It was a fine summer morning. The windows of a pretty little
sitting-room were thrown wide open, and the light breeze, loaded with
the perfume of a thousand flowers, played refreshingly on the pale cheek
of our young friend Emmeline, who, reclining on a sofa, looked forth on
beautiful nature with mingled sadness and delight. More than a year had
elapsed since we last beheld her, and she was changed, painfully
changed. She still retained her childish expression of countenance,
which ever made her appear younger than in reality she was, but its
ever-varying light, its beautiful glow were gone; yet she complained
not. The smile ever rested on her lips in the presence of her parents;
her voice was ever joyous, and no sigh, no repining word, betrayed the
breaking heart within. She recognised with a full and grateful heart the
blessings still surrounding her, and struggled long and painfully to be
content; but that fond yearning would not be stilled, that deep love no
effort could dispel. Still there were times when those who had never
known her in former years would have pronounced her well, quite well in
health; and Emmeline would smile when such remarks reached her, and
wonder if her parents were so deceived. Sometimes she thought they were,
for the name of Arthur Myrvin was no longer suppressed before her. She
heard of him, of his devotion to his pupil, of the undeviating integrity
and steadiness which characterised him, and promised fair to lead Lord
Louis in the same bright paths; she had heard of Arthur's devoted care
of his pupil during a long and dangerous illness, that he, under Divine
goodness, had been the instrument of saving the youth's life, and
restoring him to health; and if she permitted no sign to betray the
deep, absorbing interest she felt, if her parents imagined he was
forgotten, they knew not the throbbings of her heart.
She was conversing this morning with Mrs. Cameron, who had learned to
love Emmeline dearly; from being very often at Oakwood, she and her
daughters were looked on by all Mr. Hamilton's children as part of the
family.
"Is not Flora delighted at the idea of again seeing her brother?"
Emmeline asked, in answer to Mrs. Cameron's information that Walter was
returning with his regiment to England, and in a very few weeks would be
once more an inmate of her home. She answered cheerfully in the
affirmative, and Emmeline again inquired--"Was Captain Cameron at all
acquainted with Cecil Grahame? Did he know the cause of his having been
so disgracefully cashiered?"
"Their regiments were quartered in such different parts of Ireland,"
replied Mrs. Cameron, "that I believe they only met on one occasion, and
then Walter was glad to withdraw from the society of the dissolute young
men by whom Lieutenant Grahame was always surrounded. The cause of his
disgrace appears enveloped in mystery. Walter certainly alluded to it,
but so vaguely, that I did not like to ask further particulars. I
dreaded the effect it would have on Mr. Grahame, but little imagined
poor Lady Helen would have sunk beneath it."
"I believe few know how she doted on that boy. It was misguided, but
still it was love that caused her to ruin him as she did in his
childhood. From the hour he was expelled from Cambridge, she never held
up her head; it was so cruelly ungrateful of him to set off for Ireland
without once seeking her; and this last stroke was too much for her to
bear. She still hoped, despite her better judgment, that he would in the
end distinguish himself, and she could not meet the disappointment."
"Did she long survive the intelligence?"
"Scarcely four-and-twenty hours. Mr. Grahame, feeling unable to command
himself, requested mamma and Lilla to impart to her the distressing
information, which they did most tenderly; but their caution was
entirely fruitless. Her constant inquiry was relative to his present
situation, and when she heard that he had not been seen since he was
cashiered, she sunk into a state of insensibility from which she never
recovered."
"And Mr. Grahame?"
"The shock rendered him almost distracted, for it was so sudden. Lady
Helen had become so altered lately, that she was devotedly loved both by
her husband and child; she had been so long ailing, that both Lilla and
her father fondly hoped and believed she would be spared to them still
some years longer, though she might never entirely recover her health.
Mr. Grahame's feelings are stronger than most people imagine, but his
misfortunes have bowed him down even more than I could have believed
possible."
"They appeared so united and happy, that I do not wonder at it,"
observed Mrs. Cameron. "I have seldom seen such devotedness as Lady
Helen received from both her husband and child; she always welcomed
their affectionate attentions as if she felt herself undeserving of
them. I was interested in her, she bore her sufferings so meekly."
"And poor Lilla, how is she?"
"She suffers much, but behaves admirably. Ellen says her self-control is
extraordinary, when we remember she was one of those beings who could
never conceal a single feeling. Her poor father seems to look to her now
as his sole blessing and support; she soothes his sorrow so quietly, so
tenderly, and ever tries to prevent his thoughts dwelling on the stigma
which Cecil's disgraceful conduct has cast upon his name. I trust time
will restore that calm tranquillity which he has enjoyed the last year,
but I must own I fear it. If this moody irritability continue, Lilla
will have much to bear, but she will do her duty, and that will bring
its own reward."
A faint and scarcely audible sigh escaped from Emmeline as she spoke.
Mrs. Cameron, without noticing, asked when she expected her brothers to
return home from London.
"Herbert takes orders next week, and they return together very soon
afterwards. He is, as you will believe, delighted at the near approach
of an event which has been his guiding star since his boyhood. I never
saw him looking so well or so happy, and Percy shares his joy, and we
shall have him near us, I am happy to say, for he will be the minister
of our own dear parish, which, by Mr. Howard's promotion, will be vacant
about the time he will require it. Mr. Howard says he thinks he should
have turned rebel, and refused the presentation of a valuable living,
with the title of archdeacon attached to his name, if any one but
Herbert were to succeed him here; but as he leaves his flock under his
care, he will not refuse the blessings offered him. He does not go very
far from us, if he had I should have been so very sorry, that even my
brother's succeeding him would not have satisfied me."
There was a short pause, which was broken by Emmeline saying--
"Speaking about Mr. Howard and Herbert has made me forget Percy, dear
fellow. You know how he has raved about the grand tour he is going to
make, all the curiosities he is to see and bring home for me, even to
the dome of St. Peter's or the crater of Vesuvius, if I wish to see
them. He has taken my provoking remarks in good part, and sets off with
Caroline and her husband in July. My sister's health has been so
delicate the last three months, that she is advised to go to Geneva. Her
little boy grows such a darling, I shall miss him almost as much as his
mother."
"Do you stay with them at Castle Terryn before they go?"
"I do not think I shall, for at present I seem to dislike the idea of
leaving home. They come to us, I believe, a few weeks hence, in order
that we may be all together, which we could not very well be at St.
Eval's."
"Has Lord St. Eval quite lost all anxiety on his brother's account? The
physicians said they could never have brought him through it, had it not
been for Mr. Myrvin's prudent and unceasing care."
"Yes; every letter from Castle Malvern confirms the report, all anxiety
has been over some weeks now; indeed, before the Marquis reached
Hanover, where he received from his son's own lips an affecting and
animated account of his own imprudence, and Mr. Myrvin's heroic as well
as prudent conduct."
"Was there an accident, then? I thought it was from the fever then
raging in the town."
"Lord Louis had determined, against his tutor's consent, to join a party
of very gay young men, who wished to leave Hanover for a time and make
an excursion to the sea-shore. Mr. Myrvin, who did not quite approve of
some of the young gentlemen who were to join the party, remonstrated,
but in vain. Lord Louis was obstinate, and Mr. Myrvin, finding all his
efforts fruitless, accompanied his pupil, very much to the annoyance of
the whole party, who determined to render his sojourn with them so
distasteful, that he would quickly withdraw himself. Lord Louis, led on
by evil companions, turned against his tutor, who, however, adhered to
his duty unshrinkingly. A sailing match was resolved on, and,
notwithstanding the predictions of Mr. Myrvin, that a violent storm was
coming on and likely to burst over them before half their day's sport
was completed, they set off, taunting him with being afraid of the
water. They declared there was no room for him in their boats, and
pushed off without him. He followed them closely, and fortunate was it
that he did so. The storm burst with fury; the little vessels were most
of them shattered to pieces, and many of the misguided and unfortunate
young men fell victims to their wilful folly. Some, who were good
swimmers, escaped, but Lord Louis had struck his head against a
projecting rock, and, stunned and senseless, must have sunk, had not Mr.
Myrvin been mercifully permitted to bear him to the shore in safety. He
was extremely ill, but in a few weeks recovered sufficiently to return
to Hanover, unconscious, as was Mr. Myrvin, of the virulent fever then
raging there. Already in delicate health, he was almost instantly
attacked by the disease, in its most alarming and contagious form; the
servants fled in terror from the house, only one, his own valet, an
Englishman, remained near him. But Mr. Myrvin never left him; day and
night he attended, soothed, and relieved him. His efforts were, happily,
rewarded: Lord Louis lived and his preceptor escaped all infection. The
Marquis and his son have both written of Mr. Myrvin in the most
gratifying terms; and the Marchioness told mamma she could never in any
way repay the debt of gratitude she owed him."
Mrs. Cameron was much interested in Emmeline's narrative, and asked if
they were not soon to return to England.
"They may have already arrived," replied Emmeline. "Florence wrote me a
fortnight ago she was counting the days till their return. I sent a
letter, apparently from her, this morning to Moorlands for Ellen, as I
am not quite sure whether she will return home this evening or not, and
perhaps that contains the intelligence. His mother and sisters will be
overjoyed to have him once more with them, after the dangers he has
passed."
"Has Mr. Myrvin any family?"
"Only his father, a truly good, kind, old man, the rector of
Llangwillan."
"And are you not desirous to see this admirable young man, this devoted
preceptor, my dear Emmeline?" said Mrs. Cameron, smiling. "Will he not
be an excellent hero of romance?"
Emmeline answered, that as she already knew him, she could not throw
around him the halo of imagination; she was content to admire his
character as it was, without decking him in other charms. Their further
conversation turned upon other and indifferent subjects till Mrs.
Cameron departed.
The death of Lady Helen and the misconduct of her son had cast such deep
gloom over Moorlands, that not only Emmeline, but both Mr. and Mrs.
Hamilton feared Grahame would never arouse himself from the moody apathy
into which he had fallen. He felt disgrace had fallen on his name, a
stain never to be erased; that all men would shun the father of one so
publicly dishonoured. The extent of Cecil's conduct was scarcely known
even to his father; but that he had used dishonest measures at the
gambling table to discharge enormous debts; that he had behaved
insolently to his superior officers; that it required great interest to
prevent a much harsher sentence than had been his punishment--these
facts were known all over England. The previously unsullied name of
Grahame was now synonymous with infamy; and it was even supposed Cecil
would never show his face in England again. Mr. Grahame shrunk in misery
from encountering the glance even of his friends; he felt as if he too
shared the disgrace of his son, he and his young, his beautiful Lilla;
she whom he had anticipated, with so much pleasure, introducing among
his friends, she was doomed to share with him the solitude, which he
declared was the only fit abode of ignominy; and even to her his manner
was wayward and uncertain--at times almost painfully fond, at others
equally stern and harsh. Lilla's character was changed; she struggled to
bear with him, unrepiningly, dutifully, conscious that the eye of her
God was upon her, however her father might appear insensible to her
affection.
Even the society of Mr. Howard and Mr. Hamilton was irksome; their
efforts to rouse and cheer him were unavailing, and they could only hope
time would achieve that for which friendship was inadequate.
Herbert's engagement with Mary Greville still remained untold, but he
looked forward to discovering his long-treasured secret, when he beheld
himself indeed an ordained minister of God; Percy perhaps was in his
confidence, but neither his sisters nor Ellen. Mary's letters were full
of comfort to him; such pure and beautiful affection breathed in every
line, that even the sadness which the few last unconsciously betrayed
did not alarm him. He accounted for it by her reluctance to quit her
beautiful retreat in the Swiss mountains for the confusion and heat of
Paris, where she now resided. A few months previously they had been
visited in their retreat by her father; scarcely more surprised were
they at his appearance than at his manner, which was kinder and more
indulgent than Mary had ever remembered it. For a short time Mrs.
Greville indulged hopes, that their long separation had effected a
change in her husband, and that they should at length be happy together.
He did not know much about Alfred, he said, except that he was well, and
travelling with some friends in different parts of the Continent.
Mrs. Greville tried to be satisfied, and her cheering hopes did not
desert her even when her husband expressed a wish that she would reside
with him at Paris. The wish rather confirmed them, as it evinced that he
was no longer indifferent to her own and his child's society. With
joyful alacrity she consented, but in vain endeavoured to banish from
Mary's mind the foreboding fears that appeared to have filled it, from
the hour it was settled they were to leave Monte Rosa. In vain her
mother affectionately represented how much nearer she would be to
Herbert; nothing could remove, though she strove to conquer, this
seemingly uncalled-for and indefinable despondency.
"I confess my weakness," she wrote to her betrothed, "but I had so often
pictured remaining at Monte Rosa till you came for me, as you had
promised, so often pictured to myself the delight of showing to you my
favourite haunts, ere we left them together for still dearer England,
that I cannot bear to find these visions dispelled without pain. I know
you will tell me I ought to be thankful for this great and happy change
in my father, and bear every privation for the chance of binding him to
us for ever. Do not reprove me, dear Herbert, but there is that about my
father that bids me tremble still, and whispers the calm is not lasting;
in vain I strive against it, but a voice tells me, in thus leaving Monte
Rosa, peace lingers in its beautiful shades, and woe's dark shadow
stands threatening before me."
Herbert longed to go to her, and thus disperse all these foreboding
fears, but that pleasure the near approach of his ordination prevented;
but fondly he looked forward with unalloyed hope in a few months to seek
his Mary, and at once banish all indefinable sorrow by making her his
own. Not a doubt entered his mind of Mr. Greville's consent, when he
should in person demand it, and he was eager to do so while this
strangely indulgent humour continued.
The first few months of her residence in Paris were fraught with
happiness for Mrs. Greville. Her husband's manner did not change. They
mingled in society, and the admiration Mary's quiet beauty excited
afforded the greatest pleasure to her mother, and even appeared to
inspire her father with some pride. To the poor girl herself it was
irksome and painful; but she tried to convince herself these feelings
were wrong, and checked them even in her letters to Herbert.
Ellen returned from Moorlands, where she had been staying with Lilla,
whose affection for her continued unabated; for she found in her society
and sympathy much comfort since her mother's death. There was little
change visible in Ellen. Her health was established, her pensive beauty
unimpaired. Still was she the meek, unassuming, gentle girl she had long
been; still to the eye of strangers somewhat cold and indifferent. Her
inward self was becoming every year more strengthened; she was resolved
to use every effort to _suffer_, without the slightest portion of
bitterness impregnating her sentiments towards her fellow-creatures, or
the world in general. Her lot she _knew_ was to _bear_; her duty she
_felt_ was to _conceal_.
Ellen, on her return home, gave her cousin the letter which Emmeline had
mentioned as having forwarded to her that morning. It was fraught with
interest, and the anxious eye of Mrs. Hamilton moved not from her
daughter's countenance as she read. Still was it so calm that even she
was puzzled; and again the thought, "Is it for him" she is thus
drooping, fading like a flower before me? is it, indeed, the struggle
between love and duty which has made her thus? crossed her mind, as it
had often, very often done before, and brought with it renewed
perplexity.
Lady Florence had written in the highest spirits, announcing the return
of her father, Lord Louis, and his tutor; that her brother was looking
quite well and strong, and was the same dear, merry, mischievous boy as
ever; delighted to be in England, abusing all the Germans, and
professing and displaying the most extreme fondness for Mr. Myrvin.
"He speaks of Mr. Myrvin in terms that bring tears to my eyes, tears of
which, my dear Ellen, I am not at all ashamed. The only drawback to the
life of a soldier, which my brother has now positively resolved on, in
spite of all our persuasions, exists, he says, in the consequent
separation from Mr. Myrvin, and he almost wishes to go to Cambridge, to
chain him to his side; but for Mr. Myrvin's sake, I am glad this will
not be. He is looking ill, very ill, quite different to the Arthur
Myrvin we knew at Oakwood; a change has come over him which I cannot
describe, and even to myself can scarcely define. He is much more
polished in his manner, but it is tinged with such deep melancholy, or
intense thought, I really do not know which it is, that he appears many
years older than when he left England. My father has at length prevailed
on him to resign all idea of again seeking the arduous charge of tutor,
but, with that honest pride which I so much admire and esteem, he has
refused all papa's offers of advancement, only consenting to accept the
living on Eugene's estate, when Louis shall require his services no
longer. I trust the healthy air of Cornwall and the quiet of his parish
will restore him to health, for the care which preserved that of Louis
has, I fear, ruined his own. He goes to London to-morrow to see
Herbert; the society of your cousins cannot fail to do him good. Louis
joins the army in a few months, and then Mr. Myrvin will take possession
of his living; but you will in all probability see them before, as Lord
and Lady St. Eval have sent a pressing invitation for them to come down
to Castle Terryn, and as soon as Mr. Myrvin returns from London, Louis
intends doing so. I want to hear Herbert's opinion of his friend, as my
dismal fancies concerning him may, after all, be only a woman's fancy,
yet looking ill he decidedly is."
So wrote Lady Florence, and very soon Herbert and Percy's letters home
confirmed all she had said. Either the air of Germany had not been
congenial, or some other cause had so changed his outward appearance and
tinged his manner, that Herbert could not look on him without pain; but
the restless irritation, the haughty indifference which had been his
before he left Oakwood, no longer existed. There was a quiet dignity
about him that prevented all intrusive sympathy, a mild, steady lustre
in his dark grey eye, which so clearly said conscience was at peace,
that Herbert instinctively felt the bonds of friendship stronger than
they had ever been before; he was no longer anxious, for he felt assured
the errors of Arthur's former life were conquered, and he wrote to his
father concerning his friend with all his native eloquence.
Emmeline made no observation; her young soul was absorbed in an intense
feeling of thanksgiving, that her prayers had been heard. Strength had
been granted him, and he had done his duty; he was esteemed, beloved;
his character was pure and bright; and if the gulf between them
remained impassable, should she murmur, when _all_ for which she had
prayed had been vouchsafed her? But a sterner call of obedience appeared
about to hover over her, from which her young spirit shrunk back
appalled.
Herbert's anxious wishes were accomplished; there was no longer any
barrier to his earnest prayers to become a servant of his God, and of
service to his fellow-creatures. The six years in which he had laboured
unceasingly, untiringly, to prepare himself for the life which from his
boyhood he had chosen, now appeared but as a passing dream, and as he
knelt before the venerable bishop, his feelings became almost
overpowering. Tears rose in his eyes, and he drooped his head upon his
hands to conceal them. He felt this was no common life on which he
entered, no mere profession, in which he would be at liberty to think
and act as he pleased. Herbert felt that he had vowed himself to do the
work of God; that in it was comprised the good of his fellow-creatures.
The stern conquest of his own rebellious will; that his _actions_, not
his language only, should uphold the glory of his Maker.
The return of Percy and Herbert brought pleasure to Oakwood, and a week
or two afterwards Lord and Lady St. Eval, with their little boy,
arrived, imparting additional happiness. Emmeline was surprised at
seeing them, for she thought Lord Louis and his preceptor were expected
at Castle Terryn. Lord St. Eval often spoke of his brother, and alluded
to Myrvin, and even hinted his thanks to Emmeline for her exertions in
the latter's favour, when the Marquis was hesitating whether or not to
intrust him with the charge of his son; but on such matters he never
spoke openly, yet not so guardedly as to betray to Emmeline he was
acquainted with her secret.
Mr. Hamilton had many private conversations both with the young Earl and
his son Herbert, but what the subject was which so engrossed him only
Mrs. Hamilton knew.
The return of Edward, too, from a short cruise gave additional spirit to
Oakwood. The young sailor had rapidly run through the grades of
lieutenant, and now stood the first on the line; his character both as a
sailor and a man was confirmed. He was as deservedly respected by his
messmates as beloved by his family, and to Ellen he was indeed dear. The
most perfect confidence existed between this affectionate brother and
sister, except on one point, and on that even to Edward she could not
speak; but he had not one thought, one feeling which he concealed from
her, he sought no other friend. Scarcely could Mrs. Cameron and her son
Walter recognise in this amiable young man the headstrong, fiery,
overbearing lad they had known in India.
The little party at Oakwood had all either walked or ridden out, and
Mrs. Hamilton alone remained at home. She stood by the side of Emmeline,
who was asleep, peacefully and sweetly; a smile bright and beautiful as
of other days, played round her lips. The mother reflected on the words
of Mr. Maitland, who had assured her, the remedy he proposed would be
successful. "Make her happy, remove this weighty load which weighs upon
her heart, and she will live to be the blessing she has ever been to all
who love her."
Tears of mingled feeling rose to the eyes of Mrs. Hamilton as she
watched her child. Emmeline's lips moved. "Arthur, dear Arthur," she
murmured, a faint flush rising to her cheek, and the smile heightened in
its brilliancy; a few minutes, and her eyes unclosed; a shade of
disappointment passed over her features, a faint sigh struggled to
escape, but it was checked, for she met her mother's fond glance, and
smiled.
"Why are you not gone out, dearest mother, this lovely evening? why stay
with such a dull companion as I am? Percy and Edward could offer so many
more attractions, and I am sure it is not with their good-will you are
here."
"Would my Emmeline refuse me the sweet pleasure of watching her, tending
her? believe me, dearest, without you at my side, the park and this
lovely evening would lose half their attractions."
"Do not say so, my own mother. I am not ill, only lazy, and that you
were not wont to encourage; my eyes would close, spite of all my
efforts. But why should you have the uninteresting task of watching my
slumbers?"
"Because, dearest, I will not abandon my office, till it is claimed as
the right of another. It will soon be, my Emmeline; but do not send me
from your side, till then."
"The right of another, dearest mother? whose right will it ever be but
yours? who can ever be to me the tender nurse that you have been?"
"One who will vow to love, protect, and cherish you; one who loves you,
my own Emmeline, and longs to claim you as his own, and restore, by his
affection, the health and spirits you have lost; one who has the consent
and blessing of your father and myself, and waits but for yours."
Emmeline started from her recumbent posture.
"Oh, send me not from you, mother, my own mother! Do not, oh, do not
compel me to marry!" she exclaimed, in a tone of agony. "The affection
of a husband restore my health! oh, no, no, it would break my heart at
once, and you would send me from you but to die. Mother, oh, let me stay
with you. Do not let my father command my obedience; in everything else
I will obey but in this." She hid her face in Mrs. Hamilton's bosom, and
wept bitterly.
"We will command nothing that can make you miserable, my own," replied
her mother, soothingly. "But you will love him, my Emmeline, you will
love him as he loves you; his fond affection cannot fail to make you
happy. You will learn to know him--to value his noble virtues, his
honourable principles. As his wife, new pleasures, new duties will be
around you. Health will return, and I shall see my Emmeline once more as
she was--my own happy child."
"And has it indeed gone so far that both you and my father have
consented, and I must disobey and displease my parents, or be miserable
for life?"
"My child," said Mrs. Hamilton, so solemnly, that Emmeline involuntarily
checked her tears, "my child, you shall never marry the husband we have
chosen for you, unless you can love and be happy with him: sacredly and
irrevocably I promise this. You shall not sacrifice yourself for a
doubtful duty. If, when you have seen and known him, your wishes still
are contrary to ours, we will not demand your obedience. If you still
prefer your mother's home, never, never shall you go from me. Be
comforted, my Emmeline,--do not weep thus. Will you not trust me? If
you cannot love, you shall not marry."
"But, my father--oh, mamma, will he too promise me this?"
"Yes, love; doubt him not," and a smile so cheering, so happy, was round
Mrs. Hamilton's lips as she spoke, that Emmeline unconsciously felt
relieved. "We only wish our Emmeline's consent to an introduction to
this estimable young man, who has so long and so faithfully loved her,
and if still she is inexorable we must submit. Could I send you from me
without your free consent? Could I part from you except for happiness?"
Emmeline threw her arms round her mother's neck. In vain she struggled
to ask who was the young man of whom her mother spoke. Why should she
inquire, when she felt that he never, never could be anything to her?
Bitterly, painfully she struggled to dismiss the thought hastily from
her mind, and gladly hailed the entrance of the nurse with her little
nephew as a relief. Her mother joined her in caressing and playing with
him, and ere he was dismissed the scattered parties had returned, and
there was no opportunity for farther confidential converse.
It was a happy, merry party at Oakwood, but the presence of Lilla
Grahame was wanting to make it complete. Ellen was constantly with her,
for she would not permit the lively proceedings of home to interfere
with the call of friendship; and in this task of kindness she was
constantly joined by Edward, who would frequently leave gayer amusements
to offer Lilla his company on her walk, and his intelligent
conversation, his many amusing anecdotes, frequently drew a smile from
his young listener, and, combined with Ellen's presence and more quiet
sympathy, raised her spirits, and encouraged her in her painful task of
bearing with, if she could not soothe, her father's still irritable
temperament. Moorlands was to be sold; for Mr. Grahame had resolved on
burying himself and his child in some retired cottage, where his very
existence might be forgotten. In vain Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton combated
this resolution, and entreated him at least to settle near them; gloomy,
almost morose, he still spoke of Wales as the only place where he was
not known, where his name might not be associated with disgrace. Lilla
was just of an age to feel the parting with the kind friends of her
childhood as a most painful trial, but she determined to reconcile
herself to her father's will whatever it might be.
Captain Cameron too was an agreeable addition to the society of Oakwood;
high-spirited, and naturally joyous, Percy liked him as a kindred
spirit; and reserved, though intelligent, Herbert found many points of
his character assimilate with his. Mrs. Cameron's station in life had
been somewhat raised since her return to England. Sir Hector Cameron,
her husband's elder brother, childless and widowed, found his morose and
somewhat miserly disposition softened, and his wish to know his
brother's family became too powerful to be resisted. He had seen Walter
in Ireland, and admired the young man ere he knew who he was; a farther
acquaintance, ere he discovered himself as his uncle, heightened these
good impressions, and Walter, to his utter astonishment, found himself
suddenly the heir to a rich baronetcy, and his mother and sisters
comfortably provided for. He rejoiced at his good fortune, but not at
the baronetcy itself; not for the many pleasures which, as Sir Hector's
heir, now stood temptingly before him, but because he might now indeed
encourage an affection, which he had once believed was as hopeless as it
was intense.
There is but one person whom we knew in a former page whose fate we have
omitted to mention; it may be well to do so here, ere we proceed
regularly with our narrative. The high-minded, unselfish, truth-loving
Lady Gertrude Lyle had at length, to the great joy of her parents,
consented to reward long years of silent devotion, by bestowing her hand
on the Marquis of Alford. They were married, and need we say that they
were happy? Lady Gertrude's love to her husband increased with each
passing year, and he, as time passed on, missed nothing of that bright
example of goodness, of piety, and virtue, which had led him to deserve
her love.
"Emmeline, dearest, put on your prettiest dress to-night, and confine
those flowing curls with some tasteful wreath," said Mr. Hamilton,
playfully addressing his daughter, about a week after the conversation
with her mother. The dressing-bell had sounded, and the various inmates
of Oakwood were obeying its summons as he spoke, and Caroline laughingly
asked her father how long he had taken such an interest in dress. "Does
your ladyship think I never do?" he replied, with mock gravity.
"Do you remember when my dear father's own hand wreathed a sprig of
scarlet geranium in my hair, some ten years ago, when I was a vain and
wilful girl?" replied the young Countess, without heeding his question,
and looking up with fond affection in his face. "Ah, papa, no flower,
even when formed of gems, ever gave me so much pleasure as that."
"Not even when placed within these glossy curls by St. Eval's hand? Are
you not jealous, Eugene?"
"Not in the least, my dear sir," replied the Earl, laughing. "I have
heard of that flower, and the good effects it produced."
"You have heard of it, have you? I should have fancied my Caroline had
long ere this forgotten it."
Lady St. Eval smiled reproachfully as she quitted the room, and Mr.
Hamilton, turning to Emmeline, took her hand fondly, and said, "Why does
my Emmeline look so grave? Does she not approve of her father taking an
interest in her dress? But it is not for me I wish you to look pretty
to-night, I will confess; for another, Emmeline, one whom I expect you
will, for my sake, do all in your power to please, and--and love. Do not
start, my child, the task will not be very difficult." He kissed her
cheek with a cheerful smile, and left her, motionless and pale, every
feature expressive of passive endurance, her hands clasped tightly on
her heart. Emmeline sat before her mirror, and permitted Fanny to
arrange her beautiful hair as she would; to her it mattered not. The
words of her father alone rung in her ears. That night sealed her fate.
Fanny spoke, for she was alarmed at her young lady's manner, but
Emmeline answered as if she had heard her not, and the business of the
toilette passed in silence. Yet so well had it been performed, so fair
and lovely did that gentle girl look, as she entered the drawing-room,
that every eye was fixed on her in admiration. The graceful folds of an
Indian muslin dress enveloped her slight form, and a wreath of lilies
of the valley, twined with the smallest pink rose-buds, confined her
luxuriant hair; a scarcely perceptible blush was on her cheeks, and her
eyes, continually wandering round the room, as if in search for some
unseen object, shone with unusual brilliancy. Her father whispered, as
he found himself near her--
"I do not expect my friend will arrive till late, my little Emmy, but
look as pretty then as you do now, and I shall be satisfied."
She was relieved, but intelligence met her ear, ere dinner was
concluded, that rendered it a fearful struggle to retain her composure.
Mrs. Cameron's family, Mr. Howard, and one or two others, she knew were
coming in the evening, but that Lord St. Eval expected his brother Louis
to arrive at Oakwood by eight or nine o'clock that same evening, was
indeed information startling in the extreme. Would he not be accompanied
by his preceptor? Would she not see him, from whom she had so long been
parted? see him, to whom her heart was given, and in his presence be
introduced to the husband of her parents' choice?
Mrs. Hamilton watched her with extreme uneasiness, and when dinner was
over, whispered, as it seemed, an earnest entreaty in her husband's ear.
He shook his head in sportive refusal; she still appeared anxious, but
acquiesced. The hours passed on. Emmeline for a few minutes had retired,
for the happiness, the gaiety around her, pressed with over-powering
heaviness on her heart; she had turned from it almost unconsciously.
"Why, oh, why did I not confess to mamma that I could not wed another,
because I still loved Arthur? why was I so foolish as to fear to confess
the truth, we should not then have met? Why have I been so weak to hide
these miserable feelings even from my mother? how can I expect her
sympathy, when she knows them not?"
So she thought, but it was now too late. The affectionate caresses, the
kind voice of her cousin Ellen roused her; controlling herself, she took
Ellen's arm, and together they entered the drawing-room. She saw no
strangers, all were familiar to her eye, and rallying her spirits, she
entered into conversation with St. Eval, who hastened up to her as she
entered. Ellen joined the dancers.
"I wonder why we all seem so gay and happy to-night," said St. Eval.
"Look at Captain Cameron and our pretty demure cousin Ellen, Emmeline; I
never saw such devotion in my life. Take my word for it, that will be a
match one of these days, and a very pretty one. Cameron is a good
fellow, and if ever any one were smitten, he is."
"But Ellen's admiration of his character is rather too open and freely
expressed for him to hope his affection, if he do love, is returned. No,
Eugene, Captain Cameron may be attracted, I grant you, but I do not
fancy he will be Ellen's choice."
"Do you know any whom you think will?"
"What a question," she said, smiling, "to tempt me to betray my cousin's
secrets, if she had any, but candidly I must admit that as yet I know
none. It is a strange fancy, but I often think Ellen will be an old
maid."
"Why, is she so precise, so prim, so opinionated, so crabbed? For shame,
Emmeline, even to hint such a thing."
"Nay, St. Eval, the shame is rather yours, for daring to associate such
terms with a single woman. To go through life alone, without sympathy,
without any call for natural affections, always appears at first sight
rather melancholy than otherwise; but why should dislike and prejudice
be added to them? I cannot think that a woman's remaining unmarried is
any proof of her being unamiable."
"Indeed, I am not so unjust," said the Earl, smiling; "when old maids
conduct themselves properly, I esteem them quite as much and more than
some married women. But still Ellen shall not be an old maid; she is too
pretty and too good, and would bless any man who may be happy enough to
gain her affections and esteem. But you, Emmeline, you, surely, will not
be an old maid, though you are so warm in their defence."
"My lot is not in my own hands--do not speak of that, Eugene," she said,
with a quivering lip; and hastily turning from his gaze, she added, "as
you seem to know everybody's concerns in the room, what are Mrs. Cameron
and Florence talking so intently about?"
"On the old subject: my madcap brother Louis and his sage tutor. By the
bye, Emmy, I have never asked what you think of Myrvin's conduct in this
affair; did he not behave admirably?"
"He did but his duty," replied Emmeline, firmly. "He acted but as every
man of generous feelings would have done; it was his duty, for he had
pledged himself to the care of his pupil, and could he have left him in
his sickness? The dictates of common humanity, the social duties of life
would have prevented him."
"What a pity Florence does not hear you, such calm reasoning would
destroy all the glow of romance which she has thrown around these
incidents. But indeed you do not give Myrvin his due, every man does not
perform his duty."
"Every man _ought_, and when he does not, he is wrong; as when he does,
he is right."
"But this is contrary to your own principle, Emmeline. What has become
of the enthusiasm which once bade you condemn all such cold judgments,
such scanty praise? Once upon a time, you would have looked on such
conduct very differently."
Emmeline turned away, but St. Eval saw her eyes were swimming in tears.
He continued, sportively--
"Be assured, I will tell Myrvin as soon as I see him."
"I beg you will not, my lord," Emmeline said, struggling to retain her
calmness; but failing, she added, entreatingly, "dearest Eugene, if you
have any regard for me, do not repeat my words; let them pass with the
subject, it has engrossed us quite enough."
St. Eval shook his head in playful reproof. They sat apart from the
dancers, and feeling neither her words nor any subsequent agitation
could be remarked, she placed her trembling hand in St. Eval's, and
said, almost inarticulately--
"Eugene, tell me, does Arthur--Mr. Myrvin accompany Lord Louis to-night?
Do not deceive me."
"He does," he replied instantly, "and what detains them I cannot
understand. But fear nothing, dearest Emmeline, I know all; you may
trust me, fear nothing. And now your promise--the quadrille is formed,
they only wait for us."
"I know all, fear nothing," Emmeline internally repeated, her whole
frame trembling with agitation, as kindly and encouragingly St. Eval
led her to the place assigned them. She forced herself to think only on
the dance, on the amusing anecdotes he was telling her, on the light
laugh, the ready jest that were sparkling around her. Her natural grace
in dancing forsook her not, nor did she refuse her sister's request,
when the quadrille was finished, that she would take out her harp. She
seated herself at the instrument and commenced.
Music had not lost its charm, rapt in the exquisite air she was playing,
it seemed to soothe her agitated feelings, and bid her forget her usual
timidity. All were silent, for the air was so sweet, so plaintive, not a
voice could have disturbed it; it changed to a quicker, more animated
strain, and at that instant Emmeline beheld Edward and Ellen hastily
rise to greet a young man, who noiselessly yet eagerly came forward to
meet them: it was Lord Louis. Emmeline started, a strong effort alone
enabled her to command herself sufficiently to continue playing, but her
fingers now moved mechanically; every pulse throbbed so violently, and
to her ear so loudly, that she no longer heard the notes she played. All
was a mist before her eyes, and the animated plaudits that greeted her
as she ceased, rung in her ears as unmeaning, unintelligible sounds.
Lord Louis hastily advanced to lead her from the harp, and to tell her
how very glad he was to see her again, though even his usually careless
eye lost its mirthful expression, as he marked the alteration in his
favourite companion. Emmeline tried to smile and answer him in his own
strain, but her smile was sickly and faint, and her voice trembled
audibly as she spoke. She looked round, fearing, yet longing to see
another, but Lord Louis was alone. His preceptor was not near him, but
Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton, St. Eval and Herbert had also left the room. Some
little time passed in animated conversation, still Myrvin did not
appear.
"You are wanted in the library, dearest Emmeline," said the young
Countess St. Eval.
"Come with me, Emmeline: foolish girl, 'fear nothing,'" said the Earl,
joyously.
"Smile, gentle one," he whispered, as she turned her beseeching glance
towards him, "do not greet the husband your parents have selected for
you with a countenance such as this; nay, fear nothing," he repeated, as
her steps faltered, and every limb trembled at his words. Again he
smiled as he had once before during that evening, and for the first time
a gleam of sudden light darted across the bewildered mind of the
agitated girl, but so dazzling were the rays, so overpowering the
brilliancy, from the contrast with the deep gloom which had been there
before, that she could not believe it real; she deemed it some wild
freak of fancy, that sportive fancy which had so long deserted her. St.
Eval hurried on, supporting rather than leading his companion. They
reached the library, and Emmeline's agitation increased almost to
fainting; she leaned more heavily on St. Eval's arm; though her heart
beat almost audibly, and her cheek vied in its paleness with a marble
statue near her, not a word betrayed her emotion. There were many lights
within the library, a group was gathered round the centre table, but to
Emmeline all was indistinct, not one amongst them could she recognise.
Her father hastened towards her, he took her trembling hand in his, and
led her gently forward.
"Look up, my beloved," he said, tenderly, "we have sent for you to
ratify the consent your mother and I have given, given on condition,
that if yours be withheld, ours also is void. But will the long years of
silent love and uncomplaining suffering for your sake, plead in vain to
one so gentle as yourself? Look up, my Emmeline, and tell me, if the
fond affection, the tender cares of him whom we have chosen, will not
indeed prove the best restorative we can bestow?"
She did look up, and the quick gushing flow of blood dyed her pallid
cheek with crimson, and lit up her soft eyes with their wonted lustre.
There was one tall, manly form beside her, gazing on her with such
devoted love, that she saw not how pale were those expressive features,
what a deep impress of long suffering was on that high and noble brow.
She heard naught but that deep rich voice pronounce her name, and call
her "his own, own Emmeline," for she had sunk in his extended arms, she
had hidden her face upon his shoulder and wept.
"Are we forgiven, Emmeline, dearest?" said Mrs. Hamilton, fondly, after
a long pause, which many mingled feelings had occasioned. Her child
withdrew for a moment from the arms of her betrothed, and flung herself
upon her neck. "Your father bound me by a promise not to reveal his
secret, and I kept it well till this evening; for did you not deserve
some punishment, my child, for believing even for a single moment your
parents would have rewarded your unwavering discharge of a most painful
duty, your unhesitating submission to our will, by forcing you to bestow
your hand upon another, when your heart was already engaged? No, my own
Emmeline, we could not have been so cruel. Take her, my dear Arthur;
freely, fearlessly I consign her happiness to your charge, for indeed
you have well deserved her."
We need not lift the veil from the brief interview which the
consideration of Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton afforded to the lovers, it is
enough that they were happy, happy in the consciousness not of present
joy alone, but of duty unshrinkingly performed, of pain endured with
unrepining fortitude; unalloyed in its purity indeed was their
happiness, for it was the recompense of virtue.
When the tidings of what had passed were made known, there were few who
did not feel as if some individual joy had been imparted. The universal
sympathy occasioned by the happiness of a being so generally beloved as
Emmeline shed new animation over the little party. And Ellen, the gentle
affectionate Ellen, did not she rejoice? She did, unfeignedly,
sincerely, but there was a pang of bitterness mingled with it which she
vainly struggled to subdue.
"Can you consent to live in the humble vicarage of my estate, Emmeline?"
whispered the young Earl in her ear, as she relinquished the arm of
Arthur, whom Edward, Percy, and Ellen were eagerly surrounding. "You
have often admired it. Will it serve you for a home, think you? if not,
name what alterations you will like, and they shall be done, even as if
Aladdin's wonderful genii had performed it."
"Dearest Eugene," said Emmeline, "I feel it is to you, to your generous
pleadings in Arthur's favour, I greatly owe this happiness. Will you not
let me thank you for that, instead of asking more?"
"No, little fairy, I will do no such thing, for I only spoke the truth,
and that, Emmeline, 'was but my _duty_,' and demands no thanks or praise
whatever; and as I have selected my friend Myrvin to supply the place of
my late vicar, who was promoted last week to a better living, to see
everything prepared for his comfort, and that of his wife, is also
mine."
"Nay, spare me, dear St. Eval; I will plead guilty of not giving Arthur
his due, if you will promise me not always to torment me with duty. I
was unjust and unkind."
"No, dearest Emmy, you were neither unjust nor unkind; you only said one
thing and meant another, and as _I_ know _why_ you did so, I forgive
you."
Mrs. Cameron's family and the other guests having departed, and only Mr.
Hamilton's own circle lingering in the drawing-room, some surprise was
occasioned to all except Mrs. Hamilton and Percy, by Mr. Hamilton
suddenly laying his hand gently on Herbert's shoulder, and saying
earnestly, though somewhat playfully--
"One surprise and one cause for congratulation we might, I think, deem
sufficient for _one_ evening, but I intend being the happy messenger of
another event, which may chance to be even more surprising, and
certainly not less joyful. I beg you will all offer Mrs. Hamilton and
myself your warmest congratulations, for the same day that gives us a
new son will, I trust, bestow on us an other daughter. This quiet young
man intends taking unto himself a wife; and as it may be some little
time ere we can bring her home from France, the best thing we can do is
to anticipate two marriages in one day."
"Herbert, my true English bred and English feeling cousin, marry a
French woman, by my good sword, you shall not," said Edward, laughing,
when the universal surprise and joy which this information had excited
had somewhat subsided. The eager question who was Herbert's choice, was
asked by Caroline and Emmeline together.
"Fear nothing, Master Lieutenant," St. Eval said, ere Herbert could
reply; "my wits, though a landsman, are not quite so blunt as yours, and
I guess better than you do. Is it possible no one here can tell? has my
demure brother Herbert's secret never been suspected? Caroline, what has
become of your penetration; and Emmeline, your romance? Ellen, cannot
you guess?"
"Yes," she replied, instantly, though as she spoke a sudden crimson rose
to her cheek, which, though unnoticed, had been, while Mr. Hamilton
spoke, pale as death.
"May you, may you be happy, dearest Herbert," she added, calmly, as she
extended her hand to him; "few are so fitted to make you so, few can so
truly sympathise in your feelings as Mary Greville."
"You are right, you are right, Ellen," said Lady Emily Lyle, as Herbert
warmly pressed his cousin's hand, and thanked her in that low thrilling
voice so peculiarly his own; and then, with a countenance radiant with
animated joy, turned towards the little group, and thanking them for the
joy with which his Mary's name was universally greeted, turned to Edward
and asked, with a smile, if Mary were not sufficiently English to
content him.
"Quite, quite; I would even go over to France for the sake of bringing
her to England in my gallant Gem," replied the young sailor. "She is
the best wife you could have chosen, Herbert, for you were ever
alongside, even in your boyish days; and it would have been a sin and
shame for you to have married any one else. Percy, why do not you follow
such an excellent example?"
"I--because a bachelor's life has not yet lost its charms for me,
Edward! I like my own ease, my own pleasure best, and wish to be free a
short time longer," replied the young man, stretching himself on a sofa,
with a comic air of _nonchalance_ and affectation; then starting up, he
added, theatrically, "I am going to be a senator, a senator; and how in
the world can I think of matrimony but as a state of felicity unsuited
to such a hard-working fellow as I am, or rather mean to be."
"I commend you for the correction in your speech, Percy," said his
mother, smiling. "_Mean to be_ and _am_, are two very different things."
"But in me may chance so to amalgamate as to become the same. Mother,
who would believe you could be so severe? But I forgive you; one of
these days you will regret your injustice: that smile says I wish I may.
Well, we shall see. And now, lords and ladies, to bed, to bed. I have
swallowed such large draughts of surprise to-night, I can bear no more.
A kind good night to all. Myrvin," he called out from the hall, "if you
are as early to-morrow as you were at Oxford, we will be off to
Trevilion and inspect your new vicarage before breakfast, and back by
night."
"Not to-morrow, Arthur," entreated Emmeline, in a low voice, as he
followed her from the room.
"Not to-morrow, dearest," he replied, tenderly, as he drew her to his
bosom, and bade God bless her.
The other members of the family also separated, Ellen one of the last,
for Lady Emily at first detained her in some trifling converse, and Mrs.
Hamilton was telling her of something she wished her niece to do for her
the next morning. Ellen was standing in the shade as her aunt spoke; all
had left the room except Edward and themselves, and humming a lively
air, the former was departing, when, turning round to wish his sister
good night, the light flashed full upon her face, and there was
something in its expression, in its almost unearthly paleness, that made
him suddenly start and cease his song.
"Merciful heaven! Ellen, what is the matter? You look like a ghost."
"Do not be silly, Edward, there is nothing the matter. I am quite well,
only warm," she replied, struggling to smile, but her voice was so
choked, her smile so unnatural, that not only her brother but her aunt
was alarmed.
"You are deceiving us, my dear girl, you are not well. Are you in pain,
dearest?" she said, hastening towards her.
Ellen had borne up well when unnoticed; but the voice of kindness, the
fond caress her aunt bestowed completely overpowered her, and, sinking
on a chair, she burst into tears.
"It is nothing, indeed it is nothing, my dear aunt," she said, with a
strong effort checking the bursting sob. "I have felt the heat very
oppressive all the evening, it is only that which makes me so foolish."
"I hope it is only the heat, my Ellen," replied Mrs. Hamilton, fondly,
suspicion flashing across her mind, not indeed of the truth, but
something near akin to it. For a few minutes Ellen leaned her head
silently against her aunt, who continued bending over her, then
returning her affectionate kiss, shook hands with her brother, assured
him she was quite well, and quietly left the room.
"Now, then, I know indeed my fate," Ellen murmured internally, as her
aching head rested on a sleepless pillow, and her clasped hands were
pressed against her heart to stop its suffocating throbs. "Why am I thus
overwhelmed, as if I had ever hoped, as if this were unexpected? Have I
not known it, have I not felt that she would ever be his choice? that I
was mad enough to love one, who from his boyhood loved another. Why has
it fallen on me as a shock for which I was utterly unprepared? What has
become of my many resolutions? Why should the task be more difficult now
than it has been? I feel as if life were irksome to me, as if all I
loved were turned to that bitterness of spirit against which I have
striven, as if I could dash from my poor cousin's lips the cup of
unexpected happiness she has only this evening tasted. Oh, merciful
Father! forsake me not now, let me not feel thus, only fill my heart
with love and charity, take from me this bitterness and envy. It is Thou
that dispenseth this bitter cup. Father, I recognise Thy hand, and would
indeed resign myself to Thee. Oh, enable me to do so; teach me to love
Thee alone, to do Thy work, to subdue myself, and in thankfulness
receive the many blessings still around me; let me but see _them_ happy.
Oh, my Father, let Thy choicest blessings be his lot, and for me" it was
a bitter struggle, but ere the night had passed that young spirit had
conquered, had uttered fervently, trustingly, heartfully,--"for me, oh,
my Father, let Thy will be done." And Ellen joined the breakfast-table
the following morning calm and cheerful; there was no trace of internal
suffering, no sign to betray even to her aunt all that she endured. She
entered cheerfully into all Emmeline's happiness, accompanied her and
Arthur, with Lord and Lady St. Eval, to Trevilion, and entered into
every suggested plan, as if indeed no other thoughts engrossed her.
Arthur and Emmeline found in her an active and affectionate friend, and
the respect and love with which she felt herself regarded seemed to
soothe, while it urged her on to increased exertion. Mrs. Hamilton
watched her anxiously; she had at first fancied Arthur was the object of
her niece's regard, but this idea was not strengthened, and though she
felt assured such was not the real cause of Ellen's agitation that
eventful evening, she could not, and did not guess the truth.
The revealing a long-treasured secret, the laying bare feelings of the
heart, which have so long been concealed, even to our dearest friends,
does not always produce happiness; there is a blank within us, a
yearning after something we know not what, and the spirit loses for a
time its elasticity. It may be that the treasured secret has been so
long enshrined in our innermost souls, we have felt it so long as only
our own, that when we betray it to others, it is as if we parted from a
friend; it is no longer our own, we can no longer hold sweet communion
with it, for the voice of the world hath also reached it, and though at
first its revealing is joy, it is followed by a sorrow. So Herbert felt,
when the excitement of congratulation, of the warm sympathy of his
friends had given place to solicitude and thought. Mary had been so
long the shrine of his secret, fondest thoughts, he had so long indulged
in delicious fancies, known to few others save himself, that now they
had been intruded on even by the voice of gratulation, they would no
longer throng around. It was strange that on this night, when his choice
had been so warmly approved of by all his friends, when words of such
heartfelt kindness had been lavished in his ear, that the same dull
foreboding of future evil, of suffering, of death, pressed heavily on
him, as in earlier years it had been so wont to do. He struggled against
it; he would not listen to its voice, but it would have sway. Donned it
was not indeed, but from its mystery more saddening. Herbert wrestled
with himself in fervent prayer; that night was to him almost as
sleepless as it was to his cousin Ellen, but the cause of her weary
watching was, alas! too well defined. The bright sun, the joyous voices
of his brother and cousin beneath his window, roused Herbert from these
thoughts, and ere the day had passed, he had partly recovered the usual
tenor of his mind, though its buoyancy was still subdued, and its secret
temperament somewhat sad, but to his family he seemed as usual.