Although we are as much averse to retrospection in a tale as our readers
can be, yet to retrace our steps for a short interval is a necessity.
Edward had written highly of Lieutenant Mordaunt, but as he happens to
be a personage of rather more consequence to him than young Fortescue
imagined, we must be allowed to introduce him more intimately to our
readers.
It was the evening after that in which Lieutenant Fortescue had so
rashly encountered the storm, that a Spanish vessel, of ill-shaped bulk
and of some hundred tons, was slowly pursuing her course from the coast
of Guinea towards Rio Janeiro. The sea was calm, almost motionless,
compared with its previous fearful agitation. The sailors were gaily
employed in their various avocations, declaring loudly that this respite
of calm was entirely owing to the interposition of St. Jago in their
favour, he being the saint to whom they had last appealed during the
continuance of the tempest. Aloof from the crew, and leaning against a
mast, stood one apparently very different to those by whom he was
surrounded. It was an English countenance, but embrowned almost to a
swarthy hue, from continued exposure to a tropical sun. Tall and
remarkably well formed, he might well have been supposed of noble birth;
there were, however, traces of long-continued suffering imprinted on his
manly face and in his form, which sometimes was slightly bent, as if
from weakness rather than from age. His dark brown hair was in many
parts silvered with grey, which made him appear as if he had seen some
fifty years at least; though at times, by the expression of his
countenance, he might have been thought full ten years younger.
Melancholy was the characteristic of his features; but his eye would
kindle and that cheek flush, betraying that a high, warm spirit still
lurked within, one which a keen observer might have fancied had been
suppressed by injury and suffering. It was in truth a countenance on
which a physiognomist or painter would have loved to dwell, for both
would have found in it an interest they could scarcely have defined.
Thus resting in meditative silence, Lieutenant Mordaunt's attention was
attracted by a strange object floating on the now calm ocean. There were
no ships near, and Mordaunt felt his eyes fascinated in that direction,
and looking still more attentively, he felt convinced it was a human
body secured to a plank. He sought the captain instantly, and used every
persuasion humanity could dictate to urge him to lower a boat. For some
time he entreated in vain. Captain Bartholomew said it was mere folly to
think there was any chance of saving a man's life, who had been so long
tossed about on the water, it would be only detaining him for nothing;
his ship was already too full either for comfort or profit, and he would
not do it.
Fire flashed from the dark eyes of Mordaunt at the captain's positive
and careless language, and he spoke again with all the spirited
eloquence of a British sailor. He did not spare the cruel recklessness
that could thus refuse to save a fellow-creature's life, merely because
it might occasion a little delay and trouble. Captain Bartholomew looked
at him in astonishment; he little expected such a burst of indignant
feeling from one whose melancholy and love of solitude he had despised;
and, without answering a word, led the way to the deck, looked in the
direction of the plank, which had now floated near enough to the ship
for the body of Edward to be clearly visible upon it, and then instantly
commanded a boat to be lowered and bring it on board.
"It will be but taking him out of the sea to plunge him back again,
Señor," he said, in Spanish, to the Lieutenant, who was now anxiously
watching the proceedings of the sailors, who, more active than their
captain, had carefully laid the plank and its burden at the bottom of
the boat, and were now rapidly rowing to the ship. "Never was death more
clearly imprinted on a man's countenance than it is there, but have your
own will; only do not ask me to keep a dead man on board, I should have
my men mutiny in a twinkling."
Mordaunt made him no answer, but hastened towards the gangway, where the
men were now ascending. They carefully unloosed the bonds that attached
the body to the plank, and laid him on a pile of cushions where the
light of the setting sun shone full on his face and form. One glance
sufficed for Mordaunt to perceive he was an English officer; another
caused him to start some paces back in astonishment. As the youth thus
lay, the deadly paleness of his countenance, the extreme fairness of his
throat and part of his neck, which, as the sailors hastily untied his
neckcloth and opened his jacket, were fully exposed to view, the
beautifully formed brow strewed by thick masses of golden curls gave him
so much the appearance of a delicate female, that the sailors looked
humorously at each other, as if wondering what right he had to a
sailor's jacket; but Mordaunt's eyes never moved from him. Thoughts came
crowding over him, so full of youth, of home and joy, that tears gushed
to his eyes, tears which had not glistened there for many a long year;
and yet he knew not wherefore, he knew not, he could not, had he been
asked, have defined the cause of that strong emotion; but the more he
looked upon that beautiful face, the faster and thicker came those
visions on his soul. Memories came rushing back, days of his fresh and
happy boyhood, affections, long slumbering, recalled in all their
purity, and his bosom yearned towards home, as if no time had elapsed
since last he had beheld it, as if he should find all those he loved
even as he had left them. And what had brought them back? who was the
youth on whom he gazed, and towards whom he felt affection strangely and
suddenly aroused, affection so powerful, he could not shake it off?
Nothing in all probability to him; and vainly he sought to account for
the emotions those bright features awakened within him. Rousing himself,
as symptoms of life began to appear in the exhausted form before him, he
desired that the youth might be carried to his own cabin. He was his
countryman, he said; an officer of equal rank it appeared, from his
epaulette, and he should not feel comfortable were he under the care of
any other. On bearing him from the deck to the cabin, a small volume
fell from his loosened vest, which Mordaunt raised from the ground with
some curiosity, to know what could be so precious to a youthful sailor.
It was a pocket Bible, so much resembling one Mordaunt possessed
himself, that scarcely knowing what he was about, he drew it from his
pocket to compare them. "How can I be so silly?" he thought; "is there
anything strange in two English Bibles resembling each other?" He
replaced his own, opened the other, and started in increased amazement.
"Charles Manvers!" he cried, as that name met his eye. "Merciful
heaven! who is this youth? to whom would this Bible ever have been
given?" So great was his agitation, that it was with difficulty he read
the words which were written beneath.
"Edward Fortescue! oh, when will that name rival his to whom this book
once belonged? I may be as brave a sailor, but what will make me as good
a man? This Sacred Book, he loved it, and so will I." Underneath, and
evidently added at a later period, was the following:
"I began to read this for the sake of those beloved ones to whom I knew
it was all in all. I thought, for its own sake, it would never have
become the dear and sacred volume they regarded it, but I am mistaken;
how often has it soothed me in my hour of temptation, guided me in my
duties, restrained my angry moments, and brought me penitent and humble
to the footstool of my God. Oh, my beloved Ellen, had this been my
companion three years ago as it is now, what misery I should have spared
you."
Other memorandums in the same style were written in the blank leaves
which appeared attached for the purpose, but it so happened that not one
of them solved the mystery which so completely puzzled Mordaunt. The
name of Fortescue was utterly unknown to him, and increased the mystery
of the youth's having produced such a strange effect upon his mind.
There were many names introduced in these memorandums, but they
explained nothing; one only struck him, it was one which in his hours of
suffering, of slavery, ever sounded in his ear, the fondly-remembered
name of her whom he longed to clasp to his aching heart--it was
_Emmeline_; and as he read it, the same gush of memory came over him as
when he first gazed on Edward. In vain reason whispered there were many,
very many Emmelines in his native land; that name only brought one to
his remembrance. Though recovering, the youth was still much too weak
and exhausted to attempt speaking, and Mordaunt watched by his couch for
one day and two nights, ere the surgeon permitted him to ask a question
or Edward to answer it. Often, however, during that interval had the
young stranger turned his bright blue eyes with a look of intelligence
and feeling on him who attended him with the care of a father, and the
colour, the expression of those eyes seemed to thrill to Mordaunt's
heart, and speak even yet more forcibly of days gone by.
"Let me write but two lines, to tell Captain Seaforth I am safe and
well," said Edward impetuously, as he sprung with renewed spirits from
the couch on which he had been so long an unwilling prisoner.
"And how send it, my young friend? There is not a vessel within sight on
the wide sea."
Edward uttered an exclamation of impatience, then instantly checking
himself, said, with a smile--
"Forgive me, sir; I should think only of my merciful preservation, and
of endeavouring to express in some manner my obligations to you, to
whose generous exertions, blessed as they were by heaven, I owe my life.
Oh, would that my aunt and sister were near me, their gratitude for the
preservation of one whom they perhaps too fondly and too partially love,
would indeed be gratifying to feelings such as yours. I can feel what I
owe you, Lieutenant Mordaunt, but I cannot express myself sufficiently
in words."
"In the name of heaven, young man, in pity tell me who you are!" gasped
Mordaunt, almost inarticulately, as he grasped Edward's hand and gazed
intently on his face; for every word he spoke, heightened by the
kindling animation of his features, appeared to render that
extraordinary likeness yet more perfect.
"Edward Fortescue is my name."
"But your mother's, boy,--your mother's? I ask not from idle curiosity."
"She was the youngest daughter of Lord Delmont, Eleanor Manvers."
Mordaunt gazed yet more intently on the youth, then hoarsely murmuring,
"I knew it,--it was no fancy," sunk back almost overpowered with
momentary agitation. Recovering himself almost instantly, and before
Edward could give vent to his surprise and sympathy in words, he asked,
"Is Lord Delmont yet alive? I knew him once; he was a kind old man." His
lip quivered, so as almost to prevent the articulation of his words.
"Oh, no; the departure of my mother for India was a trial he never
recovered, and the intelligence that his only son, a noble and gallant
officer, perished with the crew of the Leander, finally broke his heart;
he never held up his head again, and died a very few months afterwards."
Mordaunt buried his face in his hands, and for several minutes remained
silent, as if struggling with some powerful emotion, then asked, "You
spoke only of your aunt and sister. Does not your mother live?"
"She died when I was little more than eleven years old, and my sister
scarcely ten. My father, Colonel Fortescue, dying in India, she could
not bear to remain there, but we were compelled to take refuge off the
coast of Wales from the storms which had arisen, and then she had only
time to give us to the care of her sister, for whom she had sent, and
died in her arms."
"And is it her sister, or your father's, of whom you spoke just now?"
"Hers--Mrs. Hamilton."
"Hamilton, and she lives still! you said you knew her," repeated
Mordaunt, suddenly springing up and speaking in a tone of animation,
that bewildered Edward almost as much as his former agitation. "Speak of
her, young man; tell me something of her. Oh, it is long since I have
heard her name."
"Did you know my aunt? I have never heard her mention your name,
Lieutenant Mordaunt."
"Very likely not," he replied, and a faint smile played round his lip,
creating an expression which made young Fortescue start, for the
features seemed familiar to him. "It was only in my boyhood that I knew
her, and she was kind to me. We do not easily forget the associations of
our boyhood, my young friend, particularly when manhood has been a
dreary blank, or tinged with pain. In my hours of slavery, the smile and
look of Emmeline Manvers has often haunted my waking and my sleeping
dreams; but she is married--is in all probability a happy wife and
loving mother; prosperity is around her, and it is most likely she has
forgotten the boy to whom her kindness was so dear."
"Hours of slavery?" asked Edward, for those words had alone riveted his
attention. "Can you, a free and British sailor, have ever been a slave?"
"Even so, my young friend; for seven years I languished in the
loathsome dungeons of Algiers, and the last sixteen years have been a
slave."
Edward grasped his hand with an uncontrollable impulse, while at the
same moment he clenched his sword, and his countenance expressed the
powerful indignation of his young and gallant spirit, though words for
the moment he had none. Lieutenant Mordaunt again smiled--that smile
which by some indefinable power inspired Edward with affection and
esteem.
"I am free now, my gallant boy," he said; "free as if the galling
fetters of slavery had never bowed down my neck. Another day you shall
hear more. Now gratify me by some account of your aunt; speak of
her--tell me if she have children--if her husband still lives. If Mrs.
Hamilton is still the same gentle, affectionate being--the same firm,
unflinching character, when duty called her, as the Emmeline Manvers it
was once my joy to know."
With an animation that again riveted the eyes of Lieutenant Mordaunt on
his countenance, Edward eagerly entered on the subject. No other could
have been dearer to him; Mordaunt could have fixed on few which would
thus have called forth the eloquence of his young companion. Sailor as
he was, truly enthusiastic in his profession, yet home to Edward still
possessed invincible attractions, and the devoted affection, gratitude,
and reverence he felt for his aunt appeared to increase with his years.
Neither Percy nor Herbert could have loved her more. He spoke as he
felt; he told of all he owed her, and not only himself but his orphan
sister; he said that as a mother she had been to them both, that never
once had she made the slightest difference between them and her own
children. He painted in vivid colours the domestic joys of Oakwood, the
affectionate harmony that reigned there, till Mordaunt felt his eyes
glisten with emotion, and ere that conversation ceased, all that
affection which for many a long and weary year had pined for some one on
which to expend its force, now centred in the noble youth of whose
preservation he had been so strangely and providentially an instrument.
To Edward it was not in the least strange, that any one who had once
known his aunt, it mattered not how many years previous, should still
retain a lively remembrance of her, and wish to know more concerning
her, and his feelings were strongly excited towards one, whose interest
in all that concerned her was evidently so great. His first letter to
his family, which he enclosed in one to his captain, spoke very much of
Lieutenant Mordaunt, wondering that his aunt had never mentioned one who
remembered her so well. This letter, as we know, was never received, and
the next he wrote was too hurried to enter into particulars, except
those that related to himself alone. When he again wrote home, he had
become so attached and so used to Mordaunt, that he fancied he must be
as well known to his family as himself, and though he mentioned his name
repeatedly, he did not think of inquiring anything concerning him.
The able activity as a sailor, the graceful, courteous manner of Edward
as a man, soon won him the hearts of Captain Bartholomew and all his
crew. Ever the first when there was anything to be done on board or on
shore, lively, high-spirited, and condescending, his appearance on deck
after any absence was generally acknowledged with respect. The various
characters thus presented to his notice in the Spanish crew, the many
ports he touched at, afforded him continual and exciting amusement,
although his thoughts very often lingered on his darling "Gem," with the
ardent desire to be once more doing his duty on her decks. But amid all
these changing scenes, Edward and his friend, diverse as were their ages
and apparently their dispositions, became almost inseparable. An
irresistible impulse urged Edward repeatedly to talk to him of his home,
till Mordaunt became intimately acquainted with every member of the
family. Of Herbert, Edward would speak with enthusiasm; he little knew,
poor fellow, that the cousin whose character he almost venerated was
gone to his last home, that he should never see him more. Letters
detailing that melancholy event had been forwarded to the Gem, arriving
there just one week after the young sailor's disappearance; and, when
informed of his safety, Captain Seaforth, then on his way to England,
had no opportunity of forwarding them to him. His repeated mention of
Herbert in his letters home, his anxious desire to hear something of
him, were most painful to his family, and Ellen was more than ever
anxious he should receive the account ere he returned.
Among other subjects discussed between them, Mordaunt once asked Edward
who now bore the title of Lord Delmont, and had appeared somewhat
agitated when told the title was now extinct, and had become so from the
melancholy death of the promising young nobleman on whom it had
devolved.
"Sir George Wilmot is out in his prognostication then," he observed,
after a pause. "I remember, when a youngster under his command, hearing
him repeatedly prophesy that a Delmont would revive the honour of his
ancient house by naval fame. Poor Charles was ever his favourite amongst
us."
"You were my uncle's messmate then," said Edward, in a tone of surprise
and joy. "Why did you not tell me this before, that I might ask all the
questions I long to know concerning him?"
"And what have you heard of Charles to call for this extreme interest?"
replied Mordaunt, with his peculiar smile. "I should have thought that
long ere this my poor friend had been forgotten in his native land."
"Forgotten! and by a sister who doted on him; who has never ceased to
lament his melancholy fate; who ever held him up to my young fancy as
one of those whom it should be my glory to resemble. Did you know my
aunt, as, by two or three things I have heard you say, I fancy you must,
you could never suspect her of forgetting one she loved as she did her
brother. My uncle Charles is enshrined in her memory too fondly for time
to efface it."
Tears rose to Mordaunt's eager eyes at these words; he turned aside a
moment to conceal his agitation, then asked if Sir George Wilmot ever
spoke of Manvers. Animatedly Edward related the old Admiral's agitation
the first night he had seen him at Oakwood; how feelingly he had spoken
of one, whom he said he had ever regarded as the adopted son of his
affections, the darling of his childless years, his gallant, merry
Charles. Mordaunt twined his arm in Edward's, and looked up in his face,
as if to thank him for the consolation his words imparted. Again was
there an expression in his countenance, which sent a thrill to the young
man's heart, but vainly he tried to discover wherefore.
We may here perhaps relate in a very few words Mordaunt's tale of
suffering, which he imparted at different times to Edward. The wreck of
the vessel to which he belonged had cast him, with one or two others of
his hapless companions, on the coast of Morocco and Algiers. There they
were seized by the cruel Moors, and carried as spies before the Dey, and
by his command immured in the dungeons of the fortress where many
unhappy captives were also confined, and had been for many years. For
eight years he was an inmate of these horrible prisons, a sickening
witness of many of those tortures and cruelties which were inflicted on
his fellow-prisoners, and often on himself. All those at all acquainted
with the bombardment of Algiers, so ably carried on by Admiral Sir
Edward Pellew, afterwards Viscount Exmouth, an entreprise which was
entered on to avenge the atrocious indignities practised by the Dey on
all the unfortunate foreigners that visited his coast, can well imagine
the sufferings Mordaunt had not only to witness but to endure. On the
first report of a hostile fleet appearing off the coast of Barbary, the
most active and able of the prisoners were marched out to various
markets and there sold as slaves. Mordaunt was one of these:
imprisonment and suffering had not quenched his youthful spirit, nor so
bowed his frame as to render him incapable of energy. Scarcely twenty
when this cruel reverse of fortune overtook him, the tortures of his
mind during the eight, nearly nine, years of his captivity may be better
conceived than described. He had entered prison a boy, with all the
fresh, elastic buoyancy of youth, he quitted it a man; but, oh, how was
that manhood's prime, to which in his visions of futurity he had looked
with such bright anticipation as the zenith of his naval fame, now
about to pass? as a slave; exposed to increased oppression and indignity
on account of his religion, which he had inwardly vowed never to give
up. He secured the Bible, which had first been a treasure to him merely
as the gift of a beloved sister, and throughout all his change of
destiny it was never taken from him. To submit calmly to slavery,
Mordaunt felt at first his spirit never could, and various were the
schemes he planned, and in part executed, towards obtaining his freedom,
but all were eventually frustrated by the observation of his masters,
who were too well accustomed to insubordination on the part of their
slaves for such attempts to cause them much trouble or uneasiness. Still
Mordaunt despaired not; still was the hope of freedom uppermost in his
breast, even when he became the property of a Turk, who, had he been but
a Christian, Mordaunt declared, must have commanded his reverence if not
his affection. Five times he had been exposed for sale, and each master
had appeared to him more cruel and oppressive than the last. To relate
all he suffered would occupy a much larger portion of our tale than we
could allow, but they were such that any one but Mordaunt would have
felt comparative contentment and happiness when changed for the service
of Mahommed Ali, an officer of eminence in the court of Tunis. He was
indeed one who might well exemplify the assertion, that in all religions
there is some good. Suffering and sorrow were aliens from his roof,
misery approached not his doors, and Mordaunt had, in fact, been
purchased from motives of compassion, which his evident wretchedness,
both bodily and mental, had excited; to cure his bodily ills no kindly
attention was spared, but vainly Mahommed Ali sought to lessen the load
of anguish he saw imprinted on the brow of his Christian captive.
Mordaunt's noble spirit was touched by the indulgence and kindness he
received, and he made no effort to escape, for he felt it would be but
an ungenerous, dishonourable return--but still he was a slave. No
fetters galled his limbs, but the fetters of slavery galled his spirits
with a deep anguish; no taskmaster was now set over him with the knotted
whip, to spur on each slackening effort; but the groan which no bodily
suffering could wring, which he had suppressed, lest his persecutors
should triumph, now burst from his sorrowing heart, and scalding drops
stole down his cheeks, when he deemed no eye was near. Slavery, slavery
seemed his for ever, and each fond vision of his native land and all he
loved but added to the burden on his soul.
Mahommed at length became so deeply interested in his Christian slave,
that he offered him freedom, wealth, distinction, his own friendship and
support, all on the one, he thought, simple and easy condition of giving
up his country and his faith, and embracing the one holy creed of
Mahomet. In kindness was the offer made, but mournfully, yet with a
steadiness that gave no hope of change, was it refused; vainly Mahommed
urged the happiness its acceptance would bring, that he knew not all he
so rashly refused; still he wavered not, and Ali with a weary heart gave
up the attempt. Time passed, but its fleeting years reconciled not
Mordaunt to his situation, nor lessened the kindly interest he excited
in the heart of the good old man; and when at length it happened that
Mordaunt, almost unconsciously to himself, became the fortunate
instrument of reconciling some affairs of his master, which were in
confusion, and had been so for years, when, among many other unexpected
services which it had been in his power to perform, he rescued the
favourite son of Mahommed from an infuriated tiger, which had
unexpectedly sprung upon him during a hunting expedition, the old man
could contain his wishes no longer, but gave him his freedom on the
spot. Unconditional liberty to return to his native land was very soon
after accorded, and loading him with rich gifts, Ali himself accompanied
him to the deck of the Alma, which was the only vessel then starting
from the coast of Guinea, where Mahommed in general resided. Mordaunt
was too impatient to wait for an English vessel, nor did he wish to
incur the risk of encountering any hostile to his interests, by crossing
the country and embarking from Algiers or Tunis. While in Africa he felt
that the chain of slavery still hovered round his neck. He could not
feel himself once more a freeborn Briton till he was indeed on the
bounding ocean.
Once on the way to Europe, there was hope, even though that way was by
America. He parted from his former master, now his friend, with a
feeling of regret; but the fresh breezes, the consciousness he stood on
deck free as the wind, free as the ocean that bore him onward to his
native land, removed from his mind all lingering dread, and filled his
soul with joy; but the human heart is not now in a state to feel for any
length of time unchecked happiness. Four-and-twenty years had elapsed
since Mordaunt had been imagined dead; six-and-twenty since he had
departed from his native land, and had last beheld his friends he so
dearly loved. He might return, and be by all considered an intruder,
perhaps not recognised, his tale not believed; he might see his family
scattered, all of them with new ties, new joys, and with no place for
the long-absent exile. The thought was anguish, but Mordaunt had weakly
indulged it too long to enable him at first to conquer it, even when
Edward's tale of the fond remembrance in which his uncle was held by all
who had loved him, unconsciously penetrated his soul with a sense of the
injustice he had done his friends, and brought consolation with it.
These facts, which we have so briefly thrown together, formed most
interesting subjects to Edward many times during his voyage to New York.
Edward hung as in fascination on the stranger's history, innate
nobleness was stamped in every word. More than once the thought struck
him that he was more than what he appeared to be, but Edward knew he had
a slight tendency towards romance in his composition, and fearful of
lowering himself in the estimation of his newfound friend by the avowal
of such fanciful sentiments, he kept them to himself.
At length the wished-for port to both the Englishmen (New York) was
gained, and their passage secured in the first packet sailing for
England. Edward's heart beat high with anticipated pleasure; he longed
to introduce his new friend to his family, and his bright anticipations
shed a kindred glow over the mind of Mordaunt, who had now become so
devotedly attached to the youth, that he could scarcely bear him out of
his sight; and had he wanted fresh incentive to affection, the deep
affliction of the young sailor on receiving the intelligence of his
cousin Herbert's death, would have been sufficient. Edward had one day
sought the post-office, declaring, however, that it was quite
impossible such increased joy could be in store for him, as a letter
from home. There were two instead of one: one from his aunt and uncle,
the other from his sister; the black seal painfully startled him.
Mourning for poor Mary is over long ere this, he thought, and scarcely
had he strength to break the seal, and when he had read the fatal news,
he sat for some time as if overwhelmed with the sudden and unexpected
blow.
Mordaunt's words of consolation fell at first unheeded on his ear; it
was not for Herbert alone he sorrowed, it was for his aunt. He knew how
devotedly she loved her son, and though she did not write much on the
actual loss she had sustained, yet every word seemed to reach his heart,
and Edward leaned his head upon the paper, and wept like a child.
Herbert, the bright, the good, the gentle companion of his boyhood, the
faithful friend of his maturer years, had he indeed gone--his place
would know him no more? And oh, how desolate must Oakwood seem. Percy,
though in affection for his parents and his family, in his devoted
attention to their comfort, equalled only by his brother, yet never
could he be to Oakwood as Herbert. He was as the brilliant planet,
shedding lustre indeed on all over whom it gleamed, but never still,
continually roving, changing its course, as if its light would be more
glittering from such unsteady movements; but Herbert was as the mild and
lucid star, stationary in its appointed orbit, gilding all things with
its mellow light, but darting its most intense and radiant lustre on
that home which was to him indeed the centre-point of love. Such was the
description of his two cousins given by Edward to his sympathising
companion, and Mordaunt looked on the young sailor in wondering
admiration. Eagerly, delightedly, he had perused the letters, which
Edward intrusted to him; that of Mrs. Hamilton was pressed to his lips,
but engrossed in his own thoughts, Edward observed him not. Sadness
lingered on Edward's heart during the whole of that voyage homeward; his
conversation was tinged with the same spirit, but it brought out so many
points of his character, which in his joyous moods Mordaunt never could
have discovered, that the links of that strangely-aroused affection
became even stronger than before. Edward returned his regard with all
the warmth of his enthusiastic nature strengthened by the manner in
which his letters from home alluded to Lieutenant Mordaunt as his
preserver; and before their voyage was completed, Mordaunt, in
compliance with the young man's earnest entreaty, consented to accompany
him, in the first place, to Richmond, whence Edward promised, after
introducing him to his family, and finding him a safe harbour there, he
would leave no stone unturned to discover every possible information
concerning Mordaunt's family. That same peculiar smile curled the
stranger's lips as Edward thus animatedly spoke, and he promised
unqualified compliance.
Having thus brought Edward and his friend within but a few weeks' voyage
to England, we may now leave them and return to Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton,
who were both rejoicing in the improved looks of their niece at
Richmond.
The delightful calmness of their beautiful retreat, the suspension of
all anxiety, the total change of scene which was around them, had done
much towards restoring peace, not only to Ellen but to her aunt. The
feeling that she was now indeed called upon to fulfil the promise she
had made to Herbert, that the enjoyment and cheerfulness of home
depended on her alone, had inspired exertions which had partially
enabled her to conquer her own grief; and every week seemed to bring
forward some new quality, of which her relatives imagined they must have
been ignorant before. Ellen's character was one not to attract at first,
but to win affection slowly but surely; her merits were not dazzling, it
was generally long before they were all discovered, but when they were,
they ever commanded reverence and love. In all her children Mrs.
Hamilton felt indeed her cares fully repaid, and in Ellen more, far more
than she had ventured to anticipate. Thus left alone in her filial
cares, Ellen's character appeared different to what it had been when one
of many. Steady, quiet cheerfulness was restored to the hearts of all
who now composed the small domestic circle of Mr. Hamilton's family;
each had their private moments when sorrow for the loss of their beloved
Herbert was indeed recalled in all its bitterness, but such sacred hours
never were permitted to tinge their daily lives with gloom.
They were now in daily expectation of St. Eval's return to England, with
Miss Manvers, who, at Mrs. Hamilton's particular request, was to join
their family party. An understanding had taken place between her and
Percy, but not yet did either intend their engagement to be known. The
sympathy and affection of Louisa were indeed most soothing to Percy in
this affliction, which, even when months had passed, he could not
conquer, but he could not think of entering into the bonds of marriage,
even with the woman he sincerely loved, till his heart could, in some
degree, recover the deep wound which the death of his only brother had
so painfully inflicted. To his parents indeed, and all his family, he
revealed his engagement, and Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton anxiously anticipated
the return of Lord and Lady St. Eval, to introduce them to the intended
bride of their only son. Their intention was to remain at Richmond till
the spring, when Arthur and his wife would pay their promised visit at
Oakwood, instead of spending the Christmas with them--an arrangement
Emmeline had herself suggested; because, she said, if she and her
husband were away, the family party which had ever assembled at Oakwood
during that festive season would be broken up, and Herbert's absence be
less painfully felt. Mrs. Hamilton noticed it to none, but her
penetration discovered the cause of this change in Emmeline's
intentions, and tears of delicious feeling filled her eyes, as for a
moment she permitted that gentle and affectionate girl to occupy that
thought which she was about to bestow on Herbert.
"We have received interesting news this morning, my dear Arthur," Mrs.
Hamilton said, as her husband entered the parlour, where she and Ellen
were seated. "Lucy Harcourt is returning to England, and has requested
us to look out for a little cottage for her near Oakwood. The severe
illness, and finally the death of her cousin, Mr. Seymour, has been the
cause of my not hearing from her so long. Poor fellow, he has been for
so many years such a sad sufferer, that a peaceful death must indeed be
a blessed release."
"It was a peaceful death, Lucy writes, mournfully but resignedly; she
says she cannot be sufficiently thankful that he was spared long enough
to see his daughters would both be happy under her charge. That she had
gained their young affections, and that, as far as mortal eye could see,
by leaving them entirely under her guardianship and maternal care, he
had provided for their happiness. He said this almost with his last
breath; and poor Lucy says that, among her many consolations in this
trying time, this assertion was not one of the least precious to her
heart."
"No doubt it was. To be the friend and adopted mother of his children
must be one of the many blessings created for herself by her noble
conduct in youth. I am glad now my prophecy was not verified, and that
she never became his wife."
"Did you ever think she would, uncle?" asked Ellen, surprised.
"I fancied Seymour must have discovered her affection, and then
admiration on his part would have done the rest. It is, I own, much
better as it is; his children will love her more, regarding her in the
light of his sister and their aunt, than had she become their
stepmother. But why did you seem so surprised at my prophecy, Nelly? Was
there anything very impossible in their union?"
"Not impossible; but I do not think it likely Miss Harcourt would have
betrayed her affection, at the very time when she was endeavouring to
soothe her cousin for the loss of a beloved wife. She was much more
likely to conceal it, even more effectually than she had ever done
before. Nor do I think it probable Mr. Seymour, accustomed from his very
earliest years to regard her as a sister, could ever succeed in looking
on her in any other light."
"You seem well skilled in the history of the human heart, my little
Ellen," said her uncle, smiling. "Do you think it then quite impossible
for cousins to love?"
Ellen bent lower over her embroidery-frame, for she felt a tell-tale
flush was rising to her cheek, and without looking up, replied calmly--
"Miss Harcourt is a proof that such love can and does exist--more often,
perhaps, in a woman's heart. In a man seldom, unless educated and living
entirely apart from each other."
"I think you are right, Ellen," said her aunt. "I never thought, with
your uncle, that Lucy would become Mr. Seymour's wife."
"Had I prophesied such a thing, uncle, what would you have called me?"
said Ellen, looking up archly from her frame, for the momentary flush
had gone.
"That it was the prophecy of a most romantic young lady, much more like
Emmeline's heroics than the quiet, sober Ellen," he answered, in the
same tone; "but as my own idea, of course it is wisdom itself. But jokes
apart, as you are so skilled in the knowledge of the human heart, my
dear Ellen, you must know I entered this room to-day for the purpose of
probing your own."
"Mine!" exclaimed the astonished girl, turning suddenly pale; "what do
you mean?"
"Only that the Rev. Ernest Lacy has been with me this morning entreating
my permission to address you, and indeed making proposals for your hand.
I told him that my permission he could have, with my earnest wishes for
his success, and that I did not doubt your aunt's consent would be as
readily given. Do not look so terribly alarmed; I told him I could not
let the matter proceed any farther without first speaking to you."
"Pray let it go no farther, then, my dear uncle," said Ellen, very
earnestly, as her needle fell from her hand, and she turned her eyes
beseechingly on her uncle's face. "I thank Mr. Lacy for the high opinion
he must have of me in making me this offer, but indeed I cannot accept
it. Do not, by your consent, let him encourage hopes which must end in
disappointment."
"My approbation I cannot withdraw, Ellen, for most sincerely do I esteem
the young man; and there are few whom I would so gladly behold united to
my family as himself. Why do you so positively refuse to hear him? You
may not know him sufficiently now, I grant you, to love him, yet believe
me, the more you know him the more will you find in him both to esteem
and love."
"I do not doubt it, my dear uncle. He is one among the young men who
visit here whom I most highly esteem, and I should be sorry to lose his
friendship by the refusal of his hand."
"But why not allow him to plead for himself? You are not one of those
romantic beings, Ellen, who often refuse an excellent offer, because
they imagine they are not violently in love."
"Pray do not condemn me as such, my dear uncle; indeed, it is not the
case. Mr. Lacy, the little I know of him, appears to possess every
virtue calculated to make an excellent husband. I know no fault to which
I can bring forward any objection; but"--
"But what, my dear niece? Surely, you are not afraid of speaking freely
before your aunt and myself?"
"No, uncle; but I have little to say except that I have no wish to
marry; that it would be more pain to leave you and my aunt than marriage
could ever compensate."
"Why, Nelly, do you mean to devote yourself to us all your young life,
old and irritable as we shall in all probability become? think again, my
dear girl, many enjoyments, much happiness, as far as human eye can see,
await the wife of Lacy. Emmeline, you are silent; do you not agree with
me in wishing to behold our gentle Ellen the wife of one so universally
beloved as this young clergyman?"
"Not if her wishes lead her to remain with us, my husband," replied Mrs.
Hamilton, impressively. She had not spoken before, for she had been too
attentively observing the fluctuation of Ellen's countenance; but now
her tone was such as to check the forced smile with which her niece had
tried to reply to Mr. Hamilton's suggestion of becoming old and
irritable, and bring the painfully-checked tears back to her eyes, too
powerfully to be restrained. She tried to retain her calmness, but the
effort was vain, and springing from her seat, she flew to the couch
where her aunt sat, and kneeling by her side, buried her face on her
shoulder, and murmured, almost inaudibly,--
"Oh, do not, do not bid me leave you, I am happy here; but elsewhere,
oh, I should be so very, very wretched. I own Mr. Lacy is all that I
could wish for in a husband; precious, indeed, would be his love to any
girl who could return it, but not to me; oh, not to one who can give him
nothing in return."
She paused abruptly; the crimson had mounted to both cheek and brow,
and the choking sob prevented farther utterance.
Mrs. Hamilton pressed her lips to Ellen's heated brow in silence, while
her husband looked at his niece in silent amazement.
"Are your affections then given to another, my dear child?" he said,
gently and tenderly; "but why this overwhelming grief, my Ellen? Surely,
you do not believe we could thwart the happiness of one so dear to us,
by refusing our consent to the man of your choice, if he be worthy of
you? Speak, then, my dear girl, without reserve; who has so secretly
gained your young affections, that for his sake every other offer is
rejected?"
Ellen raised her head and looked mournfully in her uncle's face. She
tried to obey, but voice for the moment failed.
"_My love is given to the dead_" she murmured at length, clasping her
aunt's hands in hers, the words slowly falling from her parched lips;
then added, hurriedly, "oh, do not reprove my weakness, I thought my
secret never would have passed my lips in life, but wherefore should I
hide it now? It is no sin to love the dead, though had he lived, never
would I have ceased to struggle till this wild pang was conquered, till
calmly I could have beheld him happy with the wife of his choice, of his
love. Oh, condemn me not for loving one who never thought of me save as
a sister; one whom I knew from his boyhood loved another. None on earth
can tell how I have struggled to subdue myself. I knew not my own heart
till it was too late to school it into apathy. He has gone, but while
my heart still clings to Herbert only, oh, can I give my hand unto
another?"
"Herbert!" burst from Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton at the same instant, and
Ellen, turning from their glance, hid her flushing and paling cheek in
her hands; for a moment there was silence, and then Mrs. Hamilton drew
the agitated girl closer to her, and murmuring, in a tone of intense
feeling, "my poor, poor Ellen!" mingled a mother's tears with those of
her niece. Mr. Hamilton looked on them both with extreme emotion; his
mind's eye rapidly glanced over the past, and in an instant he saw what
a heavy load of suffering must have been his niece's portion from the
first moment she awoke to the consciousness of her ill-fated love; and
how had she borne it? so uncomplainingly, so cheerfully, that no one
could suspect that inward sorrow. When cheering himself and his wife
under their deep affliction, it was with her own heart breaking all the
while. When inciting Herbert to exertion, during that painful trial
occasioned by his Mary's letter, when doing everything in her power to
secure his happiness, what must have been her own feelings? Yes, in very
truth she had loved, loved with all the purity, the self-devotedness of
woman; and Mr. Hamilton felt that which at the moment he could not
speak. He raised his niece from the ground, where she still knelt beside
her aunt, folded her to his bosom, kissed her tearful cheek, and placing
her in Mrs. Hamilton's arms, hastily left the room.
The same thoughts had likewise occupied the mind of her aunt, as Ellen
still seemed to cling to her for support and comfort; but they were
mingled with a sensation almost amounting to self-reproach at her own
blindness in not earlier discovering the truth. Why not imagine Ellen's
affections fixed on Herbert as on Arthur Myrvin? both were equally
probable. She could now well understand Ellen's agitation when Herbert's
engagement with Mary was published, when he performed the marriage
ceremony for Arthur and Emmeline; and when Mrs. Hamilton recalled how
completely Ellen had appeared to forget herself, in devotedness to her;
how, instead of weakly sinking beneath her severe trials, she had borne
up through all, had suppressed her own suffering to alleviate those of
others, was it strange, that admiration and respect should mingle with
the love she bore her? that from that hour Ellen appeared dearer to her
aunt than she had ever done before? Nor was it only on this account her
affection increased. For the sake of her beloved son it was that her
niece refused to marry; for love of him, even though he had departed,
her heart rejected every other love; and the fond mother unconsciously
felt soothed, consoled. It seemed a tribute to the memory of her sainted
boy, that he was thus beloved, and she who had thus loved him--oh, was
there not some new and precious link between them?
It was some time before either could give vent in words to the feelings
that swelled within. Ellen's tears fell fast and unrestrainedly on the
bosom of her aunt, who sought not to check them, for she knew how
blessed they must be to one who so seldom wept; and they were blessed,
for a heavy weight seemed removed from the orphan's heart, the torturing
secret was revealed; she might weep now without restraint, and never
more would her conduct appear mysterious either to her aunt or uncle.
They now knew it was no caprice that bade her refuse every offer of
marriage that was made her. How that treasured secret had escaped her
she knew not; she had been carried on by an impulse she could neither
resist nor understand. At the first, a sensation of shame had
overpowered her, that she could thus have given words to an unrequited
affection; but ere long, the gentle soothing of her aunt caused that
painful feeling to pass away. Consoling, indeed, was the voice of
sympathy on a subject which to another ear had never been disclosed. It
was some little time ere she could conquer her extreme agitation, her
overcharged heart released from its rigorous restraint, appeared to
spurn all effort of control; but after that day no violent emotion
disturbed the calm serenity that resumed its sway. Never again was the
subject alluded to in that little family circle, but the whole conduct
of her aunt and uncle evinced they felt for and with their Ellen;
confidence increased between them, and after the first few days, the
orphan's life was more calmly happy than it had been for many a long
year.
The return of Lord St. Eval's family to England, and their meeting with
Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton, was attended with some alloy. Caroline and her
parents had not met since the death of Herbert, and that affliction
appeared at the first moment recalled in all its bitterness. The
presence of a comparative stranger, as was Miss Manvers, did much
towards calming the excited feelings of each, and the exertions of Lord
St. Eval and Ellen restored composure and cheerfulness sooner than they
could have anticipated.
With Miss Manvers Mrs. Hamilton was much pleased. Gentle and unassuming,
she won her way to every heart that knew her; she was the only remaining
scion of Mrs. Hamilton's own family, and she felt pleased that by her
union with Percy the families of Manvers and Hamilton would be yet more
closely connected. She had regretted much, at a former time, the
extinction of the line of Delmont; for she had recalled those visions of
her girlhood, when she had looked to her brother to support the ancient
line, and gilding it with naval honours, bid it stand forth as it had
done some centuries before. Mrs. Hamilton had but little of what is
termed family pride, but these feelings were associated with the brother
whom she had so dearly loved, and whose loss she so painfully deplored.
The season of Christmas passed more cheerfully than Ellen had dared to
hope. The scene was entirely changed; never before had they passed a
Christmas anywhere but at Oakwood, and that simple circumstance
prevented the void in that domestic circle from being so sadly felt.
That Herbert was in the thoughts of all his family, that it was an
effort for them to retain the cheerfulness which in them was ever the
characteristic of the season, we will not deny, but affliction took not
from the calm beauty which ever rested round Mr. Hamilton's hearth. All
appeared as if an even more hallowed and mellowed light was cast around
them; for it displayed, even more powerfully than when unalloyed
prosperity was their portion, the true beauty of the religious
character. Herbert and Mary were not lost to them; they were but removed
to another sphere, that eternal Home, to which all who loved them looked
with an eye of faith.
Sir George Wilmot was the only guest at Richmond during the Christmas
season, but so long had he been a friend of the family and of Lord
Delmont's, when Mrs. Hamilton was a mere child, that he could scarcely
be looked on in the light of a mere guest. The kind old man had sorrowed
deeply for Herbert's death, had felt himself attracted even more
irresistibly to his friends in their sorrow than even in their joy, and
so constantly had he been invited to make his stay at Mr. Hamilton's
residence, wherever that might be, that he often declared he had now no
other home. The tale of Edward's peril interested him much; he would
make Ellen repeat it over and over again, and admire the daring rashness
which urged the young sailor not to defer his return to his commander,
even though a storm was threatening around him; and when Mr. Hamilton
related the story of Ellen's fortitude in bearing as she did this
painful suspense, the old man would conceal his admiration of his young
friend under a joke, and laughingly protest she was as fitted to be a
gallant sailor as her noble brother.
On the character of the young heir of Oakwood the death of his brother
appeared to have made an impression, which neither time nor
circumstances could efface. He was not outwardly sad, but his volatile
nature appeared departed. He was no longer the same wild, boisterous
youth, ever on the look-out for some change, some new diversion or
practical joke, which had been his characteristics while Herbert lived.
A species of quiet dignity was now his own, combined with a devotedness
to his parents, which before had never been so distinctly visible. He
had ever loved them, ever sought their happiness, their wishes in
preference to his own. Herbert himself had not surpassed him in filial
love and reverence, but now, though his feelings were the same, their
expression was different; cheerful and animated he still was, but the
ringing laugh which had so often echoed through the halls of Oakwood had
gone. It seemed as if the death of a brother so beloved, had suddenly
transformed Percy Hamilton from the wild and thoughtless
pleasure-seeking, joke-loving lad into the calm and serious man. To the
eyes of his family, opposite as the brothers in youth had been, there
were now many points of Herbert's character reflected upon Percy, and
dearer than ever he became; and the love which had been excited in the
gentle heart of Louisa Manvers by the wild spirits, the animation, the
harmless recklessness, the freedom of thought and word, which had
characterised Percy, when she first knew him, was purified and
heightened by the calm dignity, the more serious thought, the solid
qualities of the virtuous and honourable man.
Lieutenant Fortescue was now daily expected in England, much to the
delight of his family and Sir George Wilmot, who declared he should have
no peace till he was introduced to the preserver of his gallant boy, as
he chose to call Edward. Lieutenant Mordaunt; he never heard of such a
name, and he was quite sure he had never been a youngster in his
cockpit. "What does he mean by saying he knows me, that he sailed with
me, when a mid? he must be some impostor, Mistress Nell, take my word
for it," Sir George would laughingly say, and vow vengeance on Ellen,
for daring to doubt the excellence of his memory; as she one day
ventured to hint that it was so very many years, it was quite impossible
Sir George could remember the names of all the middies under him. It was
much more probable, Sir George would retort, that slavery had
bewildered the poor man's understanding, and that he fancied he was
acquainted with the first English names he heard.
"Never mind, Nell, he has been a slave, poor fellow, so we will not
treat him as an impostor, the first moment he reaches his native land,"
was the general conclusion of the old Admiral's jokes, as each day
increased his impatience for Edward's return.
He was gratified at length, and as generally happens, when least
expected, for protesting he would not be impatient any more, he amused
himself by setting little Lord Lyle on his knee, and was so amused by
the child's playful prattle and joyous laugh, that he forgot to watch at
the window, which was his general post. Ellen was busily engaged in
nursing Caroline's babe, now about six months old.
"Give me Mary, Ellen," said the young Earl, entering the room, with
pleasure visibly impressed on his features. "You will have somebody else
to kiss in a moment, and unless you can bear joy as composedly as you
can sorrow, why I tremble for the fate of my little Mary."
"What do you mean, St. Eval? you shall not take my baby from me, unless
you can give me a better reason."
"I mean that Edward will be here in five minutes, if he be not already.
Ah, Ellen, you will resign Mary now. Come to me, little lady," and the
young father caught his child from Ellen's trembling hands, and dancing
her high in the air, was rewarded by her loud crow of joy.
In another minute, Edward was in the room, and clasped to his sister's
beating heart. It was an agitating moment, for it seemed to Ellen's
excited fancy that Edward was indeed restored to her from the dead, he
had not merely returned from a long and dangerous voyage. The young
sailor, as he released her from his embrace, looked with an uncontrolled
impulse round the room. All were not there he loved; he did not miss
Emmeline, but Herbert--oh, his gentle voice was not heard amongst the
many that crowded round to greet him. He looked on his aunt, her deep
mourning robe, he thought her paler, thinner than he had ever seen her
before, and the impetuous young man could not be restrained, he flung
himself within her extended arms, and burst into tears.
Mr. Hamilton hastened towards them. "Our beloved Herbert is happy," he
said, solemnly, as he wrung his nephew's hands. "Let us not mourn for
him now, Edward, but rather rejoice, as were he amongst us he would do,
gratefully rejoice that the same gracious hand which removed him in love
to a brighter world was stretched over you in your hour of peril, and
preserved you to those who so dearly love you. You, too, we might for a
time have lost, my beloved Edward. Shall we not rejoice that you are
spared us? Emmeline, my own Emmeline, think on the blessings still
surrounding us."
His impressive words had their effect on both his agitated auditors.
Edward gently withdrew himself from the detaining arms of his aunt; he
pressed a long, lingering kiss upon her cheek, and hastily conquering
his emotion, clasped Sir George Wilmot's extended hand, after a few
minutes' silence, greeted all his cousins with his accustomed warmth,
and spoke as usual.
There had been one unseen, unthought-of spectator of this little scene;
all had been too much startled and affected at Edward's unexpected burst
of sorrow, to think of the stranger who had entered the room with him;
but that stranger had looked around him, more particularly on Mrs.
Hamilton, with feelings of intensity utterly depriving him of either
speech or motion. Years had passed lightly over Mrs. Hamilton's head;
she had borne trials, cares, and sorrows, as all her fellow-creatures,
but her burden had ever been cast upon Him who had promised to sustain
her, and therefore on her it had not weighed so heavily; and years had
neither bent that graceful figure, nor robbed her features of their
bloom. Hers had never been extraordinary beauty, it had been the
expression only, which was ever the charm in her, an expression of
purity of thought and deed, of gentle unassuming piety. Time cannot
triumph over that beauty which is reflected from the soul; and Mordaunt
gazed on her till he could scarcely restrain himself from rushing
forward, and clasping her to his bosom, proclaim aloud who and what he
was; but he did command himself, though his limbs trembled under him,
and he was thankful that as yet he was unobserved. He looked on the
blooming family around him--they were children, and yet to them he was
as the dead; and now would she indeed remember him? Edward suddenly
recalled the presence of his friend, and springing towards him, with an
exclamation of regret at his neglect, instantly attracted the attention
of all, and Mordaunt suddenly found himself the centre of a group, who
were listening with much interest to Edward's animated account of all he
owed him, a recital which Mordaunt vainly endeavoured to suppress, by
declaring he had done nothing worth speaking of. Mrs. Hamilton joined
her husband in welcoming the stranger, with that grace and kindness so
peculiarly her own. She thanked him warmly for the care he had taken,
and the exertions he had made for her nephew; and as she did so, the
colour so completely faded from Mordaunt's sunburnt cheek, that Edward,
declaring he was ill and exhausted by the exertions he had made from the
first moment of their landing at Portsmouth, entreated him to retire to
the chamber which had been prepared for him, but this Mordaunt refused,
saying he was perfectly well.
"It is long I have heard the voice of kindness in my native tongue--long
since English faces and English hearts have thus blessed me, and would
you bid me leave them, my young friend?"
His mournful voice thrilled to Mrs. Hamilton's heart, as he laid his
hand appealingly on Edward's arm.
"Not for worlds," replied the young sailor, cheerfully. "Sir George
Wilmot, my dear aunt, have you any recollection of my good friend here?
he says he knew you both when he was a boy."
Sir George Wilmot's eyes had never moved from Mordaunt since he had
withdrawn his attention from Edward, and he now replied somewhat
gravely--
"Of the name of Mordaunt I have no recollection as being borne by any
youngsters on board my ship, but those features seem strangely familiar
to me. I beg your pardon, sir, but have you always borne that name?"
"From the time I can remember, Sir George; but this may perhaps convince
you I have been on board your ship. Was there not one amongst us in the
cockpit, a young lad whom you ever treated with distinguished favour,
whom, however unworthy, you ever held up to his comrades as a pattern of
all that was excellent in a seaman and a youth, whom you ever loved and
treated as a son? I was near him when he flung himself in the sea, with
a sword in his mouth, and entering the enemy's ship by one of the
cabin-windows, fought his way to the quarter-deck, and hauling down the
French standard, retained his post till relieved by his comrades; and
when the fight was over, hung back and gave to others the meed of praise
you were so eager to bestow. Have you forgotten this, Sir George?"
"No!" replied the Admiral, with sudden animation. "Often have I recalled
that day, one amongst the many in which my Charles distinguished
himself."
"And you told him he would rise to eminence ere many years had
passed--the name of Delmont would rival that of Nelson ere his career
had run."
The old Admiral looked on the stranger with increased astonishment and
agitation.
"Delmont! you knew my brother, then, Lieutenant Mordaunt," Mrs. Hamilton
could not refrain from saying. "Many, many years have passed, yet tell
me when you saw him last."
"I was with him in his last voyage, lady," replied the stranger, in a
low and peculiar voice, for it was evidently an effort to retain his
calmness. Six-and-twenty years have gone by since the Leander left the
coasts of England never to return; six-and-twenty years since I set foot
in my native land."
"And did all indeed perish, save yourself? Were you alone saved? saw you
my brother after the vessel sunk?" inquired Mrs. Hamilton, hurriedly,
laying her trembling hand on the stranger's arm, scarcely conscious of
what she did. "He too might be spared even as yourself; but oh, death
were preferable to lingering on his years in slavery."
"Alas! my Emmeline, wherefore indulge in such fallacious hope?" said her
husband, tenderly, for he saw she was excessively agitated.
"Mrs. Hamilton," said Sir George Wilmot, earnestly, speaking at the same
moment, "Emmeline, child of my best, my earliest friend, look on those
features, look well; do you not know them? six-and-twenty years have
done their work, yet surely not sufficiently to conceal him from your
eyes. Have you not seen that flashing eye, that curling lip before? look
well ere you decide."
"Lady, Charles Manvers lives!" murmured the stranger, in the voice of
one whom strong emotion deprived of utterance, and he pushed from his
brow the hair which thickly clustered there and in part concealed the
natural expression of his features, and gazed on her face. A gleam of
sunshine at this instant threw a sudden glow upon his countenance, and
Mr. Hamilton started forward, and an exclamation of astonishment, of
pleasure escaped his lips, but Mrs. Hamilton's eyes moved not from the
stranger's face.
"Emmeline, my sister, my own sister, will you not know me? can you not
believe that Charles is spared?" he exclaimed, in a tone of excited
feeling.
"Oh, God, it is Charles himself?" she sobbed, and sunk almost fainting
in his embrace; convulsively the brother pressed her to his bosom. It
seemed as if the happiness of that moment was too great for reality, as
if it were but some dream of bliss; scarcely was he conscious of the
warm greeting he received; the uncontrollable emotion of the old
Admiral, who, as he wrung his hand again and again, wept like a child.
His brain seemed to reel, and every object danced before his eyes, he
was alone sensible that he held his sister in his arms, that sister whom
he had loved even more devotedly, more constantly in his hours of
slavery, than when she had been ever near him. Her counsels, her example
had had but little apparent effect on him when a wild and reckless boy
at his father's house, but they had sustained him in his affliction; it
was then he knew the value of those serious thoughts and feelings his
sister had so laboured to inculcate, and associated as they were with
her, she became dearer each time he felt himself supported, under his
many trials, by fervent prayer and that implicit trust, of which she had
so often spoken.
In wondering astonishment the younger members of the family had regarded
this little scene some minutes before the truth had flashed on the mind
of Mrs. Hamilton. Both St. Eval and Percy had guessed who in reality the
stranger was, and waited in some anxiety for the effect that recognition
would have on Mrs. Hamilton, whom Edward had already considerably
agitated. With characteristic delicacy of feeling, all then left the
room, Sir George Wilmot and Mr. Hamilton alone remaining with the
long-separated brother and sister.
"My uncle Charles himself! Fool, idiot that I was never to discover this
before!" had been Edward's exclamation, in a tone of unrestrained joy.
A short time sufficed to restore all to comparative composure, but a
longer interval was required for Charles Manvers, whom we must now term
Lord Delmont, to ask and to answer the innumerable questions which were
naturally called forth by his unexpected return; much had he to hear and
much to tell, even leaving, as he said he would, the history of his
adventures in Algiers to amuse two or three winter evenings, when all
his family were around him.
"All my family," he repeated, in a tone of deep feeling. "Do I say this?
I, the isolated, desolate being I imagined myself; I, who believed so
many years had passed, that I should remain unrecognised, unloved,
forgotten. Reproach me not, my sister, the misery I occasioned myself,
the emotions of this moment are punishment enough. And are all those
whom I saw here yours, Hamilton?" he continued, more cheerfully. "Oh,
let me claim their love; I know them all already, for Edward has long
ere this made me acquainted with them, both individually and as the
united members of one affectionate family; I long to judge for myself if
his account be indeed correct, though I doubt it not. Poor fellow, I
deserve his reproaches for continuing my deception to him so long."
"And why was that name assumed at all, dear Charles?" inquired Mr.
Hamilton. "Why not resume your own when the chains of slavery were
broken?"
"And how dare you say Mordaunt was yours as long as you can remember?"
demanded Sir George, holding up his hand in a threatening attitude, as
if the full-grown man before him were still the slight stripling he last
remembered him. "Deception was never permitted on my decks, Master
Charles."
Mrs. Hamilton smiled.
"Nor have I practised it, Sir George," he replied. "Mordaunt was my
name, as my sister can vouch. Charles Mordaunt Manvers I was christened,
Mordaunt being the name of my godfather, between whom and my father,
however, a dispute arose, when I was about seven years old, completely
setting aside old friendship and causing them to be at enmity till Sir
Henry Mordaunt's death. The tale was repeated to me when I was about ten
years old, much exaggerated of course, and I declared I would bear his
name no longer. I remember well my gentle sister Emmeline's entreaties
and persuasions that I would not interfere, that I knew nothing about
the quarrel, and had no right to be so angry. However, I carried my
point, as I generally did, with my too indulgent parent, and therefore
from that time I was only known as Charles Manvers, for my father could
not bear the name spoken before him. Do you not remember it, Emmeline?"
"Perfectly well, now it is recalled, though I candidly own I had
forgotten the circumstance."
"But, still, why was Manvers disused?" Mr. Hamilton again inquired.
"For perhaps an unjust and foolish fancy, my dear friend. I could not
enjoy my freedom, because of the thought I mentioned before. I knew not
if my beloved father still lived, nor who bore the title of Lord
Delmont, which, if he were no more, was mine by inheritance; for
four-and-twenty years I had heard nothing of all whom I loved, they
looked on me as dead: they might be scattered, dispersed; instead of
joy, my return might bring with it sorrow, vexation, discontent. It was
for this reason I relinquished the name of Manvers, and adopted the one
I had well-nigh forgotten as being mine by an equal right; I wished to
visit my native land unknown, and bearing that name, any inquiries I
might have made would be unsuspected."
Surrounded by those whom in waking and sleeping dreams he had so long
loved, the clouds which had overhung Lord Delmont's mind as a thick
mist, even when he found himself free, dissolved before the calm
sunshine of domestic love. A sense of happiness pervaded his heart,
happiness chastened by a deep feeling of gratitude to Him who had
ordained it. Affected he was almost to tears, as the manner of his
nephew and nieces towards him unconsciously betrayed how affectionately
they had ever been taught to regard his memory. Rapidly he became
acquainted with each and all, and eagerly looked forward to the arrival
of Emmeline and her husband to look on them likewise as his own; but
though Edward laughingly protested he should tremble now for the
continuance of his uncle's preference towards himself, he ever retained
his place. He had been the first known; his society, his soothing words,
his animated buoyancy of spirit, his strong affection and respect for
his uncle's memory when he believed him dead, and perhaps the
freemasonry of brother sailors, had bound him to Lord Delmont's heart
with ties too strong to be riven. The more he heard of, and the more he
associated with him in the intimacy of home, the stronger these feelings
became; and Edward on his part unconsciously increased them by his
devotedness to his uncle himself, the manner with which he ever treated
Mrs. Hamilton, and his conduct to his sister whose quiet unselfish
happiness at his return, and thus accompanied, was indeed heightened,
more than she herself a few months previous could have believed
possible.