Some weeks passed, and Emmeline's health was rapidly returning; her
spirits were more like those of her girlhood, subdued indeed by past
suffering, but only so far subdued as to render her, if possible, still
dearer to all those who loved her; and she, too, beheld with delight the
colour returning to her Arthur's cheek, his step regaining its
elasticity; and there was a manly dignity about him now which, when she
first loved, she had not seen, but which she felt rendered him still
dearer, for she could look up to him for support, she could feel
dependence on his stronger and more decisive character.
Each week confirmed Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton in the wisdom of their
decision, by revealing more clearly Myrvin's character. He was more
devoted to the duties of his clerical profession; pride, haughtiness,
that dislike to mingle with his parishioners, had all departed, and as
they observed how warmly and delightedly their Emmeline entered into his
many plans for doing good, for increasing the happiness of the villagers
under his spiritual charge, they felt that her domestic virtues, her
gentle disposition, were far more suited to the wife of a clergyman,
than to that life of bustling gaiety which might perhaps, under other
circumstances, have been her portion.
"Are there not responsibilities attached to a clergyman's wife?" she
once asked her mother. "I feel as if so much depended upon _me_ to
render him respected and beloved, that I sometimes fear I may fail in my
duty, and, through ignorance, not intentional, perhaps bring discredit
on his name. Dearest mother, how can I prevent this?"
"These fears are natural to one of your character, my Emmeline, but they
will quickly pass away. You would be more likely to fail in the duties
of fashionable life, than in those which you will soon have to fulfil.
Occupation which, had you been more fashionably educated, must have been
irksome, will to you remain the pleasures they have ever been,
heightened and encouraged by the sympathy of your husband. A wife to be
truly happy and virtuous, must entirely forget _self_; a truth which the
partner of a country clergyman should ever remember, as his family is
larger, more constant in their calls upon her attention and sympathy,
and sometimes her exertions are less productive of satisfaction and
pleasure, than those of many other stations in life. Her own demeanour
should be alike gentle, unassuming, persuasive, yet dignified, so that
her actions may assist and uphold her husband's doctrines more than her
language. You have but to follow the principles of Christianity and the
dictates of your own heart, my Emmeline, and your duty will be done,
almost unconsciously to yourself."
The only drawback to Emmeline's happiness was, that Lord and Lady St.
Eval were obliged to leave England ere her marriage could be solemnized,
the health of the latter prohibiting further delay. They did not expect
to be absent much more than a twelvemonth, and the Earl, laughingly,
told Emmeline, if she would defer her wedding till then, he would
promise to be present; to that, however, none of the parties concerned
seemed inclined to consent, and St. Eval owned he would much rather, on
his return, see her comfortably settled at the Vicarage, where
preparations were rapidly advancing. Percy, however, promised to defer
his intended tour till his favourite sister should be Myrvin's bride,
and Edward, on leaving to join his ship, declared, if wind and tide were
not very contrary, he, too, would take a run down and dance at her
wedding.
A short time after the departure of the Earl and Countess, and Edward,
Ellen received from the hand of her cousin Herbert a letter, which for
the moment caused her some emotion. She felt his eyes were fixed upon
her with a peculiar expression, and shrinking from them, she was
hastening to her own room to answer the letter there, when Herbert
called after her--
"Do not run away from me, Nelly; whatever be your answer, I am to be the
bearer."
Returning instantly, she asked, with cheek suddenly paled and lip
compressed, "Are you then aware of the contents of this letter, Herbert;
are you in Captain Cameron's confidence?"
"To both demands I am happy enough to answer, yes, Ellen," he replied,
smiling archly. "Captain Cameron has made me his father confessor, and
in return, I have promised to use all my influence in his favour, to
tell you what his letter may perhaps have but incoherently expressed:
that he loves you, Ellen, devotedly, faithfully; that he feels life
without you, however brilliant in appearance, will be a blank. I
promised him I would play the lover well, and indeed, my dear cousin,
his affection and esteem for you do not admit a single doubt."
"I am sorry for it," said Ellen, calmly, "very sorry, as it is not in my
power to return those feelings, and consequently I am compelled to give
him pain. I am grateful, very grateful for the high opinion, the kind
feelings, his letter expresses towards me. I shall never cease to
respect and value him as a friend, but more I cannot give."
"Nay, Ellen, take time to consider of his offer; do not refuse him at
once thus decidedly. You say you respect him. I know you admire his
conduct, both as a son and brother, and as a man. What objections are
there so great as to call for this decided and instant refusal?"
"Simply because, as a husband, I can never love him."
"Never is a long day, Ellen. You surely have not so much romance in your
composition as to refuse a young man possessing every virtue which can
make a woman happy, merely because he does not excite any very violent
passion? Do you not know there are some dispositions which never love to
the full extent of the word, and yet are perhaps happier in the marriage
state than those who do? Now you may be one of these, Ellen."
"It may be so," she said, still calmly, though a deep flush stained her
cheek. Herbert had spoken playfully, but there was that in his words
which, to a heart seared as was hers, was productive of intense
suffering.
"It may be so perhaps; I shall never meet one to love, as I believe a
husband ought to be loved, yet that would not satisfy my conscience for
accepting Walter. I trust I am not romantic, Herbert, but I will say,
that the vow to love, honour, and obey, to think only of him, demands
something more than the mere cold esteem which some may deem sufficient
for happiness. Walter _is_ an estimable young man, one who will make any
woman happy, and deeply indeed I regret that he has chosen one who can
only return his warm devoted affection with the comparatively chilling
sentiments of friendship and esteem. I would not do his kind heart so
much wrong as to accept him."
"But take time, Ellen, give him some hope. You can urge no objections
against him, and his family are dear to you. He has told me that from
his childhood he loved you, that your remembrance never left him, and
when again he met you, his fanciful visions became a beautiful and
palpable reality; give him, at least, some time for hope. It is
impossible, with a heart disengaged as yours, to associate intimately
with him and not love him."
"A heart disengaged as mine! how know you that, Herbert?" said his
cousin, with a smile, which would have deceived the most penetrating
eye. "Are you not presuming too far in your inspection of my heart,
seeking in rather a roundabout way, to obtain my entire confidence?"
"No, dearest Ellen, I speak and feel in this business but as Edward
would, were he in my place; your happiness is as dear to me as it is to
him. We have for very many years been to each other as a brother and
sister, and, believe me, in urging your acceptance of this good young
man, I seek but your welfare alone."
"I believe you, my dear cousin," replied Ellen, frankly holding out her
hand, which Herbert warmly pressed. "But indeed, in this instance, you
are deceived. An union with Walter Cameron would not form my happiness,
worthy as he is,--suitable as the world would deem such a match in all
respects; and sorry as I am to inflict pain and disappointment on the
companion of my childhood, as also, I fear, on his kind mother, I cannot
be his wife."
"And if your affections be already engaged, far be it from me to urge
you farther; but"--
"I said not that they were, Herbert," interrupted Ellen, steadily
fixing, as she spoke, her large eyes unshrinkingly on her cousin's face.
Herbert felt fairly puzzled, he could not read her heart; he would have
asked her confidence, he would have promised to do all in his power to
forward her happiness, but there was something around her that, while it
called forth his almost unconscious respect, entirely checked all
farther question. He did not fancy that she loved another, and yet why
this determined rejection of a young man whom he knew she esteemed.
"I am only grieving you by continuing the subject," he said; "and
therefore grant me your forgiveness, dearest Ellen, and your final
answer to Cameron, and it shall be resumed no more."
"I have nothing to forgive, Herbert," replied Ellen, somewhat
mournfully.
She sat a few minutes longer, in saddened thought, gazing on the open
letter, and then quitted the room and sought her own. She softly closed
the door, secured it, and then sinking on a low seat beside her couch,
buried her pale face in her hands, and for a few minutes remained
overwhelmed by that intensity of secret and tearless suffering. It was
called forth afresh by this interview with her cousin: to hear his lips
plead thus eloquently the cause of another; to hear him say that perhaps
she was one of those who would never love to its full extent. When her
young heart felt bursting beneath the load of deep affection pressing
there, one sweet alone mingled in that cup of bitterness, Herbert
guessed not, suspected not the truth. She had succeeded well in
concealing the anguish called forth by unrequited love, and she would
struggle on.
"Never, never shall it be known that I have given this rebellious heart
to one who seeks it not. No, no, that tale shall live and die with me;
no one shall know how low I have fallen. Poor Walter! he will think I
cannot feel for his unreturned affection, when I know too well its pang;
and why should I not be happy with him, why live on in lingering
wretchedness, when, perhaps as a wife, new duties might rouse me from
this lethargy? Away from Herbert I might forget--be reconciled; but
swear to love Walter when I have no love to give--return his affection
by indifference--oh, no, no, I will not be so guilty."
Ellen again hid her eyes in her hands, and thought long and painfully.
Pride urged her to accept young Cameron, but every better feeling
revolted from it. She started from that posture of despondency, and,
with a bursting heart, answered Walter's eloquent appeal. Kindness
breathed in every line she wrote--regard for his welfare--esteem for his
character; but she calmly yet decidedly rejected his addresses. She was
grieved, she said, most deeply grieved that anything in her manner
towards him had encouraged his hopes. She had acted but as she felt,
looking on the companion of her early childhood, the son of her father's
and her own kind friend, as a brother and a friend, in which light she
hoped he would ever permit her to regard him. Hope found no
resting-place in her letter, but it breathed such true and gentle
sympathy and kindness, that Walter could not but feel soothed, even in
the midst of disappointment. Ellen paused ere she sealed her letter; she
could not bear to act, even in this matter, without confiding in her
aunt; that Captain Cameron had proposed and been rejected, she felt
assured, report would soon convey to her ears. Why not then seek her
herself? The task of writing had calmed her heart. Taking, therefore,
Walter's letter and her own, she repaired to her aunt's dressing-room,
and fortunately found her alone. Mrs. Hamilton looked earnestly at her
as she entered, but she made no observation till, in compliance with
Ellen's request, she perused the letters offered to her.
"Have you reflected sufficiently on your decision, my Ellen?" she said,
after thanking her for the confidence she reposed in her. "Have you
thought well on the estimable character of this young man? Far be it
from me to urge or persuade you in such an important matter as marriage,
but you have not, I trust, answered this letter on the impulse of the
moment?"
"No, aunt, I have not indeed. Herbert has been most earnestly pleading
Captain Cameron's cause, and I have thought on all he has said, and the
little I can bring forward to combat it, but still I have refused him,
because as a husband I can never love him. I honour all his good
qualities. I cannot remember one fault or failing in his character,
which might render a wife unhappy. I grieve for his disappointment, but
I should not think I was doing either him or myself justice, to accept
him merely on these considerations. Herbert, I know, considers me
romantic, and perhaps unkind towards his friend; but painful as such an
idea is, I cannot act otherwise than I have done."
"Do not let that idea, then, continue to give you pain, my dear girl;
your manner towards Walter has never expressed more than kindness and
friendly regard. If I had seen anything like encouragement to him on
your part, do you not think I should have called you to account long
ago?" she added, with a smile, as Ellen, much relieved, kissed her in
silence. "Our young folks have, I know sometimes in sport, allied your
name with his, but I have generally checked them. Walter I certainly did
fancy admired you, but I did not imagine the feeling so decided as it
has proved. I will not blame your decision, though perhaps it may not be
a very wise one. Marriage is too serious a thing to be entered upon
lightly, and if you cannot love Walter as a husband, why you are quite
right not to accept him. I am not so eager to part with my Ellen as to
advise her marrying, whether she likes it or not. I shall soon have only
you to cheer my old age, you know. Do not look so pained and sad, love;
it is not thus young ladies in general refuse an offer. Go and give your
letter to Herbert, tell him it has my unqualified approval, and then
return to me. I marked some beautiful passages in one of our favourite
authors the other day and you shall read them to me. Now run away, and
come back quickly."
Ellen obeyed gladly and gratefully, and was enabled playfully to return
the smile with which Herbert received her letter and his mother's
message. Mrs. Hamilton felt more and more convinced that her suspicions
were correct, and that her niece's affections were unhappily engaged.
She thought again and again who could be their object, and still she
fancied it was Arthur Myrvin. She scarcely knew why herself, except from
Ellen's agitation the night of his arrival at Oakwood, and engagement
with Emmeline. That Herbert was the object was to her so improbable,
that the idea never crossed her mind. They had lived so long as brother
and sister, they had from their earliest childhood so intimately
associated with each other, Ellen and Edward were to her so like her own
children, that not once did she imagine Ellen loved her cousin. She
watched her closely, and she was more and more convinced that she had
something to conceal. She was certain her decided rejection of Walter
proceeded from her affections being already engaged, which had also
blinded her to his attentions; and she was convinced also that Ellen
loved in vain, and therefore, though she longed to console and soothe
her, she resolved not to speak to her on the subject, and wring from her
a secret which, when once betrayed, though revealed to her alone, might
be still more painful to endure. Mrs. Hamilton's manner was so kind, so
soothing, so calculated to support and strengthen, that Ellen more than
once wondered whether her aunt had indeed discovered her secret; but she
could not speak of it. She could not even to the being she loved best on
earth, with the exception of one, thus lay bare her aching heart. Often
and often she longed to throw herself in the arms of her aunt and weep,
but she controlled the impulse, and bore on in silence and outward
cheerfulness; strengthened in her efforts by the conviction that Herbert
knew not, imagined not the truth.
Young Cameron was grieved and disappointed, for his love for Ellen was
indeed sincere, but he could not mistake her letter; he saw there was no
hope, her expressions of friendship and kindness were soothing and
gratifying, they prevented all bitterness of feeling, and he determined
to preserve the friendship and brotherly regard which she so frankly
proffered.
Mrs. Cameron was at first somewhat hurt at Ellen's decided rejection of
her son, but she could not long retain any emotion of coolness towards
her, she could not resist the affectionate manner of Ellen, and all was
soon as usual between them. A visit with Percy to Castle Malvern, at
Lord Louis's earnest entreaty, to Walter was an agreeable change, though
it had at first been a struggle to rouse himself sufficiently. There the
character and conversation of Lady Florence Lyle, to his excited fancy,
so much resembled Ellen's, that unconsciously he felt soothed and happy.
From Castle Malvern, he joined his regiment with Lord Louis, who had
received a commission in the same troop, and by the time Captain Cameron
returned to Oakwood, he could associate with Ellen as a friend and a
brother. Above a year, it is true, elapsed before that time, and in that
period events had occurred at Oakwood, as unexpected as they were
mournful--but we will not anticipate.
Soon after Lord and Lady St. Eval's departure for Italy, Mr. Grahame,
despite the entreaties of his friends, even the silent eloquence of
Lilla's appealing eyes, put his resolution into force, and retired to
Wales. He had paid to the last farthing all his misguided son's
honourable and dishonourable debts; and this proceeding, as might be
expected, left him so reduced in fortune as to demand the greatest
economy to live with any comfort. To such an evil Grahame seemed
insensible; his only wish was to escape from the eye and tongue of the
world. A mistaken view with regard to his child also urged him on. Why
should he expose her to the attentions of the young noblemen so
constantly visiting at Mr. Hamilton's house, when, he felt assured,
however eagerly his alliance would once have been courted, now not one
would unite himself to the sister of a publicly disgraced and privately
dishonoured man? No, it was better for her to be far away; and though
her mild submission to his wishes, notwithstanding the pain he knew it
was to part from her friends at Oakwood, rendered her dearer to him than
ever, still he wavered not in his resolution. The entreaties of Arthur
Myrvin, Emmeline, and Ellen did, however, succeed in persuading him to
fix his place of retirement at Llangwillan, so that all connection would
not be so completely broken between them, as were he to seek some more
distant part of the country. Llangwillan, Arthur urged, was scarcely
known to the world at large, but it was to them, and they might hope
sometimes, to see them; for he, Emmeline, and Ellen would often visit
his father. Grahame consented, to the great joy of his child, who felt
more than himself the force of Myrvin's arguments.
"Mr. Myrvin is such a dear, good, old man, you cannot fail to love him,
Lilla," Ellen said, soothingly, as the day of parting neared. "You must
ask him to show you the little cottage where the first eight weeks of my
residence in England were passed, and make friends with the old widow
and her daughter for my sake; you will find them willing enough to talk
about us and my poor mother, if you once speak on the subject. And my
mother's grave, dear Lilla, you will visit that sometimes, will you not?
and not permit a weed to mingle with the flowers Arthur planted around
it after we left, to distinguish it, he said, from every other grave. It
shall be your charge, dearest Lilla, and Edward and I will thank you for
it; he never goes to Llangwillan without passing an hour of each day by
that little humble mound."
"Edward, does he ever come to Llangwillan?" Lilla suddenly asked, her
tears checked, and every feature expressive of such animated hope, that
Ellen looked at her for a moment in astonishment, and then smilingly
answered in the affirmative. Lilla clasped her hands in sudden joy, and
then, as if ashamed, hid her face, burning with blushes, on Ellen's
hand. Her companion stooped down to kiss her brow, and continued talking
of her brother for some time longer.
From that day Ellen observed Lilla regained her usual animation, her eye
sparkled, and her cheek often flushed, as if from some secret thought;
her spirits only fell at the hour of parting, and Ellen felt assured
they would quickly rise again, and the first packet she received from
Llangwillan confirmed the supposition. Mrs. Hamilton was surprised, but
Ellen was not.
Preparations were now actively making for Herbert's visit to France,
thence to bring home his betrothed. His father and Percy had both
resolved on accompanying him, and Mrs. Hamilton and Emmeline and Arthur
anxiously anticipated the return of their long-absent friends.
A longer time than usual had elapsed between Mary's letters, and
Herbert's anxiety was becoming more and more intense. Two or three of
his letters had remained unanswered; there were no tidings of either
herself or her mother. St. Eval had determined on not visiting Paris
till his return from Switzerland, as his solicitude to arrive at his
journey's end, and commence the prescribed remedies for Caroline would,
he was quite sure, destroy all his pleasure. In vain his wife laughed at
his hurry and his fears; much as he wished to see Mary, he was
determined, and Caroline no farther opposed him. Through them, then,
Herbert could receive no tidings; he had not heard since that event,
which he believed would have been as much joy to Mary as to
himself--his ordination. He struggled with his own anxiety that the
intervening obstacles to his journey should not deprive him of serenity
and trust, but the inward fever was ravaging within. Only one short
week, and then he departed; ere, however, that time came, he received a
letter, and with a sickening feeling of indefinable dread recognised the
handwriting of his Mary. He left the breakfast-parlour to peruse it
alone, and it was long before he returned to his family. They felt
anxious, they knew not why; even Arthur and Emmeline were silent, and
the ever-restless Percy remained leaning over a newspaper, as if
determined not to move till his brother returned. A similar feeling
appeared to detain his father, who did not seek the library as usual.
Ellen appeared earnestly engaged in some communications from Lady
Florence Lyle, and Mrs. Hamilton was perusing a letter from Caroline,
which the same post had brought.
With a sudden spring Percy started from his seat, exclaiming, in a tone
that betrayed unconsciously much internal anxiety--
"What in the world is Herbert about? He cannot have gone out without
bringing us some intelligence. Robert, has Mr. Herbert gone out?" he
called loudly to the servant, who was passing the open window.
"No, sir," was the reply; "he is still in his room."
"Then there will I seek him," he added, impetuously; but he was
prevented by the entrance of Herbert himself, and Percy started from him
in astonishment and alarm.
There was not a particle of colour on his cheek or lips; his eyes
burned as with fever, and his lips quivered as in some unutterable
anguish.
"Read," he said, in a voice so hoarse and unnatural, it startled even
more than his appearance, and he placed the letter in his father's hand.
"Father, read, and tell them all--I cannot. It is over!" he continued,
sinking on a stool at his mother's feet, and laying his aching head on
her lap. "My beautiful dream is over, and what is the waking?
wretchedness, unutterable wretchedness! My God, my God, Thy hand is
heavy upon me, yet I would submit." He clasped his mother's hands
convulsively in his, he drooped his head upon them, and his slight frame
shook beneath the agony, which for hours he had been struggling to
subdue. Mrs. Hamilton clasped him to her bosom; she endeavoured to speak
words of hope and comfort.
Silence deep and solemn fell over that little party; it was so fearful
to see Herbert thus--the gentle, the self-controlled, the exalted
Herbert thus bowed down even to the earth; he, whose mind ever seemed
raised above this world; he, who to his family was ever a being of a
brighter, holier sphere. If he bent thus beneath the pressure of earthly
sorrow, what must that sorrow be? His family knew the depth of feeling
existing in his breast, which the world around them never could suspect,
and they looked on him and trembled. Myrvin raised him from the arms of
his mother, and bore him to the nearest couch, and Mrs. Hamilton wiped
from his damp brow the starting dew. Tears of alarm and sympathy were
streaming from the eyes of Emmeline, and Myrvin resigned his post to
Percy, to comfort her. But Ellen wept not; pale as Herbert, her features
expressed suffering almost as keen as his, and yet she dared not do as
her heart desired, fly to his side and speak the words that love
dictated. What was her voice to him? _she_ had no power to soothe.
Deep and varied emotions passed rapidly over Mr. Hamilton's countenance
as he read the letter which had caused this misery. Percy could trace
upon his features pity, sorrow, scorn, indignation, almost loathing,
follow one another rapidly and powerfully, and even more violently did
those emotions agitate him when the truth was known.
"It was an old tale, and often told, but that took not from its
bitterness," Mary wrote, from a bed of suffering such as she had never
before endured; for weeks she had been insensible to thought or action,
but she had resolved no one but herself should inform her Herbert of all
that had transpired, no hand but her own should trace her despairing
words. They had lived, as we know, calmly at Paris, so peaceably, that
Mrs. Greville had indulged in brighter hopes for the future than had
ever before engrossed her. Mr. Greville spent much of his time from
home, accompanying, however, his wife and daughter to their evening
amusements, and always remained present when they received company in
return. They lived in a style of more lavish expenditure than Mrs.
Greville at all approved of. Her husband, however, only laughed
good-humouredly whenever she ventured to remonstrate, and told her not
to trouble herself or Mary about such things; they had enough, and he
would take care that sufficiency should not fail. A dim foreboding
crossed Mrs. Greville's mind at these words; but her husband's manner,
though careless, preventing all further expostulation, she was
compelled to suppress, if she could not conquer, her anxiety. At
length, the storm that Mary had long felt was brooding in this unnatural
calm, burst over her, and opened Mrs. Greville's eyes at once.
Among their most constant but least welcome visitors was a Monsieur
Dupont, a man of polished manners certainly, the superficial polish of
the Frenchman, but of no other attraction, and even in that there was
something about him to Mary particularly repulsive. He had seen some
threescore years; his countenance, in general inexpressive, at times
betrayed that strong and evil passions were working at his heart. He was
said to be very rich, though some reports had gone about that his
fortune had all been amassed by gambling in no very honourable manner.
With this man Mr. Greville was continually associated; they were seldom
seen apart, and being thus the favourite of the master, he was
constantly at the house. To Mrs. Greville as to Mary he was an object of
indefinable yet strong aversion, and willingly would they have always
denied themselves, and thus escaped his odious presence. Once they had
done so, but the storm of fury that burst from Mr. Greville intimidated
both; they felt some little concession on their parts was demanded to
preserve peace, and Monsieur Dupont continued his visits.
To this man, publicly known as unprincipled, selfish, incapable of one
exalted or generous feeling, Greville had sworn to give his gentle and
unoffending child; this man he sternly commanded Mary to receive as her
husband, and prepare herself for her marriage within a month.
As if a thunderbolt had fallen, Mary and her mother listened to these
terrible words, and scarcely had the latter sufficient courage to
inform her unpitying husband of their child's engagement with Herbert
Hamilton. For Mary's sake, she struggled and spoke, but her fears were
not without foundation. A horrid imprecation on Mr. Hamilton and his
family burst instantly from the lips of the now infuriated Greville; he
had chosen for many years to fancy himself deeply injured by that
gentleman, and, with an oath too fearful to be written, he solemnly
swore that Mary should never be the wife of Herbert; he would rather see
her dead. Louder and louder grew his passion, but Mrs. Greville heard
him not. Mary had dropped as if lifeless at his feet. She had sprung up
as if to arrest the imprecation on her father's lips, but when his
dreadful oath reached her ears, her senses happily forsook her, and it
was long, very long before she woke to consciousness and thought. Mrs.
Greville hung in agony over the couch of her unhappy child; scarcely
could she pray or wish for her recovery, for she knew there was no hope.
Her husband had let fall hints of being so deeply pledged to Dupont,
that his liberty or perhaps his life depended on his union with Mary,
and could she wish her child to live to be the wife of such a man, yet
could she see her die? What pen can describe the anguish of that fond
mother, as for weeks she watched and tended her senseless child, or the
contending feelings that wrung her heart when Mary woke again to
consciousness and misery, and asked her, in a voice almost inarticulate
from weakness, what had happened--why she was thus? Truth gradually
broke upon her mind, and Mary too soon remembered all. The physician
said she was recovering, that she would quickly be enabled to leave her
bed and go about as usual. Greville swore he would no longer be
prevented seeing her, and Mary made no opposition to his entrance.
Calmly and passively she heard all he had to say; what he told her then
she did not repeat in writing to Herbert. She merely said that she had
implored him to wait till her health was a little more restored; not to
force her to become the wife of Dupont, till she could stand _without
support_ beside the altar, and he had consented.
"Be comforted, then, my beloved Herbert," she wrote, as she concluded
this brief tale of suffering. "They buoy me up with hopes that in a very
few months I shall be as well as ever I was. I smile, for I know the
blight has fallen, and I shall never stand beside an earthly altar; all
I pray is, that death may not linger till my father's patience be
exhausted, and he vent on my poor mother all the reproaches which my
lingering illness will, I know, call forth. Oh, my beloved Herbert,
there are moments when I think the bitterness of death is passed, when I
am so calm, so happy, I feel as if I had already reached the confines of
my blissful, my eternal home; but this is not always granted me. There
are times when I can think only on the happiness I had once hoped to
share with you when heaven itself seemed dimmed by the blessedness I had
anticipated on earth. Herbert, I shall never be another's wife, and it
will not be misery to think of me in heaven. Oh, no, we shall meet there
soon, very soon, never, never more to part. Why does my pen linger?
Alas! it cannot trace the word farewell. Yet why does it so weakly
shrink? 'tis but for a brief space, and we shall meet where that word is
never heard, where sorrow and sighing shall be no more. Farewell, then,
my beloved Herbert, beloved faithfully, unchangeably in death as you
have been in life. I know my last prayer to you is granted ere even it
is spoken: you will protect and think of my poor mother; you will not
permit her to droop and die of a broken heart, with no kind voice to
soothe and cheer. I feel she will in time be happy; and oh, the
unutterable comfort of that confiding trust. Once more, and for the last
time, farewell, my beloved; think only that your Mary is in heaven, that
her spirit, redeemed and blessed, waits for thee near the Saviour's
throne, and be comforted. We shall meet again."
No sound broke the stillness when that sad letter had been perused. Mr.
Hamilton had bowed his head upon his hands, for he could not speak of
comfort; the long years of domestic bliss which had been his portion,
made him feel bitterly the trial which the heart of his son was doomed
to endure. And how was he to aid? Could he seek Greville, and condescend
to use persuasions, arguments to force from him his consent? With
clenched hand and knitted brow Percy stood, his thoughts forcibly drawn
from the sufferers by the bitter indignation he felt towards the
heartless, cruel man who had occasioned all. Mrs. Hamilton could think
only of her son, of Mary, whom she had so long loved as her own child,
and the longing to behold her once again, to speak the words of soothing
and of love, with which her heart felt bursting. Emmeline could only
weep, that such should be the fate of one whom from her childhood she
had loved, and whom she had lately anticipated with so much delight
receiving as a sister. For some minutes Ellen sat in deep and painful
thought, then starting up, she flew to the side of her uncle, and
clasping his hand, entreated--
"Go to Paris, my dear uncle; go yourself, and see this relentless man;
speak with him, know why he has commanded Mary to receive this Dupont as
her husband; perhaps you may render Herbert's claims as valuable in his
eyes. He has no cause of strife with you; he will hear you, I know he
will; his fury was called forth because he thought Herbert stood in the
way of his wishes. Prove to him the happiness, the life of his child, of
yours, depend on their union. He cannot, he will not refuse to hear you.
Oh, do not hesitate, go to him, my dear uncle; all may not be so
desperate as at this distance we may fancy."
"My father may as well plead to the hard flint as to Alfred Greville's
feelings," muttered Percy. "Ellen, you know not what you ask; would you
have my father debase himself to a wretch like that?"
"'Tis Mr. Greville who will be debased, and not my uncle, Percy. The
world might think him humbled to plead to such a man, but they would
think falsely; he is raised above the cringing crowd, who from false
pride would condemn the child of virtue to misery and death, because
they would not bear with the vices of the parent. Were Mary, were Mrs.
Greville in any point otherwise than they are, I would not thus plead,
for there would be no necessity. She could not be so dear to Herbert. I
do not ask my uncle to humble himself; I ask him but to reason with Mr.
Greville, to convince him of his error."
"What says my Herbert?" demanded Mr. Hamilton, gazing with astonishment
on his niece's animated features, and almost wondering at her unwonted
eloquence.
"That she has spoken well, and may God in Heaven bless her for the
thought!" exclaimed Herbert, who had roused himself to listen to her
earnest words, and now, with sudden energy, sprung up. "Father, let us
go. Ellen has spoken justly; he will listen to you, he will not hear my
entreaties unmoved. I have never offended him; he is, indeed, a harsh
and cruel man, one whom I would gladly shun, but the father of Mary. Oh,
let us seek him, for her sake we will plead; he will wake from his
dream, he will know he has been in error. Oh, my father, let us go. She
may yet be saved to live and bless me."
He sunk back on the sofa, and burst into tears. Hope had suddenly sprung
up from the dark void which had been in his heart. Mrs. Hamilton could
not check that suddenly-excited hope, but she did not share it, for she
felt it came but to deceive. She whispered gentle and consoling words,
she spoke of comfort that she could not feel. But once his energies
aroused, they did not fail him. To go instantly to Paris, to seek Mr.
Greville, and plead his own cause, aided by his father's influence,
acknowledge he had been wrong in not asking his consent before, such
thoughts now alone occupied his mind, and Mr. Hamilton could not check
them, though, even as his wife, he shared not his son's sanguine
expectations. That he had once possessed more influence than any one
else over Mr. Greville he well knew; but he thought with Percy, the
dislike felt towards him originated from this, and that it was more than
probable he would remain firm in his refusal to triumph over both
himself and his son; yet he could not hesitate to comply with Herbert's
wishes. Ellen's suggestion had roused him to exertion, and he should not
be permitted to sink back into despondency, at least they should meet.
It would be difficult to define Ellen's feelings as she beheld her
work, and marked the effect of her words upon her cousin. Not a particle
of selfishness mingled in her feelings, but that deep pang was yet
unconquered. Herbert's manner to her was even kinder, more affectionate
than usual, during the few days that intervened ere they parted, as if
he felt that she had drawn aside the dark veil of impenetrable gloom,
and summoned hope to rise again; and could she see or feel this unmoved?
Still was she calm and tranquil, and she would speak of Mary and of
brighter hopes, and no emotion was betrayed in her pale cheek or in that
tearless eye.
Percy accompanied his father and brother. They travelled rapidly, and a
favourable voyage enabled them to reach Paris in a shorter time than
usual. Mr. Hamilton had insisted on seeking Mr. Greville's mansion at
first alone, and Percy controlled his own feelings. To calm the strong
emotion, the deep anxiety, that now he was indeed in the same city as
his Mary, almost overpowered Herbert; the struggle for composure, for
resignation to whatever might be the will of his God, was too powerful
for his exhausted strength. Sleep had only visited him by snatches,
short and troubled, since he had received Mary's letter; the long
interval which elapsed ere Mr. Hamilton returned was productive of even
keener suffering than he had yet endured. Hope had sunk powerless before
anxiety; the strength of mind which had borne him up so long was giving
way beneath the exhaustion of bodily powers, which Percy saw with alarm
and sorrow; his eyes had lost their lustre, and were becoming dim and
haggard; more than once he observed a slight shudder pass through his
frame, and felt his words of cheering and of comfort fell unheeded on
his brother's ear. At length Mr. Hamilton returned.
"She lives, my son," were the first words he uttered, but his tone was
not joyful; "our beloved and gentle Mary yet lives, and soon, very soon
you shall meet, not to part on earth again."
Herbert gazed wildly in his face, he clasped his hands convulsively, and
then he bowed his head in a deep and fervent burst of thanksgiving.
"And Greville," said Percy, impatiently, "has he so soon consented?
father, you have not descended to entreaties, and to such a man?"
"Percy, peace," said his father, gravely. "With Mr. Greville I have
enchanged no words. Thank God, I sought not his house with any hostile
intention, with any irritation urging me against him. Percy, he is dead,
and let his faults die with him."
"Dead!" repeated the young man, shocked and astonished, and Herbert
started up. His lip quivered with the vain effort to ask an explanation.
It was even so, that very morning Greville had breathed his last, with
all his sins upon his head, for no time had been allowed him either for
repentance or atonement. A few days after Mary had written to Herbert,
her father had been brought home senseless, and dreadfully injured, by a
fall from his horse. His constitution, shattered by intemperance and
continued dissipation, was not proof against the fever that ensued;
delirium never left him. For five days Mrs. Greville and Mary watched
over his couch. His ravings were dreadful; he would speak of Dupont, at
one time, with imprecations; at others, as if imploring him to forbear.
He would entreat his child to forgive him; and then, with fearful
convulsions, appear struggling with the effort to drag her to the altar.
Mary heard, and her slight frame shook and withered each day faster than
the last, but she moved not from her father's side. In vain Mrs.
Greville watched for some returning consciousness, for some sign to say
he died in peace. Alas! there was none. He expired in convulsions; and
scarcely had his wife and child recovered the awful scene, when the
entrance of the hated Dupont roused them to exertion. He came to claim
Mary as his promised wife, or send them forth as beggars. The house and
all that it contained, even to their jewels, were his; for Greville had
died, owing him debts to an amount which even the sale of all they
possessed could not entirely repay. He had it in his power to arrest the
burial of the scarcely cold corpse, to stain the name of the dead with
undying infamy; and he vowed that he would use his power to its utmost
extent, if Mary's consent were not instantly given. Four-and-twenty
hours he gave her to decide, and departed, leaving inexpressible
wretchedness behind him, on the part of Mrs. Greville, and the calm
stupor of exhaustion and despair pervading Mary's every faculty.
"My child, my child, it shall not be; you shall not be that heartless
villain's wife. I have health; I can work, teach, do anything to support
us, and why, oh, why should you be thus sacrificed? Mary, Mary, you will
live, my child, to bless your desolate and wretched mother. Oh, my God,
my God, why hast thou thus forsaken me? I have trusted in thee, and wilt
thou thus fail me? To whom can I appeal--what friend have I near me?"
"Mother, do not speak thus," exclaimed Mary, roused from the lethargy
of exhaustion by her mother's despairing words, and she flung herself on
her knees beside her, and threw her arms around her. "Mother, my own
mother, the God of the widow and the fatherless is still our friend; He
hath not forsaken us, though for a time His countenance is darkened
towards us. Oh, he will have mercy; He will raise us up a friend--I
feel, I know He will. He will relieve us. Let us but trust in Him,
mother; let us not fail now. Oh, let us pray to Him, and He will
answer."
The eyes of the good and gentle girl were lit up with sudden radiance.
Her pallid cheek was faintly flushed; her whole countenance and tone
expressed the enthusiasm, the holiness which had characterised her whole
life. Mrs. Greville clasped her faded form convulsively to her aching
bosom, and, drooping her head, wept long and freely.
"Father, I have sinned," she murmured; "oh, have mercy."
An hour passed, and neither Mary nor her mother moved from that posture
of affliction, yet of prayer. They heard not the sound of many voices
below, nor a rapid footstep on the stairs. The opening of the door
aroused them, but Mary looked not up; she clung closer to her mother,
for she feared to gaze again on Dupont. A wild exclamation of joy, of
thanksgiving, bursting from Mrs. Greville's lips startled her; for a
moment she trembled, yet she could not be mistaken, that tone was joy.
Slowly she looked on the intruder. Wildly she sprung up--she clasped her
hands together.
"My God, I thank thee, we are saved!" broke from her parched lips, and
she sunk senseless at Mr. Hamilton's feet.
Emissaries of wickedness were not wanting to convey the intelligence
very quickly to Dupont's ear, that Mrs. and Miss Greville had departed
from the Rue Royale, under the protection of an English gentleman, who
had stationed two of his servants at their house to protect Mr.
Greville's body from insult, and give him information of all that took
place during his absence. Furiously enraged, Dupont hastened to know the
truth of these reports, and a scene of fierce altercation took place
between him and Mr. Hamilton. The calm, steady firmness of his
unexpected opponent daunted Dupont as much as his cool sarcastic
bitterness galled him to the quick. The character of the man was known;
he was convinced he dared not bring down shame on the memory of
Greville, without inculpating himself, without irretrievably injuring
his own character, and however he might use that threat as his weapon to
compel Mary's submission, Mr. Hamilton was perfectly easy on that head.
Dupont's cowardly nature very soon evinced itself. A few words from Mr.
Hamilton convinced him that his true character had been penetrated, and
dreading exposure, he changed his ground and his tone, acknowledged he
had been too violent, but that his admiration for Miss Greville had been
the sole cause; expressed deep sorrow for Mr. Greville's melancholy end,
disavowed all intention of preventing the interment of the body, and
finally consented to liquidate all debts, save those which the sale of
the house and furniture might suffice to discharge.
Scarcely could Mr. Hamilton command his indignation during this
interview, or listen to Dupont's professions, excuses, defences, and
concessions, without losing temper. He would not consent to be under any
obligation: if M. Dupont could _prove_ that more was owing than that
which he had consented to receive, it should be paid directly, but he
should institute inquiries as to the legality of his claims, and
carefully examine all the papers of the deceased.
"It was not at all necessary," Dupont replied. "The sum he demanded was
due for debts of honour, which he had a slip of paper in Greville's own
handwriting to prove."
Mr. Hamilton made no further reply, and they parted with nothing decided
on either side, Dupont only repeating his extreme distress at having
caused Miss Greville so much unnecessary pain; that had he known she was
engaged to another, he would never have persisted in his suit, and
deeply regretted he had been so deceived.
Mr. Hamilton heard him with an unchanging countenance, and gravely and
formally bowed him out of the house. He then placed his seal on the lock
of a small cabinet, which Mrs. Greville's one faithful English servant
informed him contained all his master's private papers, dismissed the
French domestics, and charging the Englishmen to be careful in their
watch that no strangers should be admitted, he hastened to impart to his
anxiously-expecting sons all the important business he had transacted.
Early the following morning Mr. Hamilton received intelligence which
very much annoyed and startled him. Notwithstanding the vigilant watch
of the three Englishmen stationed at Mr. Greville's house, the cabinet,
which contained all his private papers, was gone. The men declared
again and again, no one could have entered the house without their
knowledge, or removed such a thing as that without some noise. Mr.
Hamilton went instantly with them to the house; how it had been taken he
could not discover, but it was so small that Mr. Hamilton felt it could
easily have been removed; and he had no doubt that Dupont had bribed one
of the dismissed servants, who was well acquainted with every secret of
the house, to purloin it for him, and Dupont he instantly determined on
charging with the atrocious theft. Dupont, however, had decamped, he was
nowhere to be found; but he had desired an agent to receive from Mr.
Hamilton's hands the payment of the debts he still claimed, and from
this man it was endeavoured by many questions to discover some traces of
his employer, but all in vain. M. Dupont had left Paris, he said, the
previous evening.
Mr. Hamilton was not satisfied, and, consequently, seeking an able
solicitor, put the affair into his hands, and desired that he would use
every means in his power to obtain the restoration of the papers. That
Dupont had it in his power farther to injure the widow and child of the
deceased he did not believe; he rather thought that his extreme desire
to obtain them proceeded from a consciousness that they betrayed some of
his own evil deeds, yet he could not feel easy till they were either
regained, or he knew that they were destroyed. Mrs. Greville earnestly
wished their recovery, for she feared they might, through the similarity
of names, bring some evil on her son, towards whom her fond heart yet
painfully yearned, though years had passed since she had seen, and many
weary months since she had heard of him. Her fears on this head
rendered both Mr. Hamilton and Percy still more active in their
proceedings, and both determined on remaining at Paris even after
Herbert and Mrs. Greville, with Mary, had left for England.
And what did Herbert feel as he looked on the fearful change in her he
loved? Not yet did he think that she must die; that beaming eye, that
radiant cheek, that soft, sweet smile--oh, could such things tell of
death to him who loved? He held her to his heart, and only knew that he
was blessed.
And Mary, she was happy; the past seemed as a dim and troubled vision;
the smile of him she loved was ever near her, his low sweet voice was
sounding in her ear. A calm had stolen over her, a holy soothing calm.
She did not speak her thoughts to Herbert, for she saw that he still
hoped on; they were together, and the present was enough. But silently
she prayed that his mind might be so prepared, so chastened, that when
his eyes were opened, the truth might not be so terrible to bear.