Home Influence: A Tale for Mothers and Daughters

SIN AND SUFFERING.

ADVANCE AND RETROSPECT.

Our readers must imagine that two years and four months have elapsed since our last visit to the inmates of Oakwood. It was the first week in March that Edward Fortescue (only wanting ten days for the completion of his fourteenth year) quitted a home, which was happier than any he had ever known, to enter the world as a sailor; and it is the 7th of June, two years later, the day on which Ellen Fortescue completes her fifteenth year, that we recommence our narrative.

Over this interval, however, much as we are anxious to proceed, we must take a brief glance, clearly to understand the aspect of the Oakwood home affairs, which, from the increasing age of the younger members, had undergone some slight change. The greatest and most keenly felt was the departure of Percy and Herbert for college, the October twelvemonth after Edward had gone; the house seemed actually desolate without them. Percy's wild jokes and inexhaustible spirits, and Herbert's quiet, unobtrusive kindness, much as they had always been truly appreciated by their home circle, still scarcely seemed to have been fully felt till the young men were gone; and the old house actually seemed enwrapped in a silence, which it required very determined effort on the part of all who remained in the least degree to dispel.

Our readers who are mothers, and earnest ones, will easily understand the anxious tremblings of Mrs. Hamilton's heart, when she parted from her boys for the world: for such, to spirits fresh, boyish, unsophisticated, as they still were, Oxford could not fail to be. For Herbert, indeed, she had neither fear nor doubt: no sneer, no temptation, no bad example, would affect him, in whom every passing year seemed to increase and deepen those exalted feelings which, in his earliest childhood, had "less in them of earth than heaven." His piety was so real, his faith so fervent, his affections so concentrated in his home and in one other individual, his love and pursuit of study so ardent and unceasing, his one aim, to become worthy in heart and mind to serve God as his minister, so ever present, that he was effectually guarded even from the world. Percy had none of these feelings to the same extent, save his ardent love for home and its inmates—his mother, above all. He did, indeed, give every promise that the principles so carefully instilled had taken firm root, and would guide his conduct in the world; but Mrs. Hamilton was too humble-minded—too convinced that every human effort is imperfect, without the sustaining and vitalizing grace of God, to rest in security, as many might have done, that because she had so worked, so prayed, she must succeed. She was hopeful, indeed, very hopeful—how could she be otherwise when she beheld his deep, though silent, reverence for sacred things—his constant and increasing respect and love for his father—his devoted affection for herself—his attachment to Herbert, which seemed so strangely yet so beautifully to combine almost reverence for his superior mind and holier spirit, with the caressing protectiveness of an older for a younger—a stronger for a weaker? There was much in all this to banish anxiety altogether, but not from such a heart as Mrs. Hamilton's, whose very multiplicity of blessings made her often tremble, and led her to the footstool of her God, with a piety as humble, as constant, as fervent, as many believe is the fruit of adversity alone.

Caroline had sufficiently improved as greatly to decrease solicitude on her account: though there was still a want of sufficient humility, a too great proneness to trust implicitly in her own strength, an inclination to prejudice, and a love of admiration, which all made Mrs. Hamilton fear would expose her to some personal sorrow ere they were entirely overcome. To produce eternal good, she might not murmur at temporal suffering; but her fond heart, though it could anticipate it calmly for herself, so shrunk from it, as touching her child, that the nearer approached the period of Caroline's introduction to the gay world, the more painfully anxious she became, and the more gladly would she have retained her in the retirement of Oakwood, where all her better and higher qualities alone had play. But she knew this could not be; and she could only trust that her anxiety would be proved as groundless with Caroline, as every letter from Oxford proved it to be with Percy, and endeavor to avert it by never wavering in her watchful and guiding love.

Emmeline, at fifteen, was just the same sportive, happy, innocent child as she had been at twelve. Her feelings were, indeed, still deeper, her imagination more vivid, her religion more fervid. To her every thing was touched with poetry—it mattered not how dull and commonplace it might seem to other people; but Mrs. Hamilton's judicious care had so taught that Truth alone was poetry and beauty—the Ideal only lovable when its basis was the Real—that she was neither romantic nor visionary. Keen as her sensibilities were, even over a work of fiction, they prompted the deed and act of kindness, not the tear alone. For miles round her father's large domain she was known, loved, so felt as a guardian spirit, that the very sound of her step seemed to promise joy. She actually seemed to live for others—making their pleasures hers; and, withal, so joyous, especially in her own home and at Greville Manor, that even anxiety seemed exorcised when she was near. Before strangers, indeed, she would be as shy as a young fawn; though even then natural kindliness of heart prompted such kindness of word and manner, as always to excite the wish to see her again.

Edward, in the two years and a quarter which he had been away, had only once occasioned anxiety. Two or three months after he had sailed, he wrote home in the highest terms of a certain Gilbert Harding, one of the senior midshipmen of his ship, from whom he had received kindness upon kindness; and who, being six or seven years older than himself, he jestingly wrote to his aunt and uncle, must certainly be the very best friend he could have chosen, as he was much too old to lead him into mischief. Why he (Harding) had taken such a fancy to him, Edward could not tell; but he was so excessively kind, so taught him his duty, and smoothed all the difficulties and disagreeables which, he owned, had at first seemed overwhelming, that he never could be grateful enough. He added, that, though not a general favorite with his immediate messmates, he was very highly esteemed by Sir Edward Manly and his other superior officers, and that the former had much commended him for his kindness to the youngest boy on board, which Edward was. It was very easy to perceive that young Fortescue's susceptible affections had all been not only attracted, but already riveted by this new friend. All the young party at Oakwood rejoiced at it; Mrs. Hamilton would have done so also, had she not perceived an anxious expression on her husband's face, which alarmed her. He did not, however, make any remark till he had spoken to Mr. Howard, and then imparted to his wife alone (not choosing to create suspicion in the open hearts of his children) that this Gilbert Harding, though very young at the time had been one of the principal actors in the affair which had caused Mr. Howard to dismiss his pupils, as we related in a former page; that his very youth, for he could scarcely have been more than eleven or twelve, and determined hardihood, so marked natural depravity, that Mr. Howard had had less hope for him than for any of the others. This opinion had been borne out by his after conduct at home; but the affair had been successfully hushed up by his family; and by immense interest he been permitted to enter the navy, where, it was said, his youthful errors had been so redeemed, and his courage and conduct altogether had so won him applause, that no farther fears were entertained for him. Mr. Howard alone retained his opinion, that the disposition was naturally bad, and doubted the internal response to the seeming outward good; and he was grieved and anxious beyond measure, when he heard that he was not only on board the same ship as Edward, but already his favorite companion and most trusted friend. His anxiety, of course, extended itself to Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton to such a degree, that at the first moment they would gladly have endeavored to exchange his ship; but this would have seemed very strange to Sir Edward Manly, who was one of Mr. Hamilton's most valued friends. He had, in fact, actually delayed Edward's becoming a midshipman till Sir Edward could take him in his own ship and now to place him elsewhere was really impossible; and, after all, though he might be removed from Harding's influence, how could his anxious guardians know all with whom he might be thrown? They were obliged to content themselves with writing earnestly and affectionately to Edward; and, painful as it was, to throw a doubt and shade over such youthful confidence and affection, implored him not to trust too implicitly in Harding; that his character had not always been free from stain; that he (Edward) was still so young and so susceptible, he might find that he had imbibed principles, and been tempted to wrong almost unconsciously, and suffer from its effects when too late to escape. They wrote as affectionately and indulgently as they could—Mr. Howard, as well as his aunt and uncle; but still they felt that it certainly did appear cruel to warn a young, warm heart to break off the first friendship it had formed; especially as he beheld that friend approved of by his captain, and looked up to by the crew. And that Edward's reply was somewhat cold, though he did promise caution, and assure them he had not so forgotten the influences and principles of Oakwood as to allow any one to lead him into error, did not surprise them. He never referred to Harding again, except sometimes casually to mention his companionship, or some act which had won him approval; and they really hoped their letters had had at least the effect of putting him on his guard. Sir Edward Manly's own reply to Mr. Hamilton's anxious appeal to him, however, succeeded in quieting their fears; he assured them he had seen nothing in Harding's conduct, since he had been at sea, to render him an unfit companion for any boy: that he had heard of some boyish faults, but it was rather hard he was to suffer from them as a man; and he assured his friends that he would keep a strict look-out after young Fortescue, and the first appearance of a change in a character which, young as he was, he could not help loving, should be inquired into, and the friendship ended by sending Harding to some other ship. So wrote Sir Edward Manly, with the fullest possible intention to perform; and Edward's anxious friends were happy, more especially as letter after letter brought praises of the young sailor from captain, officers, and crew, and his own epistles, though brief, were affectionate and satisfactory.

It was happy for Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton, and Mr. Howard, too, that they were ignorant of the multiplicity of great and little things which could not fail to engross the mind of Sir Edward Manly, who was not only captain of the Prince William, a gallant seventy-four, but commander of the little flotilla which accompanied him, or they could not have rested so secure. Happy for them too, during those years of separation, that they were not perfectly acquainted with Edward's real weakness of character, or of the fearful extent of mischief which the influences of his first twelve years had engendered. Had he remained at Oakwood till nineteen or twenty, it is probable they would have been insensibly conquered, and the impressions of good, which he had appeared so readily to receive, really taken root and guided his after life, but eighteen months could not do this, as Mrs. Hamilton would have felt, had she known all the effect of her sister's ill-judged partiality and indulgence; but this, as we have already mentioned, was concealed from her by the bright, lovable, winning qualities, which alone were uppermost. Our readers, in fact, know more of Edward (if they have at all thought of his conduct in so frequently allowing his sister to suffer for him) than his aunt, penetrative as she was; and, therefore, in the events we shall have occasion to relate, we trust that Mrs. Hamilton will not appear an inconsistent character, inasmuch that one in general so successfully observant, should fail in penetration when most needed.

Edward's life at Oakwood had been so very happy, its pleasures and indulgences so innocent, so numerous, that he did not himself know his liability to temptation, from the excessive love of pleasure which his mother's indiscreet indulgence had originally infused. The control which his uncle and Mr. Howard exercised over him had been so very gentle and forbearing, that he had scarcely ever felt the inclination to exert self-will, and when it so chanced that he had, Ellen had covered his fault, or borne its penalty for him. He thought he had guided himself, when, in fact, he was guided; but this could no longer be the case when one of the little world which thronged a first-rate man-of-war. Outward actions were, indeed, under control; but what captain, the most earnest, most able in the world, could look into and guide the hearts of all those committed to his care? And almost the first action of Edward's unbiased will was indignantly to tear into shreds, and scatter to the winds and the waves, those affectionate and warning letters, and cling the more closely to, rest the more confidingly on Harding, for the wrong that he thought he had done him, by allowing his eye even to rest for a moment on such base, unfounded aspersions on his name.

When Mrs. Hamilton told Ellen that her letters to her brother, and his to her, should never be subjected to any scrutiny but their own, she acted on a principle which many parents and guardians would consider as high-flown and romantic, and which she herself had most painful reason to regret—the effects, at least, but not the principle itself, for that was based on too refined a feeling to waver, even though she suffered from it. She could not bear, nor could her husband, the system which prevailed in some families of their acquaintance, that their children could neither receive nor write letters to each other, or their intimate friends, without being shown to their seniors. As for opening and reading a letter directed to one of them, before its possessor saw it, as they had seen done, it was, in their estimation, as much dishonor and as mean, as if such a thing had been done to an adult. Perfect confidence in their home they had indeed instilled, and that confidence was never withheld. There was a degree of suspicion attached to a demand always to see what a child had written or received, from which Mrs. Hamilton's pure mind actually shrunk in loathing. In the many months the Grahame family passed in London, Annie and Caroline corresponded without the least restraint: no doubt many would pronounce Mrs. Hamilton very unwise, knowing Annie so well, and trembling for Caroline as she did; but, as she told Miss Harcourt, she had some notions peculiar to herself (they always had the sanction and sympathy of her husband, however), and this was one of them. She was always pleased and interested in all that her children read to her, either from their own epistles or those they received, and if they wished it, read them herself, but she never asked to do so, and the consequence was, that the most perfect confidence was given.

When Ellen and Edward parted, they were both so young, that Mr. Hamilton had hesitated as to whether his wife was quite justified in the perfect trust with which she treated them, and whether it would not be wiser to overlook their correspondence; but Mrs. Hamilton so argued that their very youth was their safeguard, that they were all in all to each other, and as such she wished them to feel they were bound by even a closer and a fonder tie than that of brother and sister under other circumstances, so won over her husband that he yielded; and from the long extracts that Ellen would read of Edward's letters to the family in general, and of her own to her aunt, he was quite satisfied as to the wisdom of his wife's judgment.

For full a year after Edward's departure, Ellen's conduct and general improvement had given her aunt nothing but pleasure; even Miss Harcourt's and Caroline's prejudice was nearly removed, though, at times, the fancy would steal over both that she was not exactly what she seemed, and that that which was hidden was not exactly that which Mrs. Hamilton believed it; and this fancy strengthened by a certain indefinable yet felt change in Ellen, commencing about thirteen months after she had parted from her brother. Mrs. Hamilton herself, for some time strove against belief, but at length she could no longer conceal from herself that Ellen was becoming reserved again, and fearful, at times almost shrinking, and sad, as in her childhood. The openness, and almost light-heartedness, which for one brief year had so characterized her, seemed completely but so insensibly to have gone, that Mrs. Hamilton could not satisfy herself as to the time of the commencement, or reason of the change. Her temper, too, became fitful, and altogether her aunt's anxiety and bewilderment as to her real character returned in full force. Once, when gently questioned as to why her temper was so altered, Ellen confessed with tears, that she knew it was, but she could not help it, she believed she was not well; and Mrs. Hamilton called in Mr. Maitland, who said that she really was in a highly nervous state, and required care and quietness, and the less notice that was taken of her momentary irritability or depression the better. Little did the worthy man imagine how his young patient blessed him for these words; giving a reason for and so allowing the trepidation which paled her cheek, parched her lips, and made her hand so tremble, when she received a letter from her brother, to pass unnoticed.

But change in manner was not all; almost every second or third month Ellen's allowance of pocket-money (which was unusually liberal, as Mrs. Hamilton wished to accustom her girls, from an early age, to purchase some few articles of dress for themselves, and so learn the value of money) most strangely and mysteriously disappeared. Ellen either could not or would not give any account of it; and, of course, it not only exposed her to her aunt's most serious displeasure, but inexpressibly heightened not only Mrs. Hamilton's bewilderment and anxiety, but Miss Harcourt's and Caroline's unspoken prejudice. From the time of Edward's departure, Ellen had never been discovered in or suspected of either uttering or acting an untruth; but her silence, her apparent determined ignorance of, or resolution not to confess the cause of the incomprehensible disappearance of her allowance, naturally compelled Mrs. Hamilton to revert to the propensity of her childhood, and fear that truthfulness was again deserting her. Her displeasure lasting of course, the longer from Ellen's want of openness, and the air of what almost appeared to her anxious yet still affectionate aunt like sullen defiance (in reality, it was almost despair), when spoken to, caused a painful degree of estrangement between them, always, however, giving place to Mrs. Hamilton's usual caressing manner, the moment Ellen seemed really repentant, and her month's expenditure could be properly explained.

For six or eight months before the day on which we recommence our narrative, there had been, however, nothing to complain of in Ellen, except still that unnatural reserve and frequent depression, as if dreading something she knew not what, which, as every other part of her conduct was satisfactory, Mrs. Hamilton tried to comfort herself was physical alone. No reference to the past was ever made: her manner to her niece became the same as usual; but she could not feel secure as to her character, and, what was most painful, there were times when she was compelled to doubt even Ellen's affection for herself, a thing she had never had the slightest cause to do even when she was a little inanimate child.

But very few changes had taken place in the Greville and Grahame families. Mrs. Greville's trial continued in unmitigated, if not heightened bitterness: the example, the companionship of his father had appeared to have blighted every good seed which she had strenuously endeavored to plant in the bosom of her son. At sixteen he was already an accomplished man of the world, in its most painful sense: he had his own companions, his own haunts; scarcely ever visiting his home, for a reason which, could his poor mother have known it, would have given her some slight gleam of comfort. He could not associate either with her or his sister, without feeling a sort of loathing of himself, a longing to be to them as Percy and Herbert Hamilton were at Oakwood; and not having the moral courage sufficient to break from the control of his father, and the exciting pleasures in which that control initiated him, he shrunk more and more from the only spot in which better feelings were so awakened within him as to give him pain. To deaden this unacknowledged remorse, his manner was rude and unfeeling, so that his very visits, though inexpressibly longed for by his mother, brought only increase of grief.

Mrs. Greville seemed herself so inured to suffering, that she bore up against it without any visible failing of health; struggling against its enervating effects, more, perhaps, than she was aware of herself, for the sake of one treasure still granted her—her own almost angel Mary—who, she knew, without her love and constant cheerfulness, must sink beneath such a constant aggravated trial. Yet that very love brought increase of anxiety from more than one cause. As yet there was no change in their manner of living, but Mrs. Greville knew that, from the excesses of her husband and son, there very soon must be. Ruin, poverty, all its fearful ills, stood before her in perspective, and how could Mary's fragile frame and gentle spirit bear up against them? Again and again the question pressed upon her—Did Herbert Hamilton indeed love her child, as every passing year seemed to confirm? and if he did, would—could his parents consent to his union with the child of such a father, the sister of such a brother? There were always long messages to Mary in Herbert's letters to his mother, which Mrs. Hamilton not only delivered herself, but sometimes even put the whole letter into Mary's hand, and at last laughingly said, she really thought they had much better write to each other, as then she should chance to get a letter all to herself, not merely be the medium of a communication between them; and Mary, though she did slightly blush, which she was in the habit of doing for scarcely any thing, seemed to think it so perfectly natural, that she merely said, if Herbert had time to write to her, she should like it very much, and would certainly answer him.

"My dear Emmeline, what are you about?" was Mrs. Greville's anxious appeal, the moment they were alone.

"Giving pleasure to two young folks, of whom I am most excessively fond," was Mrs. Hamilton's laughing reply. "Don't look so terrified, my dear Jessie. They love each other as boy and girl now, and if the love should deepen into that of man and woman, why, all I can say is—I would rather have your Mary for my Herbert than any one else I know."

"She is not only my Mary!" answered the poor mother, with such a quivering of the eye and lip, that it checked Mrs. Hamilton's joyousness at once.

"She is your Mary, in all that can make such a character as my Herbert happy," was her instant reply, with a pressure of Mrs. Greville's hand, that said far more than her words. "I am not one of those who like to make matches in anticipation, for man's best laid schemes are so often overthrown by the most trifling but unforeseen chances, that display a much wiser providence than our greatest wisdom, that I should consider it almost sinful so to do; but never let a thought of suffering cross your mind, dearest Jessie, as to what my husband's and my own answer will be, if our Herbert should indeed ever wish to choose your Mary as his wife, and, certainly a most important addition, should she wish it too. Our best plan now is to let them follow their own inclinations regarding correspondence. We can, I am sure, trust them both, for what can be a greater proof of my boy's perfect confidence in my sympathy with his feelings toward her, than to make me his messenger, as he has done, and as he, no doubt, will continue to do, even if he write. I have not the smallest doubt, that he will inclose me his letters to her unsealed, and I rather think your Mary will send me her replies in the same unreserved manner."

And she was right. Nor, we think, did the purity and innocence of those letters, so intensely interesting to each other, give place to any other style, even when they chanced to discover that Mrs. Hamilton was utterly ignorant of their contents, except that which they chose to read or impart to her themselves.

But even this assurance on the part of one so loved and trusted as Mrs. Hamilton, could not entirely remove Mrs. Greville's vague anticipations of evil. Mr. Greville always shunned, and declared he hated the Hamilton family; but as he seemed to entertain the same feeling toward herself and her poor Mary, she tried to comfort herself by the idea that he would never trouble his head about his daughter; or be glad to get her out of his way, especially if she married well. Still anxiety for the future would press upon her; only calmed by her firm, unchanging faith in that gracious, ever-watchful Providence, who, if in spite of her heavy troubles she still tried to trust and serve, would order all things for the best; and it was this, this faith alone, which so supported her, as to permit her to make her child's home and heart almost as happy as if her path had all been smooth.

In the Grahame family a change had taken place, in Master Cecil's being sent to Eton some time before his father had intended; but so many cases of Lady Helen's faulty indolence and ruinous indulgence had come under his notice, that he felt to remove the boy from her influence must be accomplished at any cost. Cecil was quite delighted, but his mother was so indignant, that she overcame her habitual awe of her husband sufficiently to vow that she would not live so far from her son, and if he must go to school, she must leave Moorlands. Grahame, with equal positiveness, declared that he would not give up a home endeared to him so long, nor to entirely break off his companionship with his dearest friends. A very stormy dialogue of course took place, and ended by both parties being more resolved to entertain their own opinion. The interposition of Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton, however, obtained some concession on Grahame's part, and he promised that if Lady Helen would make Moorlands her home from the middle of July till the end of October, November and December should be spent in the vicinity of Eton, and she should then have six months for London and its attractions. This concession brought back all Lady Helen's smiles, and charmed Annie, though it was a source of real regret to Caroline, who could not help feeling a little pained at her friend's small concern at this long separation from her. But still she loved her; and, as Annie wrote frequently, and when she was at Moorlands never tired of her society (the eight months of absence giving her so much interesting matter to impart), Caroline was not only satisfied, but insensible to the utter want of sympathy which Annie manifested in her pursuits, her pleasures. Mrs. Hamilton often wished that Caroline had chosen one more deserving of her friendship, but she trusted that time and experience would teach her Annie's real character, and so did not feel any anxiety on that score.

There was only one member in Grahame's family, that Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton hoped might bring joy and comfort to their friend, and that was his little Lilla. She was five years younger than Annie, and being much less attractive, seemed almost forgotten, and so was spared the dangerous ordeal of flattery and indulgence to which Annie had been subject; and from being more violent and less agreeable than Cecil, was not so frequently spoiled by her mother. They feared the poor child would have much to endure from her own temper, Annie's overbearing insolence, and Lady Helen's culpable indolence; but Mrs. Hamilton hoped, when she resided part of the year in London, as she felt she would very soon be called upon to do, to be enabled to rouse Grahame's attention toward his youngest child, and prevail on him to relax in his sternness toward her; and by taking notice of her continually herself, instill such feelings in her as would attract her toward her father, and so increase the happiness of both. Every visit of the Grahame family to Moorlands, she resolved to study Lilla well, and try all she could to make one in reality so estimable, as her husband's friend, happy, in one child at least.

It had been Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton's intention to go to London the January after Caroline was seventeen, and give her the advantage of finishing masters, and a partial introduction to the world, by having the best society at home, before she launched into all its exciting pleasures; to return to Oakwood in July or August, and revisit the metropolis the following February or March, for the season, when, as she would be eighteen and a half, she should be fully introduced. Caroline, of course, anticipated this period with intense delight. She was quite satisfied that in her first visit she should study as much as, if not more than before; and content and thankful that her mother would allow her to enter so far into society, as always to join dinner or evening parties at home, and go to some of her most intimate friends, when their coteries were very small and friendly; and, another eagerly anticipated delight, sometimes go to the opera and the best concerts, and visit all the galleries of art.

To poor Emmeline these anticipations gave no pleasure whatever; she hated the very thought of leaving Oakwood, firmly convinced that not the most highly intellectual, nor the most delightful social enjoyment in London, could equal the pure delights of Devonshire and home. Ellen seemed too engrossed with her own thoughts to evince a feeling either way, much to her aunt's regret, as her constant quietness and seeming determined repression of her sentiments, rendered her character still more difficult to read.

A LETTER, AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.

It was the seventh of June, and one of those glorious mornings, when Nature looks lovelier than ever. The windows of the breakfast-room were thrown widely open, and never did the superb trees of Oakwood Park look richer or display a greater variety of green. The flower-garden, on part of which the breakfast-room opened, was actually dazzling with its profusion of brilliant flowers, on which the sun looked down so gloriously; a smooth lawn whose green was a perfect emerald, stretched down from the parterre, till it was lost in woody openings, which disclosed the winding river, that, lying as a lake on one side, appeared to sweep round some exquisite scenery on the opposite side, and form another lake, about a mile further. It was Emmeline's favorite view, and she always declared, that it so varied its aspects of loveliness, she was sure it never looked two mornings exactly alike, and so long would she stand and admire, that her mother often threatened to send her her breakfast in her own room, where the view, though picturesque, would not so completely turn her attention from the dull realities of life. There were some letters on the table this morning, so she had a longer time to drink in poetry than usual.

"Who can offer Ellen a more precious birthday-gift than mine?" exclaimed Mrs. Hamilton, playfully holding up a letter, as her niece entered. "I wonder if Edward remembered how near his sister was to fifteen, and so wrote on the chance of your receiving it on the day itself!"

"Why, Ellen, what a queer effect pleasure has on you! I always notice you turn quite pale whenever Edward's letters are given to you," interposed Emmeline, looking at her cousin, and laughing. "I am sure, the very hurry I am in to open Percy's and Herbert's, must give me a color, and you are as deliberate as if you did not care about it. I do wish you would not be so cold and quiet."

"One giddy brain is quite enough in a house," rejoined her father, in the same mirthful tone, and looking up from his letter he called Ellen to him, and kissed her. "I forgot the day of the month, my little girl, but I am not too late, I hope, to say, God bless you, and wish that every year may pass more happily, more usefully, and more prepared for eternity than the last!"

"I do not think you have forgotten it, my dear uncle," replied Ellen, gratefully (she had not yet opened her brother's letter); "for my aunt says, I am to thank you as well as her for this beautiful birthday gift," and she displayed an elegant little gold watch; "indeed, I do not know how to thank you for all your kindness!" she added, so earnestly that tears came to her eyes.

"I will say, as I have heard your aunt often say—by trying to be a little more lively, and unreserved, my dear Ellen; that would prove our kindness and affection made you happy, better than any thing; but I am not going to lecture you on your birthday, and with a letter from Edward in your hand," he continued, smiling. "Open it, my dear, I want to know its date; I rather think my friend Manly's must be written later."

"Nothing in it for me, Ellen?" asked her aunt. "What a lazy boy he has grown!"

"An inclosure for you, Ellen; why, that is as queer as your paleness!" said Emmeline.

"Do let your cousin's paleness alone," interposed Mrs. Hamilton, gayly. "I really can not perceive she has any less color than usual, and as for the inclosure, Edward often has something to add at the last moment, and no room to insert it, and so there is nothing remarkable in his using another half sheet."

"Emmeline always creates wonders out of shadows," said Caroline, dryly.

"And you never see any thing but dull, coarse, heavy realities," laughed her sister in reply. "Come, Ellen, tell us something of this idle brother of yours, who promised to write to me every packet, and never does."

Ellen read nearly the whole letter aloud, and it was unusually entertaining, for the ship had been cruising about the last month and Edward described the various scenes and new places he had visited more lengthily than usual. He anticipated with great glee an engagement with some desperate pirates, whose track they were pursuing.

"Does he mention an engagement?" inquired Mr. Hamilton.

"No, uncle; he concludes quite abruptly, saying they have just piped all hands, and he must be off. The direction does not seem his writing."

"Nor is it; Sir Edward sealed, directed, and put it up for him in his own to me. They had piped all hands, as he calls it, because the pirate ship was in sight, and an engagement did take place."

"And Edward—oh, uncle, is he hurt? I am sure, he is, by your face," exclaimed Ellen; trembling and all the little circle looked alarmed.

"Then my face is a deceiver," replied Mr. Hamilton, quite cheerfully. "He only received a slight flesh wound in his right arm, which prevented his using it to complete his letter, and I rather think, he would have willingly been hurt still more, to receive such praises as Sir Edward lavishes on him. Listen to what he says—'Not a boy or man on board distinguished himself more than your nephew: in fact, I am only astonished he escaped as he did, for those pirates are desperate fighters, and when we boarded them, Fortescue was in the midst of them, fighting like a young lion. Courage and gallantry are such dazzling qualities in a young lad, that we think more of them perhaps than we ought, but I can not say too much for your nephew; I have not a lad more devoted to his duty. I was glad to show him my approbation by giving him some days' liberty, when we were off New York; but I have since told him, the air of land certainly did not agree with him, for he has looked paler and thinner ever since. He is growing very fast; and altogether, if I have occasion to send another prize schooner home, I think it not improbable I shall nominate him as one of the officers, that he may have the benefit of the healthful breezes of Old England, to bring back his full strength.' There Ellen, I think that is a still better birthday-present than even Edward's own letter. I am as proud of my nephew as Sir Edward is."

"And do you think he really will come?" asked Ellen, trying to conquer her emotion.

"We will hope it, dearest," replied her aunt, kindly. "But do not think too much about it, even if Sir Edward be not able to do as he says. His own ship will be coming home in a year or two, and you owned to me yourself this morning, it did not seem as long as it really is, since our dear sailor left us; so the remaining time will soon pass. Finish your breakfast, and go, love, and enjoy his letter again to yourself."

And Ellen gladly obeyed; for it was from no imaginary cause that the receipt of Edward's letters so often paled her cheek, and parched her lip with terror. She knew that concerning him which none else but Harding did; and even when those letters imparted nothing but that which she could read to her family, the dread was quite enough to banish any thing like the elastic happiness, natural to her age, and called for by the kindness of those she loved. His letter this time, however, had not a word to call for that sickness of the heart, with which she had received it, and she read it again and again; with a thankfulness, too intense for words.

"You dropped this, Ellen dear," said the voice of her cousin Emmeline at her door, ten minutes after she left the breakfast-room. "It was under the table, and I do not think you have read it; it is the inclosure I was so amused at."

"I dare say it is a letter written for some other opportunity, and forgotten to be sent; it is only a few words," replied Ellen as she looked at its length, not at its meaning, for the fearful lesson of quiet unconcern when the heart is bursting had been too early learned.

"Then I will leave you in peace: by-the-by, cousin mine, papa told me to tell you, that as the Prince William is soon going to cruise again, your answer to Edward must be ready this day week, the latest, and mamma says, if you like to write part of it now that all Edward's little love-speeches are fresh in your mind, you can do so; it is your birthday, and you may spend it as you like. How I shall enjoy making a lion of my cousin, when he comes!"—and away tripped the happy girl, singing some wild snatch of an old ballad about sailors.

Ellen shut the door, secured it, and with a lip and cheek colorless as her robe, an eye strained and bloodshot, read the following words—few indeed!

"Ellen! I am again in that villain's power, and for a sum so trifling, that it maddens me to think I can not discharge it without again appealing to you. I had resolved never to play again—and again some demon lured me to those Hells! If I do not pay him by my next receipts from home, he will expose me, and what then—disgrace, expulsion, death! for I will not survive it; there are easy means of self-destruction to a sailor, and who shall know but that he is accidentally drowned? You promised me to save part of every allowance, in case I needed it. If you would indeed save me, send me five-and-thirty pounds! Ellen! by some means, I must have it; but breathe it to my uncle or aunt—for if she knows it, he will—and you will never see me more!"

For one long hour Ellen never moved. Her brain felt scorched, her limbs utterly powerless. Every word seemed to write itself in letters of fire on her heart and brain, till she could almost have screamed, from the dread agony; and then came the heavy weight, so often felt before, but never crushing every thought and energy as now, the seeming utter impossibility to comply with that fearfully urged demand. He called it a sum so trifling, and she felt a hundred, ay, a thousand pounds were not more difficult to obtain. She had saved, indeed, denying herself every little indulgence, every personal gratification, spending only what she was obliged, and yet compelled to let her aunt believe she had properly expended all, that she might have the means of sending him money when he demanded it, without exposing herself to doubt and displeasure as before; but in the eight months since his last call, she had only been enabled to put by fifteen pounds, not half the sum he needed. How was she to get the rest? and she had so buoyed herself with the fond hope, that even if he did write for help again, she could send it to him so easily—and now—her mind seemed actually to reel beneath the intense agony of these desperate words. She was too young, too believing, and too terror-stricken to doubt for a moment the alternative he placed before her, with a vividness, a desperation, of which he was unconscious himself. Those words spoken, would have been terrible, almost awful in one so young—though a brief interval would have sufficiently calmed both the hearer and the speaker, to satisfy that they were but words, and that self-destruction is never breathed, if really intended: but written, the writer at a distance, imagination at liberty, to heighten every terror, every reality; their reader a young loving girl, utterly ignorant of the world's ways and temptations, and the many errors to which youth is subject, but from which manhood may spring up unsullied; and so believing, almost crushed by the belief, that her brother, the only one, her own—respected, beloved, as he was said to be—had yet committed such faults, as would hurl him from his present position to the lowest depth of degradation, for what else could tempt him, to swear not to survive it? Was it marvel, that poor Ellen was only conscious that she must save him?—Again did her dying mother stand before her—again did her well-remembered voice beseech her to save him her darling, beautiful Edward, from disgrace and punishment—reiterate that her word was pledged, and she must do it, and if she suffered—had she not done so from infancy—and what was her happiness to his? Define why it should be of less moment, indeed, she could not. It was the fatal influences of her childhood working alone.

How that day passed, Ellen never knew. She had been too long accustomed to control, to betray her internal suffering (terror for Edward seemed to endow her with additional self command), except by a deadly paleness, which even her aunt at length remarked. It was quite evening, and the party were all scattered, when Mrs. Hamilton discovered Ellen sitting in one of the deep recesses of the windows: her work in her lap, her hands clasped tightly together, and her eyes fixed on the beautiful scenery of the park, but not seeing a single object.

"My dear Ellen, I am going to scold you, so prepare," was her aunt's lively address, as she approached and stood by her. "You need not start so guiltily and look so very terrified, but confess that you are thinking about Edward, and worrying yourself that he is not quite so strong as he was, and magnifying his wound, till you fancy it something very dreadful, when, I dare say, if the truth were told, he himself is quite proud of it; come confess, and I will only give you a very little lecture, for your excessive silliness."

Ellen looked up in her face; that kind voice, that affectionate smile, that caressing, constantly-forgiving love, would they again all be forfeited, again give way to coldness, loss of confidence, heightened displeasure? How indeed she was to act, she knew not; she only knew there must be concealment, the very anticipation of which, seemed too terrible to bear, and she burst into an agony of tears.

"Why, Ellen—my dear child—you can not be well, to let either the accounts of your brother, or my threatened scolding, so affect you, and on your birthday, too! Why, all the old women would say it was such a bad omen, that you would be unhappy all the year round. Come, this will never do, I must lecture, in earnest, if you do not try to conquer this unusual weakness. We have much more to be thankful for, in Sir Edward's account of our dear sailor, than to cry about; he might have been seriously wounded or maimed, and what would you have felt then? I wonder if he will find as much change in you as we shall in him. If you are not quite strong and quite well, and quite happy to greet him when he comes, I shall consider my care insulted, and punish you accordingly. Still no smile. What is the matter, dearest? Are you really not well again?"

Ellen made a desperate effort, conquered her tears, and tried to converse cheerfully. It was absolute agony to hear Edward's name, but she nerved herself to do so, to acknowledge she was thinking of him; and that it was very silly to worry about such a slight wound: and when Mrs. Hamilton proposed that they should walk over to Greville Manor, and tell the good news to Mrs. Greville and Mary, acquiesced with apparent pleasure.

"Ah, do, mamma: you have not asked me, but I shall go notwithstanding," exclaimed Emmeline, springing through the open window, with her usual airy step.

"Why, Emmeline, I thought you were going to the village with your sister!"

"No; she and Miss Harcourt were talking much too soberly to suit me this evening. Then I went to tease papa but he let me do just what I pleased, being too engrossed with some disagreeable farmers, to notice me, so in despair I came here. Why, Ellen, you look as if this were any day but what it is; unless you cry because you are getting old, which I am very often inclined to do; only think, I am sixteen next December—how dreadful! I do wish my birthday were in June."

"And what difference would that make?"

"A great deal, mamma; only look how lovely every thing is now; nature is quite juvenile, and has dressed herself in so many colors, and seems to promise so many more beauties, that, whether we will or no, we must feel gay and young; but in December, though it is very delightful in the house, it is so drear and withered, without, that if born in such a season, one must feel withered too."

"When do you intend to speak in prose, Emmeline?"

"Never, if I can help it mamma; but I must learn the lesson before I go to London, I suppose; that horrid London! that is one reason why I regret the years going so fast; I know I shall leave all my happiness here."

"You will be more ungrateful, than I believe you, if you do," replied her mother. "So pray banish such foolish fancies as fast as you can; for if you encourage them, I shall certainly suppose that it is only Oakwood you love; and that neither your father nor myself, nor any member of your family, has any part in your affections, for we shall be with you, wherever you are."

"Dear mamma, I spoke at random, forgive me," replied Emmeline, instantly self-reproached. "I am indeed the giddy brain papa calls me; but you can not tell how I love this dear old home."

"Indeed I think I can, my dear child, loving it as I do myself; but come, we shall have no time for our visit, if we do not go at once."

Days passed, and were each followed by such sleepless feverish nights, that Ellen felt it almost a miracle, that she could so seem, so act, as to excite no notice. The image of her dying mother never left her, night or day, mingled with the horrid scene of her father's death, and Edward disgraced, expelled, and seeking death by his own hand. There was only one plan that seemed in the least feasible, and that was to send to him, or sell herself the watch she had received on her birthday, and if that was not enough, some few trinkets, which had been her mother's, and which the last six months her aunt had given into her own care. She ventured casually to inquire if there were any opportunity of sending a parcel to Edward, but the answer was in the negative, and increased her difficulty. The only person she dared even to think of so far intrusting with her deep distress and anxiety for money, but not its cause, was widow Langford, the mother of Robert (the young gentlemen's attendant, whom we have had occasion more than once to mention, and the former nurse of all Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton's children). She occupied a cottage on the outskirts of the park, and was not only a favorite with all the young party, Ellen included (for she generally came to nurse her in her many illnesses), but was regarded with the greatest confidence and affection by Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton themselves. They had endeavored to return her unwavering fidelity and active service, by taking her only child Robert into their family, when only seven; placing him under the immediate charge of Morris, the steward, and of course living in the same house, of his mother also; and when fifteen, making him personal attendant to Percy and Herbert, who were then about ten and eleven years old. An older and more experienced domestic had, however, accompanied the young men to college, and Robert remained employed in many little confidential services for his master at Oakwood.

To widow Langford, Ellen tried to resolve that she would apply, but her fearful state of mental agony had not marked the lapse of time, or had caused her to forget that her letter must be ready in a week. The party were all going a delightful excursion, and to drink tea at Greville Manor, so that they would not be home till quite late; but in the morning, Ellen, though she had dressed for going out, appeared to have every symptom of such a violent headache, that her aunt advised her remaining quietly at home, and she assented with eagerness, refusing every offer of companionship, saying if the pain went off, she could quite amuse herself, and if it continued, quietness and Ellis's nursing were the best things for her.

"But give me your letter before we go out, Ellen, I am only waiting for it, to close mine to Sir Edward. Why, my dear, have you forgotten I told you it must be ready by to-day?" her uncle added, surprised at her exclamation that she had not finished it. "It must be done and sent to T—, before four to-day, so I do hope your head will allow you to write, for Edward will be woefully disappointed if there be not a line from you, especially as, from his ship cruising about, it may be several weeks before he can hear again. I must leave my letter with you, to inclose Edward's and seal up, and pray see that it goes in time."

Ellen tried to promise that it should, but her tongue actually clove to the roof of her mouth; but all the party dispersing at the moment, her silence was unnoticed. Mr. Hamilton gave her his letter, and in half an hour afterward she was alone. She sat for nearly an hour in her own room, with her desk before her, her face buried in her hands, and her whole frame shaking as with an ague.

"It must be," she said at length, and unlocking a drawer, took thence a small cross, and one or two other trinkets, put them up, and taking off her watch, looked at it with such an expression of suffering, that it seemed as if she could not go on, carefully folded it up with the other trinkets, and murmuring, "If nurse Langford will but take these, and lend me the twenty pounds till she can dispose of them, I may save him yet—and if she betray me—if she tell my aunt afterward, at least only I shall suffer; they will not suspect him. But oh—to lose—to be doubted, hated, which I must be at last. Oh, mother! mother! Why may I not tell my aunt? she would not disgrace him." And again she crouched down, cowed by that fearful struggle to the very earth. After a few minutes, it passed, and deliberately putting on her bonnet and shawl, she took up her trinkets, and set off to the widow's cottage, her limbs so trembling, that she knew not how she should accomplish even that short walk.

The wind was unusually high, although the day was otherwise lovely, and she was scarcely able to stand against the strong breeze, especially as every breath seemed to increase the pain in her temples; but she persisted. The nearest path lay through a thick shrubbery, almost a wood, which the family never used, and, in fact, the younger members were prohibited from taking, but secrecy and haste were all which at that moment entered Ellen's mind. She felt so exhausted by the wind blowing the branches and leaves noisily and confusedly around, that on reaching a sort of grassy glade, more open than her previous path, she sat down a minute on a mossy stone. The wind blew some withered sticks and leaves toward her, and, among them, two or three soiled pieces of thin paper, stained with damp, one of which she raised mechanically, and started up with a wild cry, and seized the others almost unconsciously. She pressed her hands over her eyes, and her lips moved in the utterance of thanksgiving. "Saved!—Edward and myself, too!—some guardian angel must have sent them!" if not actually spoken, were so distinctly uttered in her heart, that she thought she heard them; and she retraced her steps, so swiftly—so gladly, the very pain and exhaustion were unfelt. She wrote for half an hour intently—eagerly; though that which she wrote she knew not herself, and never could recall. She took from the secret drawer of her desk (that secret drawer which, when Percy had so laughingly showed her the secret of its spring, telling her nobody but himself knew it, she little thought she should have occasion so to use), some bank notes, of two, three, and five pounds each, making the fifteen she had so carefully hoarded, and placed with them the two she had found. As she did so, she discovered that two had clung so closely together that the sum was five pounds more than she wanted. Still, as acting under the influence of some spell, she carelessly put one aside, sealed up the packet to Edward, inclosed it in her uncle's to Sir Edward Manly, and dispatched it full four hours before the hour Mr. Hamilton had named. It was gone; and she sat down to breathe. Some impulse, never experienced before, urged her, instead of destroying Edward's desperate letter, as she had done similar appeals, to retain it in a blank envelop in that same secret drawer. As she tried to rouse herself from a sort of stupor which was strangely creeping over her, her eye caught the five pound note which she had not had occasion to use, and a thought of such overwhelming wretchedness rushed upon her, as effectually, for the moment, to disperse that stupor, and prostrate her in an agony of supplication before her God.

"What have I done?"—if her almost maddening thoughts could have found words, such they would have been—"How dared I appropriate that money, without one question—one thought—as to whom it could belong? Sent me? No, no! Who could have sent it? Great God of Mercy! Oh, if Thy wrath must fall on a guilty one, pour it on me, but spare, spare my brother! I have sinned, but I meant it not—thought not of it—knew not what I did! Thou knowest, Thou alone canst know, the only thought of that moment—the agony of this. No suffering, no wrath, can be too great for me; but, oh! spare him!"

How long that withering agony lasted, Ellen knew not, nor whether her tears fell, or lay scorching her eyes and heart. The note lay before her like some hideous specter, from which she vainly tried to turn. What could she do with it? Take it back to the spot where the others had been blown to her? She tried to rise to do so; but, to her own terror, she found she was so powerless, that she actually could not walk. With desperate calmness she placed it in the little secret drawer, put up the remainder of her papers, closed and locked her desk, and laid down upon her bed, for she could sit up no longer. Ellis came to her with an inquiry after her head, and if she could take her dinner. Ellen asked for a cup of coffee, and to be left quite quiet instead, as writing had not decreased the pain; and the housekeeper, accustomed to such casual attacks, did as she was requested, and came frequently to see her in the course of the afternoon and evening; still without perceiving any thing unusual, and, therefore, not tormenting her with any expression of surprise or anxiety.

Thought after thought congregated in the poor girl's mind, as she thus lay; so fraught with agony that the physical suffering, which was far more than usual, was unfelt, save in its paralyzing effect on every limb. Her impulse was to confess exactly what she had done to her aunt, the moment she should see her, and conjure her to sentence her to some heavy chastisement, that must deaden her present agony; but this was impossible without betraying Edward, and nullifying for him the relief she had sent. How could she confess the sin, without the full confession of the use to which that money had been applied? Whose were the notes? They were stained with damp, as if they must have lain among those withered leaves some time; and yet she had heard no inquiry made about them, as the loss of so large a sum would surely have demanded. The only plan she could think of, as bringing the least hope of returning peace, was still to beseech Mrs. Langford to dispose of her watch and trinkets, and the very first mention she heard made of the loss to return the full sum to the real possessor, if possible, so secretly as for it not to be traced to herself. She thought, too, that if she gave her trinkets, one by one, not all together, to Mrs. Langford, it would be less suspicious, and, perhaps, more easily prevail on her to grant her secrecy and assistance; and if she positively refused, unless Ellen revealed the reason of her desiring their disposal, and would solemnly promise secrecy, she would tell her so much of her intense misery, as might perhaps induce her to give her aid. If she did not demand the reason and betrayed her, she must endure the doubt and serious displeasure such a course of acting on her part would inevitably produce; but two things alone stood clear before her: she must replace that money—she must keep Edward's secret. She would have gone that very day to Mrs. Langford, but she could not move, and Ellis, at seven o'clock, prevailed on her to undress and go to bed.

"Not better, my Ellen? I hoped to-day's perfect quietness would have removed your headache, and am quite disappointed," was Mrs. Hamilton's affectionate address, as she softly entered her niece's room, on the return of the happy party at eleven at night, and placing the lamp so that the bed remained in shade she could not see any expression in Ellen's face, except that of suffering, which she naturally attributed to physical pain. "How hot your hands and face are, love; I wish you had not left Edward's letter to write to-day. I am afraid we shall be obliged to see Mr. Maitland's face again to-morrow; if he were not as kind a friend as he is a skillful doctor, I am sure you would get quite tired of him, Ellen. Shall I stay with you? I can not bear leaving you in pain and alone!" But Ellen would not hear of it; the pain was not more than she was often accustomed to, she said, and, indeed, she did not mind being alone—though the unusual, almost passionate, warmth with which she returned Mrs. Hamilton's fond kiss betrayed it was no indifference to the affectionate offer which dictated her refusal. It was well Mrs. Hamilton, though anxious enough to feel the inclination to do so, did not visit her niece again, or the convulsive agony she would have witnessed, the choking sobs which burst forth, a few minutes after she disappeared from Ellen's sight, would have bewildered and terrified her yet more.