your love and gratitude to the parents you so fondly

love? and think you He, who looks with an eye of favour on the faintest

effort of His creatures, made for His sake, and in His spirit, will

permit this strength to pass unaided? No, dearest, He will assist and

strengthen you; He can take even from this bitter trial its sting."

"I know it, I feel it," murmured Emmeline, still clinging to her cousin,

as if she found comfort in her presence and her words. "I know well that

this trial in itself is as nothing compared with those endured at this

very hour by thousands of my fellow-creatures, and knowing this makes me

the more wretched, for if I am thus repining and miserable, how dare I

hope my prayers will be heard?"

"Yet doubt it not, my own Emmeline; our Father in heaven judgeth not as

man judgeth. Man might condemn this appearance of weakness in you now,

but God will not, for he knows the individual strength of His creatures,

and in love and mercy chasteneth accordingly. He knoweth this is a

severe trial for one, young and gentle as you are; and with your heart

lifted up to Him, as I know it is, doubt not that your prayers will be

heard and this pang softened in His own time. I fear my words sound

cold; but oh, would that I could comfort you, dearest," and tears stood

trembling in Ellen's eyes.

"And you do comfort me, Ellen; oh, I do not feel so very wretched with

you near me as I do alone, though even you cannot guess this extent of

suffering; you know not what it is to love, and yet to feel there is no

hope; no--none," she repeated, in a low murmuring tone, as if to

convince herself that there was indeed none, as she had said; and it was

not strange that thus engrossed, she marked not that a slight shudder

passed through her cousin's frame at her last words; that Ellen's cheek

suddenly vied in its deadly paleness with her own; that the tears dried

up, as if frozen in those large, dark eyes, which were fixed upon her

with an expression she would, had she seen it, have found difficult to

understand; that the pale lip quivered for a few minutes, so as entirely

to prevent her speaking as she had intended.

"Go to bed, dearest Emmeline, indeed you must not sit up longer," Ellen

said at length, as she folded her arms fondly round her and kissed her

cheek. "When I was ill, you ever wished to dictate to me," she

continued, playfully, "and I was always good and obedient; will you not

act up to your own principle and obey me now? think of your mother,

dearest, how anxious she will be if you are ill. I will not leave you

till you are asleep."

"No, no, dear Ellen, I will not so abuse your kindness; I will go to

bed. I have been wrong to sit up thus, when I promised mamma to do all I

could to--but, indeed, you must not stay with me, Ellen. I feel so

exhausted, I may perhaps sleep sooner than I expect; but even if I do

not, you must not sit up."

"Never mind, my love, let me see you obedient, and I will perhaps learn

the same lesson," replied Ellen, playfully, though her cheek retained

its suddenly-acquired paleness. Emmeline no longer resisted, and Ellen

quickly had the relief of seeing her in bed, and her eyes closed, as if

in the hope of obtaining sleep; but after a few minutes they again

opened, and seeing Ellen watching her, she said--

"You had better leave me, Ellen, I shall not be able to sleep if I think

you are watching me, and losing your own night's rest. I am not ill, my

dear cousin, I am only miserable, and that will pass away perhaps for a

short time again, as it did this afternoon."

Ellen again kissed her and closed the curtains, obeying her so far as to

retire to her room, but not to bed; she was much too uneasy to do so.

Emmeline had been in very delicate health for some months, and it

appeared to her observant eyes and mind, that now the cause for her

exertion was removed, by the discovery of her long-treasured secret,

that health had really given way, and she was actually ill in body as

well as mind. The burning heat of her forehead and hand, the quick

pulsation of her temples, had alarmed her as predicting fever; and

Ellen, with that quiet resolution and prompt decision, which now

appeared to form such prominent traits in her character, determined on

returning to her cousin's room as soon as she thought she had fallen

asleep, and remain there during the night; that if she were restless,

uneasy, or wakeful, she might, by her presence, be some comfort, and if

these feverish symptoms continued, be in readiness to send for Mr.

Maitland at the first dawn of morning, without alarming her aunt.

"You are not formed for sorrow, my poor Emmeline," she said internally,

as she prepared herself for her night's visit by assuming warmer

clothing. "Oh, that your grief may speedily pass away; I cannot bear to

see one so formed for joy as you are grieved. My own sorrows I can bear

without shrinking, without disclosing by one sign what I am internally

suffering. I have been nerved from my earliest years to trial, and it

would be strange indeed did I not seem as you believe me. _I_ know not

what it is to love. _I_ know not the pang of that utter hopelessness

which bows my poor cousin to the earth. Ah, Emmeline, you know not such

_hopelessness_ as mine, gloomy as are your prospects; you can claim the

sympathy, the affection, the consolation, of all those who are dear to

you; there is no need to hide your love, ill-fated as it is, for it is

_returned_--you are beloved; and I, my heart must bleed in secret, for

no such mitigation attends its loss of peace. I dare not seek for

sympathy, or say I love; but why--why am I encouraging these thoughts?"

and she started as if some one could have heard her scarcely-audible

soliloquy. "It is woman's lot to suffer--man's is to _act_, woman's to

_bear_; and such must be mine, and in silence, for even the sympathy of

my dearest relative I dare not ask. Oh, wherefore do I feel it shame to

love one so good, so superior, so holy? because, because he does not

love me, save with a brother's love; and I know he loves another."

The slight frame of the orphan shook beneath that inward struggle; there

were times, in her hours of solitude, when such thoughts would come,

spite of every effort to expel them, and there was only one way to

obtain that self-control she so much needed, so continually exercised,

till it became a second nature. She became aware her feelings had

obtained undue ascendency, and, sinking on her knees, remained absorbed

in prayer, fervent and heartfelt, truly the outpourings of a contrite

and trusting spirit, confident in the power and mercy to which she

appealed. That anguish passed ere she arose, and every sign of agitation

had left her countenance and voice as she put her resolution into

action, and returned to her cousin.

Emmeline had awoke from her brief and troubled slumbers, more restless

and feverish than when she had first sought her couch; and, suffering as

she was from that nervous and anxious state peculiar to approaching

fever, the poor girl no longer resisted Ellen's evident determination,

and clasping her hand between her own, now burning with fever,

continually thanked her, in broken and feeble accents, for remaining

with her, assuring her she did not feel so ill or as unhappy as she

should have done had she been alone. Anxious as she was, Ellen would not

arouse her aunt, but at the first break of day she softly entered the

housekeeper's room, and succeeded in arousing without alarming her,

informed her of Emmeline's restless state, and implored her to send at

once for Mr. Maitland. Hastily rising, Ellis accompanied Ellen to her

cousin's room, and instantly decided on complying with her request. The

household were already on the alert, and a servant was speedily

despatched; but, relieved as she was on this point, Ellen would not

comply with the good housekeeper's request to repose herself for a few

hours; she had resolved not to relinquish her post by the bedside of the

young sufferer to any save her aunt herself. Ellis desisted, for a word

from her favourite, almost her darling, as Ellen from many circumstances

had become, was to her always sufficient.

Mrs. Hamilton and Mr. Maitland met at Emmeline's door, to the

astonishment and at first alarm of the former--an alarm which subsided

into comparative relief, as she listened to Ellen's hurried tale,

although anxiety to a very high degree remained, and with some reason,

for Ellen's fears were not unfounded. Emmeline's fever rapidly and

painfully increased, and for a week her parents hung over her couch

almost despairing of her recovery; their fond hearts almost breaking, as

they heard her sweet voice, in the wild accent of delirious intervals,

calling aloud on Arthur, and beseeching their consent and blessing to

restore her to health; and scarcely less painful was it in her lucid

hours to see her clasp her mother's hands repeatedly, and murmur, in a

voice almost inarticulate from weakness--

"Do not be anxious or grieved for me, my own dear mamma, I shall soon

get well, and be your happy Emmeline again. I cannot be miserable, when

I have you and papa and Ellen to love me so tenderly," and then, she

would cling to her mother's neck, and kiss her till she would sink to

sleep upon her bosom, as in infancy and childhood she had so often done;

and dearer than ever did that gentle girl become, in these hours of

suffering, to all who had loved her so fondly before; they had deemed it

almost impossible that affection could in any way be increased, and yet

it was so. Strange must be that heart which can behold a being such as

Emmeline cling to it, as if its protection and its love were now all

that bound her to earth, and still remain unmoved and cold. Affection is

ever strengthened by dependence--dependence at least like this; and

there was something peculiarly touching in Emmeline's present state of

mental weakness. Her parents felt, as they gazed on her, that they had

occasioned the anguish which had prostrated her on a bed of sickness;

and yet their child clung to them as if, in the intensity of her

affection for them, and theirs for her, she would strive to forget her

unhappy love, and be once more happy.

Time rolled heavily by, and some few weeks passed, ere Emmeline was

sufficiently convalescent to leave her room, and then her pallid

features and attenuated form were such constant and evident proofs of

that mental as well as bodily fever, that Mrs. Hamilton could not look

on her without pain. She was still inwardly restless and uneasy, though

evidently struggling for cheerfulness, and Mr. Maitland, to whom some

necessary particulars of her tale had been told, gave as his opinion,

that some secret anxiety still rested on her mind, which would be much

better removed; the real cause of that solicitude her parents very

easily penetrated. Mr. Hamilton, fearing the effects of excitement in

her still very delicate state, had refrained from telling her all he had

accomplished in young Myrvin's favour during her sickness, but on

hearing Mr. Maitland's report, her parents both felt assured it was for

that information she pined, and therefore determined on instantly giving

her relief.

It was with the utmost tenderness and caution Mr. Hamilton alluded to

the subject, and seating himself by her couch, playfully asked her if

she would promise him to get well the sooner, if he gratified her by the

pleasing intelligence that Arthur Myrvin's character was cleared, that

his enemy had been discovered, his designs exposed, and himself obliged

to leave the village, and the whole population were now as violently

prejudiced in Arthur's favour, as they had formerly been against him;

provoked also with themselves for their blind folly in receiving and

encouraging the idle reports propagated against him, not one of which

they now perceived were sufficiently well founded to stand before an

impartial statement and accurate examination.

Had her parents doubted what had weighed on Emmeline's mind, the sudden

light beaming in those saddened eyes, the flush kindling on those pale

cheeks, the rapid movement with which she caught her father's hand, and

looked in his face, as if fearful he would deceive her, all these minute

but striking circumstances must have betrayed the truth. In a voice

almost inarticulate from powerful emotion, she implored him to tell her

every particular, and tenderly he complied.

He had followed, he said, her advice, and confronted Nurse Langford with

the unprincipled man who had dared accuse a fellow-creature of a crime

in reality committed by himself, and reckless as he was, he had shrunk

in guilt and shame before her accusation, which was indeed the

accusation of the dying, and avowing himself the real perpetrator of the

sin, offered her a large bribe for secrecy, which, as might be expected,

the widow indignantly refused. It was easy to perceive, his arts had

worked on the old woman, Mary's grandmother, to believe him her friend

and Arthur her foe; the poor old creature's failing intellect assisted

his plans, while the reports he had insidiously circulated against the

unfortunate young man also confirmed his tale. Little aware that the

Widow Langford had been almost a mother to the poor girl his villainy

had ruined, and that she was likely to have heard the truth, being quite

unconscious she had attended her dying moments, he published this

falsehood, without any feeling of remorse or shame, hoping by so doing,

effectually to serve his employers, effect the disgrace of Myrvin, and

completely screen himself. Mrs. Langford now found it was time indeed

for her to come forward and perform her promise to Emmeline by proving

young Myrvin's innocence, but hesitated how to commence. She was

therefore both relieved and pleased at the entrance and inquiries of Mr.

Hamilton, and promised to obey his directions faithfully, only imploring

him to clear Mr. Myrvin's character, and expel Farmer Jefferies from the

village, which, from the time of his settling there, she said, had been

one scene of anarchy and confusion; frankly avowing, in answer to a

question of Mr. Hamilton, that it was for Miss Emmeline's sake she was

so anxious; she was sure she was interested in Mr. Myrvin's fate, and

therefore she had mentioned the unhappy fate of poor Mary Brookes, to

prove to her the young man had attended to his duty. Many other

startling proofs of Jefferies' evil conduct had the good widow, by

silent but watchful attention, been enabled to discover, as also

convincing evidence that the young curate had not been so neglectful or

faulty as he had been reported. All her valuable information she now

imparted to her master, to be used by him in any way his discretion

might point out, promising to be ever ready at the slightest notice to

prove all she had alleged. Mr. Hamilton carefully examined every

circumstance, reflected for a brief period on his mode of action, and

finally, assembling all the principal inhabitants around him, in the

public school-room of the village, laid before them all the important

facts he had collected, and besought their impartial judgment. He owned,

he said, that he too had been prejudiced against Mr. Myrvin, whose

life, while among them, many circumstances had combined to render

unhappy, but that now, he heartily repented his injustice, for he felt

convinced the greater part of what had been alleged against him was

false. Those evil reports he proved had all originated from the

machinations of Jefferies, and he implored them to consider whether they

could still regard the words of one, against whom so much evil had now

been proved, as they had formerly done, or could they really prove that

their young curate had in truth been guilty of the misdemeanours with

which he had been charged.

Mr. Howard, who was present, seconded his words, acknowledging that he

too had been prejudiced, and adding, that he could not feel satisfied

till he had avowed this truth, and asked his young friend's pardon for

the injury he had done him.

Nothing is more sudden and complete than changes in popular feeling. The

shameful act of Jefferies, in casting on the innocent the stigma of

shame and crime which was his own, was quite enough for the honest and

simple villagers. At once they condemned themselves (which perhaps they

might not have been quite so ready to do, had not Mr. Hamilton and their

rector shown them the example), and not only defended and completely

exculpated Myrvin, but in an incredibly short space of time, so many

anecdotes of the young man's performance of his duty were collected,

that had not Mr. Hamilton been aware of the violent nature of popular

feeling, those defects which still remained, though excused by the

recollection of the mental tortures Myrvin had been enduring, would

undoubtedly have departed, as entirely as every darker shade on his

character had done.

Convinced that Arthur's attention to parochial affairs, as well as his

conduct in other matters, had been very opposite to that which had been

reported, neither Mr. Howard nor Mr. Hamilton could feel satisfied till

they had written to him, frankly avowing their injustice, and asking his

pardon and forgetfulness of the past, and assuring him that, if his

conduct continued equally worthy of approbation as it was at the present

time, he should ever find in them sincere and active friends.

Mr. Hamilton felt he had much, very much to say to the young man; but in

what manner to word it he was somewhat perplexed. He could not speak of

his daughter, and yet Myrvin's conduct towards her had created a feeling

of gratitude and admiration which he could not suppress. Many fathers

would have felt indignation only at the young man's presumption, but Mr.

Hamilton was neither so unreasonable nor so completely devoid of

sympathy. It was he himself, he thought, who had acted imprudently in

allowing him to associate so intimately with his daughters, not the

fault of the sufferer. Myrvin had done but his duty indeed, but Mr.

Hamilton knew well there were very few young men who would have acted as

he had done, when conscious that his affection was returned with all the

enthusiasm and devotedness of a disposition such as Emmeline's. How few

but would have played with those feelings, tortured her by persuasions

to forget duty for the sake of love; but Arthur had not done this, and

the father's heart swelled towards him in gratitude and esteem; even

while he knew the hopelessness of his love, he felt for the anguish

which his sympathy told him Arthur must endure. After more deliberation

and thought than he could have believed necessary for such a simple

thing as to write a letter, Mr. Hamilton did achieve his object,

retaining a copy of his epistle, to prove to his child he had been

earnest in his assurances that Arthur's character should be cleared.

Painfully agitated by the tale she had heard, and this unexpected

confidence of her father, Emmeline glanced her eye over the paper, and

read as follows:--

"_To the Rev. Arthur Myrvin, Hanover_.

"MY DEAR MYRVIN.--You will be no doubt astonished at receiving this

letter, brief as I intend it to be, from one with whom you parted in no

very friendly terms, and who has, I grieve to own, given you but little

reason to believe me your friend. When a man has been unjust and

prejudiced, it becomes his peremptory duty, however pride may rebel, to

do all in his power to atone for it by an honourable reparation, both in

word and deed, towards him he may have injured. Such, my young friend,

is at present our relative position, and I am at a loss to know how best

to express my sense of your honourable conduct and my own injustice,

which occasioned a degree of harshness in my manner towards you when we

separated, which, believe me, I now recall both with regret and pain.

Circumstances have transpired in the parish once under your care, which

have convinced not only me, but all those still more violently

prejudiced against you, that your fair fame was tarnished by the secret

machinations and insidious representations of an enemy, and not by the

faulty nature of your conduct; and knowing this, we most earnestly

appeal to the nobleness of your nature for forgetfulness of the past,

and beg you will endeavour henceforward to regard those as your sincere

friends whom you have unhappily had too much reason to believe

otherwise.

"For myself, my dear Myrvin, I do not doubt that you will do this, for

candidly I own, that only now I have learned the true nature of your

character. When I first knew you, I was interested in your welfare, as

the chosen friend of my son, and also for your father's sake, now it is

for your own. The different positions we occupy in life, the wide

distance which circumstances place between us, will, I feel sure,

prevent all misconception on your part as to my meaning, and prevent

your drawing from my friendly words conclusions opposite to what I

intend, therefore I do not hesitate to avow that I not only esteem, but

from my heart I thank you, Myrvin, for your indulgence of those

honourable feelings, that perfect integrity which bade you resign your

curacy and depart from Oakwood. I did you wrong, great wrong; words can

but faintly compensate injury, though words have been the weapon by

which that injury has been inflicted, yet I feel confident you will not

retain displeasure, natural as it was; you will consent once more to

look on and appeal, if you should ever require it, to the father of

Herbert as your willing friend. Believe me, that if it be in my power to

assist you, you will never appeal in vain. Lord Malvern, I rejoice to

find, is your staunch friend, and nothing shall be wanting on my part to

render that friendship as permanent as advantageous. Mrs. Hamilton begs

me to inform you, that in this communication of my feelings, I have

transcribed her own. Injustice indeed she never did you; but

admiration, esteem, and gratitude are inmates of her bosom as sincerely

as they are of my own. Continue, my young friend, this unwavering regard

to the high principles of your nature, this steady adherence to duty,

spite of prejudice and wrong, if indeed they should ever again assail

you, and the respecs of your fellow-creatures will be yours as warmly,

as unfeignedly, as is that of

"Your sincere friend,

"ARTHUR HAMILTON."

No word, no sound broke from the parched lips of Emmeline as she ceased

to read. She returned the paper to her father in that same silence, and

turning from his glance, buried her face in her hands. Mr. Hamilton

guessed at once all that was passing in that young and tortured heart;

he drew her to him, and whispered fondly--

"Speak to me, my Emmeline. You do not think he can mistake my feelings.

He will not doubt all prejudice is removed."

"Oh, no, no," she replied, after a severe struggle for composure; "you

have said enough, dear, dear papa. I could not have expected more."

For a moment she clung to his neck, and covered his cheek with kisses,

then gently withdrawing herself from his arms, quietly but hastily left

the room. For about an hour she might have remained absent, and Mrs.

Hamilton would not disturb her; and when she returned there was no trace

of agitation, pale she was indeed, and her eye had lost its brightness,

but that was too customary now to be deemed the effect of excited

emotion, and no further notice was taken, save that perhaps the manner

of her parents and Ellen towards her that night was even fonder than

usual.

Once again Mr. Hamilton mentioned Arthur Myrvin; to speak of the

pleasing and satisfactory letters both he and Mr. Howard had received

from him. He addressed himself to Ellen, telling her, Arthur had written

in a manner tending to satisfy even her friendly feelings towards him.

Emmeline joined not in the conversation. Her father did not offer to

show her the letter, and she stilled the yearnings of her young and

loving heart. From that hour the name of Arthur Myrvin was never heard

in the halls of Oakwood. There was no appearance of effort in the

avoidance, but still it was not spoken; not even by Percy and Herbert,

nor by Caroline or her husband. Even the letters of Lady Florence and

Lady Emily Lyle ceased to make him their principal object. Emmeline knew

the volatile nature of the latter, and therefore was not surprised that

she had grown tired of the theme; that Lady Florence should so

completely cease all mention of the tutor of her favourite brother was

rather more strange, but she did so perhaps in her letters to Ellen, and

of that Emmeline had not courage to ask. St. Eval would speak of Lord

Louis, expressing hopes that he was becoming more steady; but it so

chanced that, although at such times Emmeline, spite of herself, ever

longed for somewhat more, the magic name that would have bidden every

pulse throb never reached her ears, and her excited spirit would sink

back in despondency and gloom, increased from the momentary excitement

which expectation had vainly called forth.

Astonished indeed had Arthur Myrvin been at the receipt of his letters

from Oakwood and the Rectory. Mr. Howard's was productive of

gratification alone; that of Mr. Hamilton afforded even greater

pleasure, combined with a more than equal measure of pain. He had hoped

Emmeline would have answered his letter. She did not, but he knew her

influence had been exercised in his favour; and agony as it was, he

acknowledged she had acted wisely. There was too much devotedness in

Emmeline's character for Myrvin to encourage one lingering doubt that

his affections were returned; and as he thought on her steady discharge

of filial duty, as he recalled their parting interview, and felt she had

not wavered from the path she had pointed out, his own energies,

notwithstanding that still lingering, still acute suffering, were roused

within him, and he resolved he would obey her. She should see her appeal

had not been made in vain; she should never blush for the man she had

honoured with her love; he would endeavour to deserve her esteem, though

they might never meet again. He felt he had been too much the victim of

an ill-fated passion; he had by neglect in trifles encouraged the

prejudice against him, lost himself active and willing friends; this

should no longer be, and Myrvin devoted himself so perseveringly, so

assiduously to his pupil, allowing himself scarcely any time for

solitary thought, that not the keenest observer would have suspected

there was that upon the young man's heart which was poisoning the

buoyancy of youth, robbing life of its joy, and rendering him old before

his time.

That Mr. Hamilton, the father of his Emmeline, that his feelings should

have thus changed towards him, that he should admire and esteem instead

of condemn, was a matter of truly heartfelt pleasure. Hope would have

shook aloft her elastic wings, and carried him beyond himself, had not

that letter in the same hour dashed to the earth his soaring fancy, and

placed the seal upon his doom. He could not be mistaken; Mr. Hamilton

knew all that had passed between him and Emmeline, and while he

expressed his gratitude for the integrity and forbearance he (Myrvin)

had displayed, he as clearly said their love was hopeless, their union

never could take place.

Myrvin had known this before, then why did his heart sink in even

deeper, darker despondency as he read? why were his efforts at

cheerfulness so painful, so unavailing? He knew not and yet struggled

on, but weeks, ay, months rolled by, and yet that pang remained

unconquered still.

And did Emmeline become again in looks and glee as we have known her?

Was she even to her mother's eye again a child? Strangers, even some of

her father's friends, might still have deemed her so; but alas! a

mother's love strove vainly thus to be deceived. Health returned, and

with it appeared to come her wonted enthusiasm, her animated spirits.

Not once did she give way to depression; hers was not that pining

submission which is more pain to behold than decided opposition, that

resignation which has its foundation in pride, not in humility, as its

possessors suppose. Emmeline's submission was none of these. Her duties

as daughter and sister and friend, as well as those to the neighbouring

poor, were, if possible, more actively and perseveringly performed than

they had even been before. Not one of her former favourite employments

was thrown aside. The complete unselfishness of her nature was more

clearly visible than ever, and was it strange that she became dearer

than ever to those with whom she lived? Her parents felt she was twining

herself more and more around their hearts, and beheld, with

inexpressible anguish, that though her young mind was so strong, her

fragile frame was too weak to support the constant struggle. She never

complained; there was no outward failing of health, but there was a

nameless something hovering round her, which even her doting parents

could not define, but which they felt too forcibly to shake off; and

notwithstanding every effort to expel the idea, that nameless something

brought with it alarm--alarm defined indeed too clearly; but of which

even to each other they could not speak.

Time passed, and Herbert Hamilton, as the period of his ordination was

rapidly approaching, lost many of those painfully foreboding feelings

which for the last three years had so constantly and painfully assailed

him. He felt stronger in health than he had ever remembered to have

done, and the spirit of cheerfulness, and hope, and joy breathing in the

letters of his Mary affected him with the same unalloyed feelings of

anticipated happiness; sensations of holiness, of chastened thanksgiving

pervaded his every thought, the inward struggle appeared passed. There

was a calm upon his young spirit, so soothing and so blessed, that the

future rose before him unsullied by a cloud; anticipation was so bright,

it seemed a foretaste of that glorious heaven, the goal to which he and

his Mary looked--the home they sought together.

Percy had also obtained honourable distinction at Oxford; his active

spirit would not have permitted him to remain quiet in college so long,

had he not determined to see his brother ordained ere he commenced the

grand tour, to which he looked with much zest, as the completion to his

education, and render him, if he turned it to advantage, in all respects

fitted to serve his country nobly in her senate, the point to which he

had looked, from the first hour he was capable of thought, with an

ardour which increased as that long-desired time approached.

The disgraceful expulsion of Cecil Grahame from Cambridge opened afresh

that wound in his father's heart which Annie had first inflicted, but

which the conduct of Lilla had succeeded in soothing sufficiently to bid

her hope it would in time be healed. The ill-directed young man had

squandered away the whole of his mother's fortune, and behaved in a

manner that rendered expulsion inevitable. He chose to join the army,

and, with a painfully foreboding heart, his father procured him a

commission in a regiment bound for Ireland, hoping he would be exposed

to fewer temptations there than did he remain in England.

Lady Helen, as her health continued to decline, felt conscience becoming

more and more upbraiding, its voice would not be stilled. She had known

her duty as a mother; she had seen it beautifully portrayed before her

in Mrs. Hamilton, but she had neglected its performance, and her

chastisement she felt had come. Annie's conduct she had borne, she had

forgiven her, scarcely appearing conscious of the danger her daughter

had escaped; but Cecil was her darling, and his disgrace came upon her

as a thunderbolt, drawing the veil from her eyes, with startling and

bewildering light. She had concealed his childish faults, she had petted

him in every whim, encouraged him in every folly in his youth; to hide

his faults from a severe but not too harsh a judge, she had lowered

herself in the eyes of her husband, and achieved no good. Cecil was

expelled, disgracefully expelled, and the wretched mother, as she

contrasted his college life with that of the young Hamiltons, felt she

had been the cause; she had led him on by the flowery paths of

indulgence to shame and ruin. He came not near her; he joined his

regiment, and left England, without bidding her farewell, and she felt

she should never see him more. From that hour she sunk; disease

increased, and though she still lingered, and months passed, and there

was no change for the worse, yet still both Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton felt

that death was written on her brow, that, however he might loiter on his

way, his destined victim would never again feel the blessedness of

health; and all their efforts were now directed in soothing the

affliction of Grahame, and lead him to console by tenderness the

remaining period of his unhappy wife's existence. They imparted not to

him their fears, but they rested not till their desire was obtained, and

Lady Helen could feel she was not only forgiven but still beloved, and

would be sincerely mourned, both by her husband and Lilla, in whom she

had allowed herself at one time to be so deceived.

Having now brought the affairs of Oakwood, and all intimately connected

with it, to a point, from which no subject of interest took place for

above a year, at that period we resume our narrative.