There was joy in the superb hotel at Frankfort-sur-Maine which served as
the temporary residence of Lord St. Eval's family, domestic joy, for the
danger which had threatened the young Countess in her confinement had
passed away, and she and her beautiful babe were doing as well as the
fond heart of a father and husband could desire. They had been at
Frankfort for the last two months, at which place, however, Percy
Hamilton had not been stationary, taking advantage of this pause in St.
Eval's intended plans, by seeing as much of Germany as he could during
that time; and short as it was, his energetic mind had derived more
improvement and pleasure in the places he had visited, than many who had
lingered over the same space of ground more than double the time.
Intelligence that Caroline was not quite so well as her friends wished,
aided perhaps by his secret desire to see again her gentle companion,
Percy determined for a short time to return to Frankfort, till his
sister's health was perfectly restored, and they might be again enabled
to travel together. His almost unexpected arrival added to the happiness
of the young Earl's domestic circle, and there was somewhat in his arch
yet expressive glance, as he received his baby niece from the arms of
Miss Manvers, and imprinted a light kiss on the infant's sleeping
features, that dyed her cheek with blushes, and bade her heart beat
quick with an indefinable sense of pleasure.
The sisterly friendship of Louisa Manvers had been a source of real
gratification to both the Earl St. Eval and his Countess during their
travels, more particularly now, when the health of the latter required
such kindly tending. Mrs. Hamilton had deeply regretted the
impossibility of her being with her child at such a time; the letter
Lord St. Eval had despatched was, however, calculated to disperse all
her anxiety, the danger appearing after the letter had gone, and not
lasting sufficiently long to justify his writing again. They were
sitting round the breakfast-table the morning after Percy's return,
lengthening the usual time of the meal by lively and intelligent
conversation; Miss Manvers was presiding at the table, and Percy did not
feel the least inclined to move, declaring he would wait for his English
despatches, if there were any, before he went out. The post happened to
be rather late that morning, a circumstance, wonderful to say, which did
not occasion Percy annoyance. It came in, however, at length, bringing
several papers for Lord St. Eval and his wife, from the Malvern family,
but only two from Oakwood, one, in the handwriting of Ellen, to Percy,
and one for Robert Langford, evidently from Mr Hamilton.
"This is most extraordinary," Percy said, much surprised. "My mother
not written to Caroline, and none from Herbert to me; his duties are
increased, I know, but surely he could find time to write to me."
"Mrs. Hamilton has written to Caroline since her confinement, and so did
all her family four or five days ago," said Lord St. Eval, but his words
fell unheeded on the ear of Percy, who had hastily torn open his
cousin's letter, and glanced his eye over its contents. Engaged in his
own letters, the Earl did not observe the agitation of his friend, but
Miss Manvers saw his hand tremble so violently, that he could scarcely
hold the paper.
"Merciful heaven! Mr. Hamilton--Percy, what is the matter?" she
exclaimed, suddenly losing all her wonted reserve, as she remarked his
strange emotion, and her words, connected with the low groan that burst
from Percy's heart, effectually roused the Earl's attention.
"Hamilton, speak; are there ill news from Oakwood? In mercy, speak!" he
said, almost as much agitated as his friend.
"Herbert," was all Percy could articulate, "Herbert, my brother; oh God,
he is dying, and I am not near him. Read, St. Eval, for pity; I cannot
see the words. Is there yet time--can I reach England in time? or is
this only a preparation to tell me he is--is dead?"
"He lives, Percy; there may be yet time, if you set off at once,"
exclaimed the Earl, who saw the necessity of rousing his friend to
exertion, for the sudden blow had bewildered his every faculty. He
started up wildly, and was darting from the room, when he suddenly
paused--
"Keep it from Caroline--tell her not now, it will kill her," he cried.
"May God in heaven bless you for those tears!" he continued, springing
towards Louisa, and clasping her hands convulsively in his, as the sight
of her unfeigned emotion caused the hot tears slowly to trickle down his
own cheek, and his lip quivered, till he could scarcely speak the words
of parting. "Oh, think of me; I go to the dying bed of him, whom I had
hoped would one day have been to you a brother--would have joined--" He
paused in overwhelming emotion, took the hand of the trembling girl,
raised it to his lips, and darted from the apartment.
St. Eval hastily followed him, for he saw Percy was in no state to think
of anything himself, and the letter Robert had received, telling him of
the death of his mother, rendered him almost as incapable of exertion as
his master; but as soon as he heard the cause of Percy's very visible
but at first incomprehensible agitation, his own deep affliction was at
once subdued; he was ready and active in Percy's service. That Mr.
Hamilton should thus have written to him, to alleviate the blow of a
parent's death, to comfort him when his own son lay on a dying bed,
penetrated at once the heart of the young man, and urged him to
exertion.
Day and night Percy travelled; but we must outstrip even his rapid
course, and conduct our readers to Oakwood, the evening of the second
day after Percy's arrival at Ostend.
Herbert Hamilton lay on his couch, the cold hand of Death upon his brow;
but instead of robing his features with a ghastly hue, it had spread
over them even more than usual beauty. Reduced he was to a mere shadow,
but his prayers in his days of health and life had been heard; the
delirium of fever had passed, and he met death unshrinkingly, his mind
retaining even more than its wonted powers. It was the Sabbath evening,
and all around him was still and calm. For the first two days after the
delirium had departed, his mind had still been darkened, restless, and
uneasy. Perseveringly as he had laboured in his calling, he had felt in
those darker days the utter nothingness of his own works, how wholly
insufficient they had been to secure his salvation; and the love of his
God, the infinite atonement in which he so steadily believed, shone not
with sufficient brightness to remove this painful darkness. Death was
very near, and it no longer seemed the angel of light he had ever
regarded it; but on the Saturday the mist was mercifully dispelled from
his mind, the clouds dispersed, and faith shone forth with a brilliancy,
a lustre overpowering; it told of heaven with an eloquence that banished
every other thought, and Herbert's bodily sufferings were felt no
longer; the confines of heaven were gained--but a brief space, one
mortal struggle, and he would meet his Mary at the footstool of his God.
With solemn impressiveness, yet affecting tenderness, Archdeacon Howard
had administered the sacrament to him, whom he regarded at once as
pupil, friend, and brother; and the whole family of the dying youth, at
his own particular request, had shared it with him. Exhausted by the
earnestness in which he had joined in the solemn service, Herbert now
lay with one hand clasped in his mother's, who sat by his side, her head
bent over his, and her whole countenance, save when the gaze of her son
was turned towards her, expressive of tearless, heart-rending sorrow,
struggling for resignation to the will of Him, who called her Herbert
to Himself. Emmeline was kneeling by her mother's side. Mr. Hamilton
leaned against the wall, pale and still; it was only the agonized
expression of his manly features that betrayed he was a living being. On
the left side of the dying youth stood Arthur Myrvin, who, from the
moment of his arrival at Oakwood, had never once left Herbert's couch,
night and day he remained beside him; and near Arthur, but yet closer to
her cousin, knelt the orphan, her eyes tearless indeed, but her whole
countenance so haggard and wan, that had not all been engrossed in
individual suffering, it could not have passed unobserved. The tall,
venerable figure of the Archdeacon, as he stood a little aloof from the
principal figures, completed the painful group.
"My own mother, your Herbert is so happy, so very happy! you must not
weep for me, mother. Oh, it is your fostering love and care, the
remembrance of all your tenderness from my infancy, gilding my boyhood
with sunshine, my manhood with such refreshing rays--it is that which is
resting on my heart, and I would give it words and thank and bless you,
but I cannot. And my father, too, my beloved, my revered father--oh, but
little have I done to repay your tender care, my brother and sisters'
love, but my Father in heaven will bless--bless you all; I know, I feel
He will."
"Percy," repeated the dying youth, a gleam of light kindling in his eye
and flushing his cheek. "Is there indeed a hope that I may see him, that
I may trace those beloved features once again?"
He closed his eyes, and his lips moved in silent yet fervent prayer,
that wish was still powerful within; it was the only thought of earth
that lingered.
"Tell him," he said, and his voice sounded weaker and weaker, "tell him,
Herbert's last prayer was for him, that he was in my last thoughts; tell
him to seek for comfort at the foot of that Throne where we have so
often knelt together. Oh, let him not sorrow, for I shall be happy--oh,
so happy!"
Again he was silent, and for a much longer interval; but when he
reopened his eyes, they were fixed on Ellen.
"My sister, my kind and tender nurse, what shall I say to you?" he said,
languidly, but in a tone that thrilled to her aching heart. "I can but
commend you to His care, who can take from grief its sting, even as He
hath clothed this moment in victory. May His spirit rest upon you,
Ellen, and give you peace. May He bless you, not only for your
affectionate kindness towards me, but to her who went before me. You
will not forget, Ellen." His glance wandered from his cousin to his
mother, and then returned to her. She bowed her head upon his extended
hand, but her choking voice could speak no word. "Caroline, too, she
will weep for me, but St. Eval will dry her tears; tell them I did not
forget them; that my love and blessing is theirs even as if they had
been around me. Emmeline, Arthur,--Mr. Howard, oh, where are you? my
eyes are dim, my voice is failing, yet"--
"I am here, my beloved son," said the Archdeacon, and Herbert fixed a
kind glance upon his face, and leaned his head against him.
"I would tell you, that it is the sense of the Divine presence, of love,
unutterable, infinite, inexhaustible, that has taken all anguish from
this moment. My spirit rises triumphant, secure of eternal salvation,
triumphing in the love of Him who died for me. Oh, Death, well may I
say, where is thy sting? oh, grave, where is thy victory? they are
passed; heaven is opening. Oh, bliss unutterable, undying!" He sunk back
utterly exhausted, but the expression of his countenance still evinced
the internal triumph of his soul.
A faint sound, as of the distant trampling of horses, suddenly came upon
the ear. Nearer, nearer still, and a flush of excitement rose to
Herbert's cheek. "Percy--can it be? My God, I thank thee for this
mercy!"
Arthur darted from the room, as the sound appeared rapidly approaching;
evidently it was a horse urged to its utmost speed, and it could be none
other save Percy. Arthur flew across the hall, and through the entrance,
which had been flung widely open, as the figure of the young heir of
Oakwood had been recognised by the streaming eyes of the faithful
Morris, who stood by his young master's stirrup, but without uttering a
word. Percy's tongue clove to the roof of his mouth; his eyes were
bloodshot and haggard. He had no power to ask a question, and it was
only the appearance of Myrvin, his entreaty that he would be calm ere
Herbert saw him, that roused him to exertion. His brother yet lived; it
was enough, and in another minute he stood on the threshold of Herbert's
room. With an overpowering effort the dying youth raised himself on his
couch, and extended his arms towards him.
"Percy, my own Percy, this is kind," he said, and his voice suddenly
regained its wonted power. Percy sprung towards him, and the brothers
were clasped in each other's arms. No word did Percy speak, but his
choking sobs were heard; there was no movement in the drooping form of
his brother to say that he had heard the sound; he did not raise his
head from Percy's shoulder, or seek to speak of comfort.
"Speak to me, oh, once again, but once more, Herbert!" exclaimed Percy.
Fearful agony was in his voice, but, oh, it could not rouse the _dead_:
Herbert Hamilton had departed. His last wish on earth was fulfilled. It
was but the lifeless form of his beloved brother that Percy held in the
stern grasp of despairing woe. It was long ere the truth was known, and
when it was, there was no sound of wailing heard within the chamber, no
cry of sorrow broke the solemn stillness. For him they could not weep,
and for themselves, oh, it was a grief too deep for tears.
* * * * *
We will not linger on the first few weeks that passed over the inmates
of Oakwood after the death of one we have followed so long, and beheld
so fondly and deservedly beloved. Silent and profound was that sorrow,
but it was the sorrow of those who, in all things, both great and small,
beheld the hand of a God of love. Could the faith, the truth, which from
her girlhood's years had distinguished Mrs. Hamilton, desert her now?
Would her husband permit her to look to him for support and consolation
under this deep affliction, and yet not find it? No; they looked up to
their God; they rejoiced that so peaceful, so blessed had been the death
of their beloved one. His last words to them came again and again on the
heart of each parent as soothing balm, of which nor time nor
circumstance could deprive them. For the sake of each other, they
exerted themselves, an example followed by their children; but each felt
years must pass ere the loss they had sustained would lose its pang, ere
they could cease to miss the being they had so dearly loved, who had
been such a brilliant light in their domestic circle--brilliant, yet how
gentle; not one that was ever sparkling, ever changing, but of a soft
and steady lustre. On earth that light had set, but in heaven it was
dawning never to set again.
For some few weeks the family remained all together, as far at least as
Arthur's ministerial duties permitted. Mr. Hamilton wished much to see
that living, now vacant by the death of his son, transferred to Myrvin,
and he exerted himself towards effecting an exchange. Ere, however,
Percy could return to the Continent, or Emmeline return to her husband's
home, the sudden and alarming illness of Mrs. Hamilton detained them
both at Oakwood. The fever which had been raging in the village, and
which had hastened the death of Herbert, had also entered the household
of Mrs. Hamilton. Resolved that no affliction of her own should
interfere with those duties of benevolence, to exercise which was her
constant practice, Mrs. Hamilton had compelled herself to exertion
beyond the strength of a frame already wearied and exhausted by
long-continued but forcibly-suppressed anxiety, and three weeks after
the death of her son she too was stretched on a bed of suffering, which,
for the first few days during the violence of the fever, her afflicted
family believed might also be of death. In this trying time, it was to
Ellen that not only her cousin but even her uncle turned, by her example
to obtain more control and strength. No persuasions could induce her to
leave the side of her aunt's couch, or resign to another the painful yet
soothing task of nursing. Young and inexperienced she was, but her
strong affection for her aunt, heightened by some other feeling which
was hidden in her own breast, endowed her at once with strength to
endure continued fatigue, with an experience that often made Mr.
Maitland contemplate her with astonishment. From the period of Herbert's
death, Ellen had placed her feelings under a restraint that utterly
prevented all relief in tears. She was never seen to weep; every feature
had indeed spoken the deep affliction that was hers, but it never
interfered with the devoted care she manifested towards her aunt.
Silently yet perseveringly she laboured to soften the intense suffering
in the mother's heart; it was on her neck Mrs. Hamilton had first wept
freely and relievingly, and as she clasped the orphan to her bosom, had
lifted up her heart in thanksgiving that such a precious gift was yet
preserved her, how little did even she imagine all that was passing in
Ellen's heart; that Herbert to her young fancy had been how much dearer
than a brother; that she mourned not only a cousin's loss, but one round
whom her first affections had been twined with an intensity that death
alone could sever. How little could she guess the continued struggle
pressing on that young mind, the anguish of her solitary moments, ere
she could by prayer so calm her bursting heart as to appear the composed
and tranquil being she ever seemed before the family. Mrs. Hamilton
could only feel that the comfort her niece bestowed in this hour of
affliction, her controlled yet sympathising conduct, repaid her for all
the care and sorrow Ellen once had caused. Never had she regretted she
had taken the orphans to her heart and cherished them as her own; but
now it was she felt the Lord had indeed returned the blessing tenfold in
her own bosom; and still more did she feel this in the long and painful
convalescence that followed her brief but severe attack of fever, when
Ellen was the only one of her children remaining near her.
Completely worn out by previous anxiety, the subsequent affliction, and,
finally, her mother's dangerous illness, Emmeline's health appeared so
shattered, that as soon as the actual danger was passed, Myrvin insisted
on her going with him, for change of air and scene, to Llangwillan, a
proposal that both her father and Mr. Maitland seconded; trembling for
the precious girl so lately made his own, Arthur resisted her entreaties
to remain a little longer at Oakwood, and conveyed her at once to his
father's vicarage, where time and improved tidings of her mother
restored at length the bloom to her cheek and the smile to her lip.
It was strange to observe the difference of character which opposite
circumstances and opposite treatment in their infant years had made in
these two cousins. Emmeline and Ellen, had they been brought up from
babes together, and the same discipline extended to each, would, in all
probability, have in after years displayed precisely the same
disposition; but though weak indulgence had never been extended to
Emmeline, prosperity unalloyed, save in the affair with Arthur Myrvin,
had been her portion. Affection and caresses had been ever lavished
almost unconsciously upon her, but instead of cherishing faults, such
treatment had formed her happiness, and had encouraged and led her on
in the paths of virtue. Every thought and feeling were expressed without
disguise; she had been so accustomed to think aloud to her mother from
childhood, so accustomed to give vent to her little vexations in words,
her sorrows in tears, which were quickly dried, that as years increased,
she found it a very difficult task either to restrain her sentiments or
control her feelings. Her mind could not be called weak, for in her
affection for Arthur Myrvin, as we have seen, when there was a
peremptory call for exertion or self-control, it was ever heard and
attended to. Her health indeed suffered, but that very fact proved the
mind was stronger than the frame; though when she marked Ellen's
superior composure and coolness, Emmeline would sometimes bitterly
reproach herself. From her birth, Ellen had been initiated in sorrow,
her infant years had been one scene of trial. Never caressed by her
mother or those around her, save when her poor father was near, she had
learned to bury every affectionate yearning deep within her own little
heart, every childish sentiment was carefully concealed, and her
father's death, the horrors of that night, appeared to have placed the
seal on her character, infant as she was. She was scarcely ten when she
became an inmate of her aunt's family, but then it was too late for her
character to become as Emmeline's. The impression had been made on the
yielding wax, and now it could not be effaced. Many circumstances
contributed to strengthen this impression, as in the first portion of
this history we have seen. Adversity had made Ellen as she was, and
self-control had become her second nature, long before she knew the
meaning of the word.
The intelligence of Herbert's death, though deferred till St. Eval
thought his wife enabled to bear it with some composure, had, however,
so completely thrown her back, that she was quite unequal to travel to
England, as her wishes had instantly dictated, and her husband was
compelled to keep up a constant system of deception with regard to her
mother's illness, lest she should insist, weak as she was, on
immediately flying to her aid. As soon as sufficient strength returned
for Mrs. Hamilton to express her wishes, she entreated Percy to rejoin
his sister, that all alarm on her account might subside. The thought of
her child was still uppermost in the mother's mind, though her excessive
debility compelled her to lie motionless for hours on her couch,
scarcely sensible of anything passing around her, or that her husband
and Ellen hardly for one moment left her side. The plan succeeded,
Caroline recovered soon after Percy's arrival; and at the earnest
message Percy bore her from her mother, that she would not think of
returning to England till her health was quite restored, she consented
leisurely to take the celebrated excursion down the Rhine, ere she
returned home.
It would have seemed as though no other grief could be the portion of
Ellen, but another sorrow was impending over her, which, while it
lasted, was a source of distress inferior only to Herbert's death.
Entering the library one morning, she was rather surprised to find not
only Mr. Maitland but Archdeacon Howard with her uncle.
The former was now too constantly a visitor at the Hall to occasion
individually much surprise, but it was the expression on the
countenances of each that created alarm. Mr. Hamilton appeared
struggling with some strong and painful emotion, and had started as
Ellen entered the room, while he looked imploringly towards the
Archdeacon, as if seeking his counsel and assistance.
"Can we indeed trust her?" Mr. Maitland said, doubtingly, and in a low
voice, as he looked sadly upon Ellen. "Can we he sure these melancholy
tidings will be for the present inviolably kept from Mrs. Hamilton, for
suspense such as this, in her present state of health, might produce
consequences on which I tremble to think?"
"You may depend upon me, Mr. Maitland," Ellen said, firmly, as she came
forward. "What new affliction can have happened of which you so dread my
aunt being informed? Oh, do not deceive me. I have heard enough to make
fancy perhaps more dreadful than reality, Mr. Howard. My dear uncle,
will you not trust me?"
"My poor Ellen," her uncle said, in a faltering voice, "you have indeed
borne sorrow well; but this will demand even a greater share of
fortitude. All is not yet known, there may be hope, but I dare not
encourage it. Tell her, Howard," he added, hastily, shrinking from her
sorrowful glance, "I cannot."
"Is it of Edward you would tell me? Oh, what of him?" she exclaimed.
"Oh, tell me at once, Mr. Howard, indeed, indeed, I can bear it."
With the tenderness of a father, Mr. Howard gently and soothingly told
her that letters had that morning arrived from Edward's captain,
informing them that the young lieutenant had been despatched with a
boat's crew, on a message to a ship stationed about twelve miles
southward, towards the Cape of Good Hope; a storm had arisen as the
night darkened, but still Captain Seaforth had felt no uneasiness,
imagining his young officer had deemed it better remaining on board the
Stranger all night, though somewhat contrary to his usual habits of
promptness and activity. As the day, however, waned to noon, and still
Lieutenant Fortescue did not appear, the captain despatched another boat
to know why he tarried. The sea was still raging in fury from the last
night's storm, but the foaming billows had never before detained Edward
from his duty. With increasing anxiety, Captain Seaforth paced the deck
for several hours, until indeed the last boat he had sent returned. He
scanned the crew with an eye that never failed him, and saw with dismay,
that neither his lieutenant nor one of his men were amongst them.
Horror-stricken and distressed, the sailors related that, despite every
persuasion of the captain of the Stranger, Lieutenant Fortescue had
resolved on returning to the Gem the moment his message had been
delivered and the answer given; his men had seconded him, though many
signs denoted that as the evening advanced, so too would the impending
storm. Twilight was darkening around him when, urged on by a mistaken
sense of duty, the intrepid young man descended into the boat, and not
half an hour afterwards the storm came on with terrific violence, and
the pitchy darkness had entirely frustrated every effort of the crew of
the Stranger to trace the boat. Morning dawned, and brought with it some
faint confirmation of the fate which all had dreaded. Some spars on
which the name of the Gem was impressed, and which were easily
recognised as belonging to the long-boat, floated on the foaming waves,
and the men sent out to reconnoitre had discovered the dead body of one
of the unfortunate sailors, who the evening previous had been so full of
life and mirth, clinging to some sea-weed; while a hat bearing the name
of Edward Fortescue, caused the painful suspicion that the young and
gallant officer had shared the same fate. Every inquiry was set afloat,
every exertion made, to discover something more certain concerning him,
but without any effect. Some faint hope there yet existed, that he might
have been picked up by one of the ships which were continually passing
and repassing on that course; and Captain Seaforth concluded his
melancholy narration by entreating Mr. Hamilton not to permit himself to
despair, as hope there yet was, though but faint. Evidently he wrote as
he felt, not merely to calm the minds of Edward's sorrowing friends, but
Mr. Hamilton could not share these sanguine expectations. Mystery had
also enveloped the fate of his brother-in-law, Charles Manvers; long,
very long, had he hoped that he lived, that he would yet return; but
year after year had passed, till four-and-twenty had rolled by, and
still there were no tidings. Well did he remember the heart-sickening
that had attended his hopes deferred, the anguish of suspense which for
many weary months had been the portion of his wife, and he thought it
almost better for Ellen to believe her brother dead, than to live on in
the indulgence of hopes that might have no foundation; yet how could he
tell her he was dead, when there was one gleam of hope, however faint.
Well did he know the devoted affection which the orphans bore to each
other. He gazed on her in deep commiseration, as in unbroken silence she
listened to the tenderly-told tale; and, drawing her once more to his
bosom as Mr. Howard ceased, he fondly and repeatedly kissed her brow,
as he entreated her not to despair; Edward might yet be saved. No word
came from Ellen's parched lips, but he felt the cold shudder of
suffering pass through her frame. Several minutes passed, and still she
raised not her head. Impressively the venerable clergyman addressed her
in tones and words that never failed to find their way to the orphan's
heart. He spoke of a love and mercy that sent these continued trials to
mark her as more peculiarly His own. He told of comfort, that even in
such a moment she could feel. He bade her cease not to pray for her
brother's safety; that nothing was too great for the power or the mercy
of the Lord; that however it might appear impossible to worldly minds
that he could be saved, yet if the Almighty's hand had been stretched
forth, a hundred storms might have passed him by unhurt; yet he bade her
not entertain too sanguine hopes. "Place our beloved Edward and yourself
in the hands of our Father in heaven, my child; implore Him for strength
to meet His will, whatever it may be, and if, indeed, He hath taken him
in mercy to a happier world, He will give you strength and grace to meet
His ordinance of love; but if hope still lingers, check it not--he may
be spared. Be comforted, then, my child, and for the sake of the beloved
relative yet spared you, try and compose your agitated spirits. We may
trust to your care in retaining this fresh grief from her, I know we
may."
"You are right. Mr. Howard; oh, may God bless you for your kindness!"
said the almost heart-broken girl, as she raised her head and placed her
trembling hands in his. Her cheeks were colourless as marble, but the
long dark fringes that rested on them were unwetted by tears; she had
forcibly sent them back. Her heart throbbed almost to suffocation, but
she would not listen to its anguish. The form of Herbert seemed to flit
before her and remind her of her promise, that her every care, her every
energy should be devoted to his mother; and that remembrance,
strengthened as it was by Mr. Howard's words, nerved her to the painful
duty which was now hers to perform. "You may indeed trust me. My Father
in heaven will support me, and give me strength to conceal this
intelligence effectually, till my beloved aunt is enabled to hear it
with composure. Do not fear me, Mr. Maitland; it is not in my own
strength I trust, for that I feel too painfully at this moment is less
than nothing. My dearest uncle, will you not trust your Ellen?"
She turned towards him as she spoke, and Mr. Hamilton felt the tears
glisten in his eyes as he met the upturned glance of the afflicted
orphan--now indeed, as it seemed, so utterly alone.
"Yes I do and ever will trust you, my beloved Ellen," he said, with
emotion. "May God grant you His blessing in this most painful duty. To
Him I commend you, my child; I would speak of comfort and hope, but He
alone can give them."
"And He _will_," replied Ellen, in a low, steady voice; and gently
withdrawing her hand from Mr. Howard's, she softly but quickly left the
library. But half an hour elapsed, and Ellen was once more seated by her
aunt's couch. The struggle of that half hour we will not follow; it was
too sacred, too painful to be divulged, and many, many solitary hours
were thus spent in suffering, known only to herself and to her God.
"You have been long away from me, my Ellen, or else my selfish wish to
have you again near me has made me think so," Mrs. Hamilton said that
eventful morning.
"Have you then missed me, my dear aunt? I am glad of it, for comfort as
it is to be allowed to remain always with yon, it is even greater
pleasure to think you like to have me near you," replied Ellen.
"Can I do otherwise, my own Ellen? Where can I find a nurse so tender,
affectionate, and attentive as you are? Who would know so well how to
cheer and soothe me as the child whose smallest action proves how much
she loves me?"
Tears glistened in the eyes of Ellen as her aunt spoke, for if she had
wanted fresh incentive for exertion, those simple words would have given
it. Oh, how much encouragement may be given in one sentence from those
we love; how is every effort to please lightened by the consciousness it
is appreciated; how is every duty sweetened when we feel we are beloved.
Mrs. Hamilton knew not how that expression of her feelings had fallen on
the torn heart of her niece; she guessed not one-half Ellen endured in
secret for her sake, but she felt, and showed she felt, the full value
of the unremitting affectionate attentions she received.
Days, weeks passed by; at length, Mrs. Hamilton's extreme debility began
to give place to the more restless weariness of convalescence. It was
comparatively an easy task to sit in continued silence by the couch,
actively yet quietly to anticipate her faintest wish, and attend to all
the duties of nurse, which demanded no exertion in the way of talking,
and other efforts at amusement; there were then very many hours that
Ellen's saddened thoughts could dwell on the painful past.
She struggled to behold heaven's mercy in affliction, and rapidly, more
rapidly than she was herself aware of, was this young and gentle girl
progressing in the paths of grace. Had Herbert and Mary both lived and
been united, Ellen would, in all probability, have at length so
conquered her feelings, as to have been happy in the marriage state, and
though she could not have bestowed the first freshness of young
affection, she would ever have so felt and acted as to be in very truth,
as Lord St. Eval had said, a treasure to any man who had the felicity to
call her his. Had her cousin indeed married, Ellen might have felt it
incumbent on her as an actual duty so to conquer herself; but now that
he was dead she felt it no sin to love, in devoting herself to his
parents in their advancing age, partly for his sake, in associating him
with all she did for them, and for all whom he loved; there was no sin
now in all this, but she felt it would be a crime to give her hand to
another, when her whole heart was thus devoted to the dead. There was
something peculiarly soothing to the grateful and affectionate feelings
with which she regarded her aunt and uncle; that she perhaps would be
the only one of all those who had--
"Played
Beneath the same green tree,
Whose voices mingled as they prayed
Around one parent knee"--
would remain with nothing to divert her attention from the pleasing task
of soothing and cheering their advancing years, and her every effort was
now turned towards making her _single_ life, indeed, one of
_blessedness_, by works of good and thoughts of love towards all with
whom she might associate; but in these visions her brother had ever
intimately mingled. She had pictured herself beholding and rejoicing in
his happiness, loving his children as her own, being to them a second
mother. She had fancied herself ever received with joy, a welcome inmate
of her Edward's home, and so strongly had her imagination become
impressed with this idea, that its annihilation appeared to heighten the
anguish with which the news of his untimely fate had overwhelmed her. He
was gone; and it seemed as if she had never, never felt so utterly
desolate before; as if advancing years had entirely lost the soft and
gentle colouring with which they had so lately been invested. It seemed
but a very short interval since she had seen him, the lovely, playful
child, his mother's pet, the admiration of all who looked on him; then
he stood before her, the handsome, manly boy she had parted with, when
he first left the sheltering roof of Oakwood, to become a sailor. Then,
shuddering, she recalled him when they had met again, after a lapse of
suffering in the young life of each; and her too sensitive fancy
conjured up the thought that her fault had not yet been sufficiently
chastised, that he was taken from her because she had loved him too
well; because her deep intense affection for him had caused her once to
forget the mandate of her God. In the deep agony of that thought, it
seemed as if she lived over again those months of suffering, which in a
former pages we have endeavoured to describe.
Humbled to the dust, she recognised the chastising hand of her Maker,
and as if it had only now been committed, she acknowledged and repented
the transgression a moment's powerful temptation had forced her to
commit. Had there been one to whom she could have confessed these
feelings, whose soothing friendship would have whispered it was needless
and uncalled-for to enhance the suffering of Edward's fate by such
self-reproach, Ellen's young heart would have been relieved; but from
that beloved relative who might have consoled and alleviated her grief,
this bitter trial she must still conceal. Mr. Hamilton dared not
encourage the hope which he had never felt but his bosom swelled with
love and almost veneration for the gentle being, to whose care Mr.
Maitland had assured him the recovery of his beloved wife was, under
Providence, greatly owing. He longed to speak of comfort; but, alas!
what could he say? he would have praised, encouraged, but there was that
about his niece that utterly forbade it; for it silently yet
impressively told whence that sustaining strength arose.
It was when Mrs. Hamilton was beginning to recover, that still more
active exertions on the part of Ellen were demanded. Every effort was
now made to prevent her relapsing into that despondency which
convalescence so often engenders, however we may strive to resist it.
She was ready at a minute's notice to comply with and often to
anticipate her aunt's most faintly-hinted wishes; she would read to her,
sing her favourite airs, or by a thousand little winning arts
unconsciously entice the interest of her aunt to her various pursuits,
as had been her wont in former days. There was no appearance of effort
on her part, and Mrs. Hamilton insensibly, at first, but surely felt
that with her strength her habitual cheerfulness was returning, and
fervently she blessed her God for this abundant mercy. No exertion on
her side was wanting to become to her husband and household as she had
been before the death of her beloved son; she felt the beauteous flower
was transplanted above; the hand of the reaper had laid it low, though
the eye of faith beheld it in perfect undying loveliness, and though the
mother's heart yet sorrowed, 'twas a sorrow now in which no pain was
mingled.
One evening they had been speaking, among other subjects, of Lilla
Grahame, whose letters, Mrs. Hamilton had observed, were not written in
her usual style. Too well did Ellen guess the reason; once only the poor
girl had alluded to Edward's supposed fate, but that once had more than
sufficiently betrayed to Ellen's quickly-excited sympathy the true
nature of her feelings towards him. As Lilla had not, however, written
in perfect confidence, but still as if she feared to write too much on
emotions she scarcely understood herself, Ellen had not answered her as
she would otherwise have done. That her sympathy was Lilla's was very
clearly evident, but as the secrecy preserved towards Mrs. Hamilton had
been made known to her by Emmeline, she had not written again on the
subject, but yet Ellen was not deceived; in every letter she received
she could easily penetrate where Lilla's anxious thoughts were
wandering. Of Cecil Grahame there were still no tidings, and, all
circumstances considered, it did not seem strange she should often be
sorrowful and anxious. On dismissing this subject, Mrs. Hamilton had
asked Ellen to sing to her, and selected, as a very old favourite, "The
Graves of the Household." She had always forgotten it, she said, before,
when Ellen wished her to select one she preferred. She was surprised
that Ellen had not reminded her of it, as it had once been an equal
favourite with her. For a moment Ellen hesitated, and then hastened to
the piano. In a low, sweet, yet unfaltering voice, she complied with her
aunt's request; once only her lip quivered, for she could not sing that
verse without the thought of Edward.
"The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one,
He lies where pearls lie deep;
He was the loved of all, yet none
O'er his low bed may weep."
Mr. Hamilton unobserved had entered the room, and now stood with folded
arms and mournful glance, alternately regarding his wife and niece. Mr.
Maitland had that morning told him there was not now the slightest
danger remaining, and he rather advised that Mrs. Hamilton should be
informed of what had passed, lest the painful intelligence should come
upon her when quite unprepared. He had striven for composure, and he now
entered expressly to execute this painful task; he had marked the
suffering imprinted on his niece's face, and he could continue the
deception no longer. On the conclusion of her song, Ellen reseated
herself on the stool she had occupied at her aunt's feet, her heart too
full to speak.
"Why are you so silent, my dear husband?" Mrs. Hamilton said, addressing
him, and who almost started at her address. "May I know the subject of
such very deep thought?"
"Ellen, partly," he replied, and he spoke the truth. "I was thinking how
pale and thin she looks, and how much she has lately had to distress and
cause her anxiety."
"She has, indeed, and therefore the sooner we can leave Oakwood for a
few months, as we intended, the better. I have been a long and
troublesome patient, my Ellen, and all your efforts to restore me to
perfect health will he quite ineffectual unless I see the colour return
to your cheek, and your step resume its elasticity."
"Do not fear for me, my beloved aunt; indeed I am quite well," answered
Ellen, not daring to look up, lest her tears should be discovered.
"You are right, my Emmeline," suddenly exclaimed Mr. Hamilton, rousing
himself with a strong effort, and advancing to the couch where his wife
sat, he threw his arms around her. "You do not yet know all that our
Ellen has in secret borne for your sake. You do not yet know the deep
affliction which is the real cause of that alteration in her health,
which only now you are beginning to discover. Oh, my beloved wife, I
have feared to tell you, but now that strength is returning, I may
hesitate no longer; for her sake you will bear these cruel tidings even
as she has done. Will you not comfort her? Will you--" The sudden
opening of the door arrested the words upon his lips. Touched by
indefinable alarm, Mrs. Hamilton's hand grasped his without the power of
speech. Ellen had risen, for she felt she could not hear those sad words
again spoken.
It was James the footman who entered, and he placed a letter in her
hand. She looked at the direction, a faint cry broke from her lips; she
tore it open, gazed on the signature, and sunk senseless on the floor.
She who had borne suffering so well, who had successfully struggled to
conceal every trace of emotion, when affliction was her allotted
portion, was now too weak to bear the sudden transition from such
bitter grief to overwhelming joy. Mr. Hamilton sprung forward; he could
not arrest her fall, but his eye had caught the well-known writing of
him he had believed lay buried in the ocean, and conquering her own
extreme agitation, Mrs. Hamilton compelled herself to think of nothing
but restoring the still senseless girl to life. A few, very few words
told her all. At first Mr. Hamilton's words had been almost inarticulate
from the thankfulness that filled his heart. It was long ere Ellen awoke
to consciousness. Her slight frame was utterly exhausted by its
continued conflict with the mind within, and now that joy had come, that
there was no more need for control or sorrow, her extraordinary energy
of character for the moment fled, and left her in very truth the weak
and loving woman. Before she could restore life to Ellen's inanimate
form, Mrs. Hamilton had time to hear that simple tale of silent
suffering, to feel her bosom glow in increasing love and gratitude
towards the gentle being who for her sake had endured so much.
"Was it but a dream, or did I not read that Edward lived, was
spared,--that he was not drowned? Oh, tell me, my brain seems still to
swim. Did they not give me a letter signed by him himself? Oh, was it
only fancy?"
"It is truth, my beloved; the Almighty mercifully stretched forth His
arm and saved him. Should we not give Him thanks, my child?"
Like dew upon the arid desert, or healing balm to a throbbing wound, so
did those few and simple words fall on Ellen's ear; but the fervent
thanksgiving that rose swelling in her heart, wanted not words to render
it acceptable to Him, whose unbounded mercy she thus acknowledged and
adored.
Mrs. Hamilton pressed her closer to her bosom, again and again she
kissed her, and tried to speak the words of affectionate soothing, which
seldom failed to restore Ellen to composure.
"You told me once, my Ellen, that you never, never could repay the large
debt of gratitude you seemed to think you owed me. Do you remember my
saying you could not tell that one day you might make me your debtor,
and are not my words truth? Did I not prophesy rightly? What do I not
owe you, my own love, for sparing me so much anxiety and wretchedness?
Look up and smile, my Ellen, and let us try if we can listen composedly
to our dear Edward's account of his providential escape. If he were near
me I would scold him for giving you such inexpressible joy so suddenly."
Ellen did look up and did smile, a bright beaming smile of chastened
happiness, and again and again did she read over that letter, as if it
were tidings too blessed to be believed, as if it could not be Edward
himself who had written. His letter was hasty, nor did he enter into
very many particulars, which, to render a particular part of our tale
intelligible, we must relate at large in another chapter. This epistle
was dated from Rio Janeiro, and written evidently under the idea that
his sister had received a former letter containing every minutiae of his
escape, which he had forwarded to her, under cover to Captain Seaforth,
only seven days after his supposed death. Had the captain received this
letter, all anxiety would have been spared, for as he did not write to
Mr. Hamilton for above a week after Edward's disappearance, it would
have reached him first; it was therefore very clear it had been lost on
its way, and Edward fearing such might be the case, from the uncertain
method by which it had been sent, wrote again. He had quite recovered,
he said, all ill effects from being so long floating in the water on a
narrow plank; that he was treated with marked kindness and attention by
all the crew of the Alma, a Spanish vessel bound to Rio Janeiro and
thence to New York, particularly by an Englishman, Lieutenant Mordaunt,
to whose energetic exertions he said he greatly owed his preservation;
for it was he who had prevailed on the captain to lower a boat, to
discover what that strange object was floating on the waves. He
continued, there was something about Lieutenant Mordaunt he could not
define, but which had the power of irresistibly attracting his respect,
if not affection. His story he believed was uncommon, but he had not yet
heard it all, and had no time to repeat it, as he was writing in great
haste. Affectionately he hoped no alarm amongst his friends had been
entertained on his account, that it would not be long before he returned
home; for as soon as the slow-sailing Spaniard could finish her affairs
with the ports along the coast of Spanish America and reach New York,
Lieutenant Mordaunt and himself had determined on quitting her, and
returning to England by the first packet that sailed. A letter to New
York might reach him, but it was a chance; therefore he did not expect
to receive any certain intelligence of home--a truth which only made him
the more anxious to reach it.
Quickly the news that Edward Fortescue lived, and was returning home in
perfect health, extended far and wide, and brought joy to all who heard
it. A messenger was instantly despatched to Trevilion Vicarage to
impart the joyful intelligence to Arthur and Emmeline, and the next day
saw them both at Oakwood to rejoice with Ellen at this unexpected but
most welcome news. There was not one who had been aware of the suspense
Mr. Hamilton and Ellen had been enduring who did not sympathise in their
relief. Even Mrs. Greville left her solitary home to seek the friends of
her youth: she had done so previously when affliction was their portion.
She had more than once shared Ellen's anxious task of nursing, when Mrs.
Hamilton's fever had been highest; kindly and judiciously she had
soothed in grief, and Mrs. Greville's character was too unselfish to
refuse her sympathy in joy.
A few weeks after the receipt of that letter, Mr. Hamilton, his wife,
and Ellen removed to a beautiful little villa in the neighbourhood of
Richmond, where they intended to pass some of the winter months. A
change was desirable, indeed requisite for all. But a short interval had
passed since the death of their beloved Herbert, and there were many
times when the parents' hearts yet painfully bled, and each felt
retirement, the society of each other, and sometimes of their most
valued friends, the exercise of domestic and religious duties, would be
the most efficient means of acquiring that peace of which even the
greatest affliction cannot deprive the truly religious mind. At
Christmas, St. Eval had promised his family should join them, and all
looked forward to that period with pleasure.