Home Influence: A Tale for Mothers and Daughters

THE LIGHT GLIMMERS.

The earnest wishes and prayers of Mrs. Hamilton and her faithful Ellis were disappointed. The latter part of the month of September had been exceedingly stormy, and though there was a lull from about the 3d to the 9th of October, the equinoctial gales then set in with the utmost fury; continuing day after day, night after night, till the ear seemed almost to tire of the sound, and the mind, anxious for friends at sea, despair of their cessation. During the few calm days, the young party at Oakwood had scarcely been absent from the windows, or from that part of the park leading to the Plymouth road, above an hour at a time. Percy and Herbert rode over to Plymouth, but were told the frigate could not be in for a full week. The late storms must have detained her, though she was a fast-sailing craft. It was a great disappointment to them, for on the 10th of October college term began, and they were compelled to return to Oxford. The cause of their mother's intense desire for Edward's return, indeed, they did not know; but they were most impatient to see him, and they hoped, they did not exactly know what, with regard to his influence with Ellen. However, the day of their departure came, and still he had not arrived, and the storms had recommenced. Percy had gone to say good-by to Ellis, with whom Ellen chanced at that moment to be. Full of spirits and jokes, he determinately looked away from his cousin, took both Ellis's hands, and shook them with his usual heartiness.

"Good-by, dear Ellis. I wonder if I shall ever feel myself a man when talking to you. How many tricks I have played you in this room, and you were always so good-natured, even when one of my seat-crackers set your best gown on fire, and quite spoiled it; do you remember it? I do think you were nearly angry then, and quite enough to make you; and papa made me save up my money to buy you a new dress. I did not play such a practical joke in a hurry again."

Ellis laughed and perfectly remembered it, and with another hearty good-by he turned away.

"You have forgotten your cousin, Mr. Percy," she said, disregarding Ellen's imploring look.

"When she remembers her duty to my mother, I will remember that she is my cousin," was his hasty answer, and he hurried from the room as Herbert entered. His good-by to Ellis was quite as warm as Percy's, and then turning to Ellen, he put his arm round her, kissed her cheek, and said, with impressive earnestness—

"God bless you, dear Ellen! I hope you will be happier when we meet again, and that it will not be so long before we do, as we fancy now;" and, affected almost to tears at the grateful, humble look she raised to his, he left her.

Overcome as much by the harshness of the generous, warm-hearted Percy, whom she so dearly loved, as by the gentle kindness of Herbert, Ellen remained for several minutes with her arms on the table, her face hid upon them. She thought she was quite alone, for Ellis had gone about some of her business, when she was startled by Percy's voice.

"I am a brute, Ellen, nothing less; forgive me, and say good-by. I can't understand it at all, but angry as I am with you, your pale face haunts me like a specter, so we must part friends;" and as she looked hastily up, he kissed her warmly twice, and ran away without another word.

Days passed heavily, the gales seeming to increase in violence, and causing Mrs. Hamilton more terrible anxiety and vague dread than she allowed to be visible. The damage among the shipping was fearful, and the very supposed vicinity of the frigate to the Channel increased the danger. The papers every morning presented long lists of ships wrecked, or fatally dismantled, loss of crews or part of them, mails and cargoes due but missing: and the vivid recollection of the supposed fate of her own brother, the wretchedness of the suspense before the fate of his vessel was ascertained, returned to heighten the fears that would gain ascendency for her nephew, and for the effect of this terrible suspense on Ellen, more especially—if indeed she had endured all these weeks, nay, months, of misery for him.

At first Ellen seemed unconscious that there was any thing remarkable in the delay, the thought of her own departure being uppermost; but when the thought did press upon her, how it came she knew not—that of the given month the weeks were passing, and Edward had not arrived, and that there must be some reason for the long delay—storm, shipwreck, death, all flashed upon her at once, and almost maddened her. The quiet calm of endurance gave way. She could not sleep at night from the tremendous winds; not even when Ellis had a bed put up in her room, and remained with her all night herself; she never complained indeed, but hour after hour she would pace her room and the passage leading to Ellis's, till compelled to cease from exhaustion; she would try steadily to employ herself with some difficult study, and succeed, perhaps, for half an hour, but then remain powerless, or recommence her restless walk. Mrs. Hamilton made several attempts without any apparent interference on her part, to get her to sit occasionally with her and Miss Harcourt, and her cousins, but she seemed to shrink from them all. Emmeline, indeed, when once aware of the terrible trial she was enduring, would sit with her, drawing or working as if nothing had occurred to estrange them, and try to cheer her by talking on many topics of interest. Caroline would speak to her kindly whenever she saw her. Miss Harcourt alone retained her indignation, for no suspicion of the real cause of her silence ever entered her mind.

Poor Ellen felt that she dared not indulge in the comfort this change in her aunt's and cousins' manner produced. She wanted to wean herself quite from them, that the pang of separation might be less severe, but she only seemed to succeed in loving them more. One thought, indeed, at length took such entire possession of her mind, as to deaden every other:—it was the horrible idea that as she had sinned to save Edward, perhaps, from merited disgrace, he would be taken from her; she never breathed it, but it haunted her night and day. Mr. Maitland saw her continually, but he plainly told Mrs. Hamilton, while the cause of anxiety and mental suffering lasted he could do her no good. It was a constant alternation of fearful excitement and complete depression, exhausting the whole system. Repose and kindness—alas! the latter might be given, but the former, in the present position of affairs, how could it be insured?

The month of grace was waning; only two days remained, and Edward had not arrived, and how could Mrs. Hamilton obey her husband—whose every letter reiterated his hope that she had not been prevailed on to alter his sentence, if Ellen still remained silent—and send her niece from her? She came at length to the determination, that if another week passed and still there were no tidings, not to let this fearful self-sacrifice, if it really were such, last any longer, but gently, cautiously, tenderly as she could, prevail on Ellen to confide all to her, and promise, if Edward really had been erring and in difficulties, all should be forgiven for her sake, and even his uncle's anger averted. Once her determination taken, she felt better enabled to endure an anxiety which was injuring her almost as much as Ellen; and she turned to Ellis's room, which she had lately very often frequented, for she scarcely felt comfortable when Ellen was out of her sight, though she had full confidence in Ellis's care.

Ellen was asleep on a sofa, looking so wan, so haggard—so altered from the Ellen of five short months back, that Mrs. Hamilton sat down by her side, pondering whether she was doing right to wait even another week, before she should try to bring relief by avowing her suspicions—but would it bring relief? and, after all, was it for Edward? or, had she been allowing affection and imagination to mislead and soften, when sternness might still be needed?

Ellen woke with a start as from some fearful dream, and gazed at Mrs. Hamilton for a full minute, as if she did not know her.

"My dear Ellen, what is it? You have been sleeping uncomfortably—surely you know me?"

"I thought I was at—at—Seldon Grange—are you sure I am not? Dear aunt Emmeline, do tell me I am at Oakwood, I know I am to go, and very soon; but I am not there now, am I?" and she put one hand to her forehead, and gazed hurriedly and fearfully round her, while, with the other, she held tightly Mrs. Hamilton's dress. There was something alarming both in her look and tone.

"No, love, you are with me still at Oakwood, and you will not go from me till you have been with Edward some little time. You can not think I would send you away now, Ellen?"

The soothing tone, her brother's name, seemed to disperse the cloud, and bursting into tears, she exclaimed—

"He will never come—I know he will never come—my sin has killed him!"

"Your sin, Ellen, what can that have to do with Edward?"

"Because," the words "it was for him" were actually on her lips; but they were checked, and, in increasing excitement, she continued—"Nothing, nothing, indeed, with him—what could it have? But if he knows it—oh, it will so grieve him; perhaps it would be better I should go before he comes—and then, then, he need not know it; if, indeed, he ever comes."

"I do not think you quite know what you are saying, my dear Ellen; your uncomfortable dream has unsettled you. Try and keep quiet for an hour, and you will be better. Remember, suffering as this dreadful suspense is, your brother is still in a Father's gracious keeping; and that He will listen to your prayers for his safety, and if it be His good pleasure, still restore him to you."

"My prayers," answered Ellen, fearfully. "Mr. Howard said, there was a barrier between Him and me, while I would not confess; I had refused His mercy."

"Can you confess before God, Ellen? Can you lay your whole heart open before Him, and ask Him in his infinite mercy, and for your Saviour's sake, to forgive you?"

"I could, and did do so," answered Ellen, returning Mrs. Hamilton's earnestly inquiring look, by raising her large, expressive eyes, steadily and fearlessly, to her face; "but Mr. Howard told me it was a mockery and sin to suppose God would hear me or forgive me while I refused to obey Him, by being silent and obdurate to you. That if I wished His forgiveness, I must prove it by telling the whole to you, whom His commandments desired me to obey, and—and—as I dared not do that, I have been afraid to pray." And the shudder with which she laid her head again upon the pillow, betrayed the misery of the fear.

"And is it impossible, quite impossible that you can confide the source of your grief and difficulty to me, Ellen? Will you not do so, even if I promise forgiveness, not merely to you, but to all who may have erred? Answer me, my sweet child; your silence is fearfully injuring your mind and body. Why do you fancy you dare not tell me?"

"Because, because I have promised!" answered Ellen, in a fearful tone of returning excitement, and, sitting upright, she clasped her hands convulsively together, while her cheek burned with painful brilliancy. "Aunt Emmeline—oh, do not, pray do not speak to me in that kind tone! be harsh and cold again, I can bear it better. If you did but know how my heart and brain ache—how they long to tell you and so rest—but I can not—I dare not—I have promised."

"And you may not tell me whom you have promised?" replied Mrs. Hamilton, every former thought rendered apparently null and vain by these words, and painfully disappointing her; but the answer terrified her.

"Mamma—I promised her, and she stands by me so pale, so grieved, whenever I think of telling you," answered Ellen, clinging to Mrs. Hamilton, but looking with a strained gaze of terror on vacancy. "I thought I must have told you, when you said I was to go—to go to Seldon Grange—but she stood by me and laid her hand on my head, and it was so cold, so heavy, I don't remember any thing more till I found you and Ellis leaning over me; but I ought not to tell you even this. I know I ought not—for look—look, aunt Emmeline!—don't you see mamma—there—quite close to me; oh, tell her to forgive me—I will keep my promise," and shuddering convulsively, she hid her face in her aunt's dress.

Mrs. Hamilton was dreadfully alarmed. Whatever the foundation, and she had no doubt that there was some, and that it really had to do with Edward and his poor mother's mistaken partiality, Ellen's imagination was evidently disordered. To attempt obtaining the truth, while she was in this fearful state of excitement, was as impossible as cruel, and she tried only to soothe her to composure; speaking of her mother as happy and in Heaven and that Ellen had thought of her so much, as was quite natural in her sorrow, that she fancied she saw her.

"It is not reality, love; if she could see and speak to you, I am sure it would be to tell you to confide all your sorrow to me, if it would make you happier."

"Oh, no, no—I should be very wicked if it made me happier; I ought not even to wish to tell you. But Mr. Myrvin told me, even when mamma went to Heaven, she would still see me, and know if I kept my promise, and tried to win her love, by doing what I know she wished, even after she was dead; and it was almost a pleasure to do so till now, even if it gave me pain and made me unhappy; but now, now, aunt Emmeline, I know you must hate me; you never, never can love me again—and that—that is so hard to bear."

"Have you forgotten, my dear Ellen, the blessed assurance, there is more joy in Heaven over one sinner that repenteth, than over ninety-and-nine who have not sinned? and if our Father in Heaven can so feel, so act, are His creatures to do less? Do you think, because you have given me pain, and trouble and disappointment, and compelled me to use such extreme severity, and cause you so much suffering, that it will be quite impossible for me to love you again, if I see you do all you can to win back that love?"

Ellen made no answer; but the alarming excitement had so far subsided, as to raise the hope that quietness would subdue it altogether. Mrs. Hamilton remained with her till she seemed quite calm, and would not have left her then, but he had promised Caroline to drive with her into T—— that afternoon, to make some purchases; Emmeline and Miss Harcourt were spending the day at Greville Manor, and her daughter depending on her, she did not like to disappoint her. But the difficulty to think of other things, and cheerfully converse on comparatively indifferent topics, was greater than she had ever found it. That Ellis's surmise was correct, she had no longer the smallest doubt. Ellen was sacrificing herself, not merely for the love she bore her brother, but from some real or imaginary promise to her poor mother. What its exact nature was, she could not indeed satisfy herself, but that it had something to do with concealing Edward's faults seemed to flash upon her, she hardly knew how. Ellis's words "that she had seen enough of that work when they were children," returned to her, and various incongruities in Ellen's character and conduct which she had been unable to reconcile at the time, all seemed connected with it. But to arrive at the truth was much more difficult than ever; still, how could she send Ellen away? and yet, if still silent, would mere surmise satisfy her husband? There was but one hope, one ray of light—Edward's own honor, if indeed he were permitted to return; and even while driving and talking with Caroline, her heart was one fervent prayer that this might be, and the fearful struggle of her devoted Ellen cease.

Her aunt's gentle and unexpected kindness had had such a beneficial effect on Ellen, that, after her early dinner, about three o'clock, she told Ellis she would go in the school-room, and try and read there for an hour; she knew all the family were out, and therefore would be quite undisturbed. Ellis willingly acquiesced, rejoicing that she should seek any change herself, and advised her, as it was such a mild, soft afternoon, after the late storms, to take a turn on the terrace, on which a glass-door from the school-room opened; it would do her good. Ellen meant to take her advice, but as she looked out from a window over a well-remembered landscape, so many painful thoughts and recollections crowded on her, that she lost all inclination to move. She had not stood there for many weeks, and it seemed to her that the view had never looked so very lovely. The trees all had the last glories of autumn—for it was early in November—the grass was of that beautiful humid emerald which always follows heavy rain, and though the summer-flowers had all gone, the sheltered beds of the garden, lying beneath the terrace, presented many very beautiful still. The end of the terrace, a flight of stone steps, overlooked the avenue, leading from the principal lodge to the main entrance, and where Ellen stood, she could distinguish a few yards of the path where it issued from some distant trees. She gazed at first, conscious only that she was banished from it all, and that, however long her departure might be deferred, she must go at last, for her uncle's mandate could not be disobeyed; but gradually her eye became fixed as in fascination. A single figure was emerging from the trees, and dressed in the uniform of a midshipman—she was sure it was! but it was a figure so tall, so slim, his step so lingering, it could not be Edward, most likely some one of his messmates come to tell his fate. He was taller even than Percy, but so much slighter, so different to the boy from whom she had parted, that, though her heart bounded and sunk till faintness seemed to overpower her, she could not convince herself it was he. With an almost unconscious effort she ran out, through the glass-door, to the steps of the terrace; she could now see him distinctly, but not his face, for his cap was low over his forehead; but as he approached, he paused, as if doubting whether to go up to the hall door, or the well-known terrace, by which he had always rushed into the school-room, on his daily return from Mr. Howard's; and as he looked hastily up, his cap fell back, and his eyes met Ellen's. A wild but checked scream broke from her lips, and all was an impenetrable mist till she found herself in her brother's arms, in the room she had quitted, his lips repeatedly pressing her cheek and forehead, and his voice, which sounded so strange—it did not seem like Edward's, it was so much more deep and manly—entreating her to speak to him, and tell him why she looked so ill; but still her heart so throbbed she could not speak. She could only cling close to him and look intently in his face, which was so altered from the happy, laughing boy, that had he not been, from his extreme paleness and attenuation of feature, still more like their mother when she was ill, his sister would scarcely have known him.

"Dearest Ellen, do speak to me; what has been the matter, that you look so pale and sad? Are you not glad to see me?"

"Glad! oh, Edward, you can not know how glad; I thought you would never, never come, the storms have been so terrible; I have been ill, and your sudden appearance startled me, for I had thought of such dreadful things, and that was the reason I could not speak at first; but I am sure you are as pale as I am, dear, dear Edward; you have been wounded—have you not recovered them yet?"

"My wounds, Ellen! oh, they were slight enough; I wished and tried for them to be severer, to have done for me at once, but they would not, they only bought me praise, praise which maddened me!"

"Sir Edward," murmured Ellen, in a low, fearful voice, "how did he part with you?"

"As he has always treated me, a kind, too kind father! oh, Ellen, Ellen, if he did but know the deceiving villain that I am!"

"Would he indeed not forgive, Edward, if he so loves you? not if he knew all, the temptation, the—"

"Temptation, Ellen! what excuse ought there to be in temptation? Why was I such a fool, such a madman, to allow myself to be lured into error again and again by that villain, after I had discovered his double face, and I had been warned against him, too? Why did I so madly disregard Mr. Howard's and my uncle's warning letters, trusting my self-will and folly, instead of their experience? Brave! I am the veriest coward that ever trod the deck, because I could not bear a sneer!"

"And he? are you still within his power?" inquired Ellen, shrinking in terror from the expression of her brother's face.

"No, Ellen, no; God forgive me—I have tried not to rejoice; the death was so terrible, so nearly my own, that I stood appalled, and, for the first time these two years, knelt down to my God for pardon, mercy to repent. The lightning struck him where he stood, struck him beside me, leaving the withering smile of derisive mockery, with which he had that moment been regarding me, still on his lips. Why, and where had he gone? he, who denied God and his holy Word, turned the solemn service into mockery, and made me like himself—and why was I spared? Oh, Ellen, I have no words to describe the sensation of that moment!" He stopped, and shuddered, then continued, hurriedly, "Changed as I am in appearance, it is nothing to the change within. I did not know its extent till now that I am here again, and all my happy boyhood comes before me; aunt Emmeline's gentle lessons of piety and goodness—oh, Ellen, Ellen, what have been their fruits? For two years I have given myself up to passion, unrestrained by one word, one thought of prayer; I dared, sinful madman as I was, to make a compact with my own conscience, and vow, that if I received the relief I expected from you, and was free from Harding, I would reform, would pray for the strength to resist temptation, which I had not in myself; and when, when the man that was dispatched by Sir Edward from the shore, with the letters for the crew, sunk beneath the waves, bearing every dispatch along with him, I cursed him, and the Fate, which had ordained his death. Ellen, Ellen! why was I saved, and Harding killed!"

"And you never received my letter, Edward? Never knew if I had tried to relieve you from Harding's power?" answered Ellen, becoming so deadly pale, that Edward forced himself to regain composure; the nature of his information causing such a revulsion of feeling in his sister as to deaden her to the horror of his words. For what had all this suffering been?

"I was sure you had, Ellen, for you always did, and I could trust you as I could myself. A sudden squall had upset the boat, and the man was so encumbered by a large great-coat, every pocket filled with letters and papers, that he sunk at once though every help was offered. I threw myself into the sea to save him, and Lieutenant Morley praised my courage and benevolence—little did he know my motive! Besides, Sir Edward told me there was an inclosure for me in my uncle's to him, and regretted he had not kept it to give it me himself—would to Heaven he had! Till Harding's death I was in his power; and he had so used it, that I had vowed, on our arrival in England, to abscond, hide myself forever, go I cared not where, nor in what character! But he is dead, and I am free: my tale need be told to none, and if I can I will break from this fatal spell, and redeem the past; but it seems, as if fiends urged me still to the path of evil! Would that I had but courage to tell all to Mr. Howard, I should be safer then; but I can not—can not—the risk is too great. Carriage wheels!" he added, starting up—"my aunt and Caroline; oh, how I rejoiced when they told me at the lodge that my uncle was not here!" And in his extreme agitation at the thought of meeting his aunt, he forgot his sister, or he might have been startled at the effect of his words.

THE STRUGGLE.

Mrs. Hamilton had been told at the lodge of her nephew's arrival, and so powerful was her emotion, that she leaned back in the carriage, as it drove rapidly from the lodge to the Hall, without the power of uttering a word. Caroline was surprised, for his return seemed to her only a cause of rejoicing; she had no idea of the mingled dread and joy, the trembling, lest Edward had indeed deceived them all, and, if he had not, the redoubled mystery of Ellen's conduct. While he was absent she could think calmly on him as the cause of all, but now that he was returned, her heart seemed to turn sick with apprehension, and she had hardly strength to inquire where he was, and great was her surprise when she found his arrival was still unknown. Caroline's joyful exclamation as she ran into the school-room to put away some of her purchases, drew her there at once; and for the first five minutes the intense thankfulness that he was indeed safe and comparatively well—that whatever might be the secret change, his affection for her, to judge by the warmth, and agitation of his embrace, was unchanged, and she had that to work on, alone occupied her mind and enabled her to regain her calmness.

"You do indeed look as if you wanted English air and home nursing, my dear boy," she said, after some little time had elapsed, and Edward had seated himself by her, his hand still clasped in hers; "Sir Edward was quite right to invalid you. Emmeline does nothing but talk of your wounds as making you a complete hero; I am unromantic enough to wish that you had brought me home more color and more flesh, and less glory; but, I suppose from being so pale, you are more like your poor mother than ever;" and she looked at him so earnestly, that Edward's eyes, spite of all his efforts, sunk beneath hers. He answered gayly, however, and, in reply to Caroline's numerous queries, entered into an animated description of their voyage home and the causes of their detention, in their being so often compelled to put into port from the fearful storms they had encountered, and time slipped away so fast that the dinner-bell rung before any one was prepared.

That Ellen should look paler than even when she had left her in the morning, and be still more silent, did not astonish Mrs. Hamilton; the agitation of meeting her brother was quite enough to occasion it; and she advised her to remain quiet while they were at dinner, that she might rejoin them afterward. She looked as if she had been so very lately ill, that Edward was not surprised at her having dined already; but many little things that occured during the evening—her excessive quietness, the evident restraint between her and Caroline, and, he at first fancied, and then was quite certain, between her and his aunt, startled and perplexed him. She seemed restrained and shy, too, with him, as if in constant terror. Poor child! her aunt had advised quietness while alone, and her brother's words rung in her ears, till repose seemed farther off than ever. After all she had suffered before, and after the sending that fatal letter, it had never reached him: she had utterly failed in her attempt to save him. If she had, indeed, confided at first in Mrs. Hamilton, measures would have been taken, she was sure, to have secured him the necessary relief, for whenever her uncle had sent him his allowance it was through Sir Edward, not encountering the risk of the loss of the letter. There had been times when, in the midst of her sufferings, Ellen could realize a sort of comfort in the idea that she had saved Edward and kept his secret; but where was this comfort now? All she had endured all she was still to endure, was for nothing, worse than nothing; for if Edward knew her sin, feeling that it had brought him no good, and given up, as she felt he must be, to unrestrained passion, or he could not have given vent to such fearful sentiments, she actually trembled for its effect upon him and his anger on herself. She had sometimes fancied that, perhaps, his errors were not so great as he believed them, that he would confess them when he found only his kind, indulgent aunt at home, and so peace and hope gradually dawn for both him and her. All her wish, her hope now was that Mrs. Hamilton could be prevailed upon not to tell him what she had done, for whether it made him think he ought to confess himself its cause or not, its effect on him would be so terrible, that she felt any additional suffering to herself could be better borne.

With these thoughts, no wonder she was silent, utterly unable to subdue them as she wished, and evince natural interest in all that had occurred to Edward; and tell him all that had happened to herself during their long separation. Caroline, however, was so animated; and when Emmeline and Miss Harcourt returned, unable to comprehend what they could possibly be sent for, a full hour earlier than usual, the astonishment and delight at seeing Edward, prevented any thing like a pause in conversation, or unnatural restraint. His cousins found so much to tell as well as to listen to, about Percy and Herbert, as well as themselves; and Emmeline made Edward tell her such minute particulars of their engagements with the pirates, and how he was wounded, and what Sir Edward said to him, that Mrs. Hamilton, anxious as she was—for the longer she was with her nephew, the more convinced she was that he could not meet her eye, and that his gayety was not natural—could not help being amused in spite of herself.

Engrossed with thought how to arrive at the truth, for which she ardently longed, she entered the library, when the prayer-bell rung, with her children; quite forgetting, till she had taken the place at the reading-desk, which, in the absence of her husband and sons, she always occupied herself, that she had intended to desire Ellen to resume her usual place by Emmeline, wishing to spare her any additional suffering the first night of Edward's return, and to prevent any painful feeling on his part. It was an oversight, but it vexed her exceedingly. She looked hastily round, in the hope of being in time, but Ellen was already in her place, though she had evidently shrunk still more into the recess of the lower window, as if longing for its massive curtains to hide her, and her face was buried in her hands. Mrs. Hamilton would have been still more grieved, if she had seen, as Ellis did, the beseeching, humble look, which, as they entered, Ellen had fixed upon her, and that her pale lips had quivered with the half-uttered supplication, which she failed in courage to fully pronounce. Edward appeared too wrapped in his own thoughts to notice it then; and as his aunt's gentle but impressive voice fell on his fear, the words, the room, the whole scene so recalled the happy, and comparatively innocent past, that it was with difficulty he could restrain his feelings, till the attitude of kneeling permitted them full vent in tears, actual tears, when he had thought he could never weep again. The contrast of his past and present self, rendered the one more brightly happy, the other more intensely dark than the actual reality. The unchecked faults and passions of his early childhood had been the sole cause of his present errors; but, while under the gentle control of his aunt and uncle, and Mr. Howard, he had not known these faults, and, therefore, believed they had all come since. He longed intensely to confide all his errors, all his remorse, to Mr. Howard, whom he still so dearly loved; but he knew he had not courage to confess, and yet hated himself for his cowardice.

Only too well accustomed to control, he banished every trace of tears (from all save the eye rendered even more than usually penetrating from anxiety), as he arose, and became aware, for the first time, that Ellen was not where he was accustomed to see her. He kissed her fondly as she hurriedly approached him; but perceiving she left the room with merely a faint good-night to the rest of the family, and no embrace, as usual, from Mrs. Hamilton, he darted forward, seized his aunt's hand, and exclaimed—

"What is the matter with Ellen, aunt Emmeline? Why is she so changed, and why is your manner to her so cold and distant? and why did she kneel apart, as if unworthy to join us even in prayers? Tell me, for pity's sake!"

"Not to-night, my dear Edward. It is a long tale, and a painful one, and I rely on you to help me, that Ellen and myself may be again as we have been. It is as much pain to me as to her that we are not. To-morrow, I promise you, you shall know all. You have had excitement enough for to-day, and after your exhausting voyage must need rest. Do not fancy this an evasion of your request; I have longed for your return to influence Ellen, almost as much as for the happiness of seeing you again."

Edward was compelled to be satisfied and retire; but though he did feel sufficient physical exhaustion, for the comfort of his room to be unusually luxurious, his sleep was restless and disturbed by frightful dreams, in which, however varied the position, it always seemed that he was in danger, and Ellen sacrificing herself to save him.

On retiring for the night, Mrs. Hamilton discovered a note on her dressing-table. She thought she knew the writing, but from tremulousness it was so nearly illegible, that it was with great difficulty she deciphered the following words:

"I am so conscious I ought not to address you, know so well that I have no right to ask any favor from you, when I have given you so much trouble and pain, that I could not have asked it, if you had not been so very, very kind this morning. Oh! aunt Emmeline, if indeed you can feel any pity for me, do not, pray, do not tell Edward the real reason of my banishment from Oakwood; tell him I have been very wicked—have refused to evince any real repentance—but do not tell him what I have done. He is ill, unhappy at having to resign his profession even for a few months. Oh! spare him the misery of knowing my sin. I know I deserve nothing but severity from you—I have no right to ask this—but, oh! if you have ever loved me, do not refuse it. If you would but grant it, would but say, before I go, that in time you will forgive me, it would be such comfort to the miserable—Ellen."

Mrs. Hamilton's eyes filled with tears; the word "your" had evidently been written originally, but partially erased, and "the" substituted in its stead, and she could not read the utter desolation of one so young, which that simple incident betrayed, without increase of pain; yet to grant her request was impossible. It puzzled her—for why should she so persist in the wish expressed from the beginning, that Edward should not know it? unless, indeed—and her heart bounded with the hope—that she feared it would urge him to confess himself the cause, and her sacrifice be useless. She locked up the note, which she would not read again, fearing its deep humility, its earnest supplication, would turn her from her purpose, and in praying fervently for guidance and fitful sleep her night passed.

For some time after breakfast the following morning, Edward and his aunt were alone together in the library. It was with the utmost difficulty, he suppressed, sufficiently to conceal, the fearful agitation which thrilled through every nerve as he listened to the tale he had demanded. He could not doubt the use to which that money had been applied. His sister's silence alone would have confirmed it; but in that hour of madness—for what else is passion unrestrained by principle or feeling?—he was only conscious of anger, fierce anger against the unhappy girl who had borne so much for him. He had utterly forgotten the desperate words he had written. He had never received the intended relief. Till within a week, a short week of his return, he had been in Harding's power, and as Ellen's devotion had saved him nothing, what could it weigh against the maddening conviction, that if he had one spark of honor remaining, he must confess that he had caused her sin? Instead of saving, she had betrayed him; and he left his aunt to seek Ellen, so evidently disturbed and heated, and the interview itself had been so little satisfactory in softening him, as, she had hoped to win him to confession at once, for she had purposely spoken as indulgently of error and difficulty as she could, without betraying her strengthened suspicions, that if she had known how to do so, she would have forbidden his seeing Ellen till he was more calm.

Unhappily, too, it was that part of the day when Ellis was always most engaged, and she was not even in her own room, so that there was no check on Edward's violence. The control he had exercised while with his aunt but increased passion when it was removed. He poured forth the bitterest reproaches—asked how she could dare hope relief so obtained, would ever have been allowed to reach him?—what had she done but betrayed him? for how could he be such a dishonored coward as to let her leave Oakwood because she would not speak? and why had she not spoken?—why not betrayed him at once, and not decoyed him home to disgrace and misery? Passion had so maddened him that he neither knew what he said himself, nor heard her imploring entreaties not to betray himself and she never would. She clung to his knees as she kneeled before him, for she was too powerless to stand, reiterating her supplication in a tone that ought to have recalled him to his better self, but that better self had been too long silenced, and infuriated at her convulsive efforts to detain him, he struck her with sufficient force to make her, more by the agony of a blow from him, than the pain itself, loose her hold at once, and darted from the room.

The hall door was open, and he rushed through it unseen into the park, flying he neither knew where nor cared, but plunging into the wildest parts. How he arrived at one particular spot he knew not, for it was one which of all others, in that moment of excitement, he would gladly have avoided. It was a small glade in the midst of the wood, shelving down to the water's edge, where he and Percy, with the assistance of Robert, had been permitted to erect a miniature boat-house, and where Edward had kept a complete flotilla of tiny vessels. There were the trees, the glade, the boat-house still, aye, and the vessels, in such beautiful repair and keeping, that it brought back the past so vividly, so overpoweringly, from the voiceless proof which it was of the affectionate remembrance with which he and his favorite tastes had been regarded, even in his absence, that he could not bear it. He flung himself full length on the greensward, and as thought after thought came back upon him, bringing Ellen before him, self-sacrificing, devoted, always interposing between him and anger, as she had done from the first hour they had been inmates of Oakwood, the thought of that craven blow, those mad reproaches, was insupportable; and he sobbed for nearly an hour in that one spot, longing that some chance would but bring Mr. Howard to him, that he might relieve that fearful remorse at once; but utterly unable to seek him of himself.

Edward's disposition, like his mother's, was naturally much too good for the determined pursuit of evil. His errors had actually been much less grave, than from Harding's artful representations he imagined them. He never indulged in passion without its being followed by the most agonized remorse; but from having pertinaciously banished the religion which his aunt had so tried to instill, and been taught by Harding to scoff at the only safe guide for youth, as for every age, God's holy word, he had nothing whereon to lean, either as a comfort in his remorse, a hope for amendment, or strength for self-conquest; and terrible indeed might have been the consequences of Harding's fatal influence, if the influence of a home of love had not been still stronger.

Two hours after he had quitted his aunt, he rejoined the family, tranquil, but bearing such evident traces of a mental struggle, at least so Mrs. Hamilton fancied, for no one else noticed it, that she still hoped she did not exactly know what, for she failed in courage to ask the issue of his interview with Ellen. She contented herself with desiring Emmeline to tell her cousin to bring her work or drawing, and join them, and she was so surprised, when Emmeline brought back word that Ellen had said she had much rather not, that she sought her herself.

Ellen's cheeks, in general so pale, were crimson, her eyes in consequence unnaturally brilliant, and she looked altogether so unlike herself, that her aunt was more anxious than ever; nor did her manner when asked why she refused to join them, when Edward had so lately returned, tend to decrease the feeling.

"Emmeline did not say you desired it, or I should have known better than disobey," was her reply, and it was scarcely disrespectful; the tone seemed that of a spirit, crushed and goaded to the utmost, and so utterly unable to contend more, though every nerve was quivering with pain. Mrs. Hamilton felt bitter pain that Ellen at length did indeed shrink from her; that the disregard of her entreaty concerning her brother appeared so to have wounded, that it had shaken the affection which no other suffering had had power to move.

"I do not desire it, Ellen, though I wish it," she replied, mildly; "you are of course at liberty to act as you please, though I should have thought it most natural that, not having been with Edward so long, you should wish to be with him as much as possible now he is at home."

"He will not wish it; he hates me, spurns me, as I knew he would, if he knew my sin! To-day I was to have gone to Seldon Grange; let me go at once! then neither he, nor you, nor any one need be tormented with me any more, and you will all be happy again; let me go, aunt Emmeline; what should I stay for?"

"If you wish it, Ellen, you shall go next week. I did not imagine that under any circumstances, you could have expressed a desire to leave me, or suppose that it would make me particularly happy to send you away."

"Why should it not? you must hate me, too, or—or you would not have refused the only—only favor I asked you before I went," answered poor Ellen, and the voice, which had been unnaturally clear, was choked for the moment with sobs, which she resolutely forced back. Mrs. Hamilton could scarcely bear it; taking her ice-cold hands in both hers, she said, almost tenderly—

"You have reason to condemn me as harsh and cruel Ellen; but time will perhaps explain the motives of my conduct, as I trust and pray it will solve the mystery of yours; you are not well enough to be left long alone, and Ellis is so much engaged to-day that I do wish you to be with me, independent of your brother's society. If you so much prefer remaining here, I will stay with you, though of course, as Edward has been away from us so long, I should wish to be with him also."

It was almost the first time Mrs. Hamilton had ever had recourse in the management of her family to any thing that was not perfectly straightforward; and though her present motives would have hallowed much deeper stratagems, her pure mind shrunk from her own words. She wished Ellen to be constantly in Edward's presence, that he might not be able to evade the impulse of feeling and honor, which the sight of such suffering, she thought, must call forth; she could not bear to enforce this wish as a command, when she had already been, as she felt—if Ellen's silence were indeed self-devotion, not guilt—so cruelly and so unnecessarily severe. Ellen made neither reply nor resistance, but, taking up her work, accompanied her aunt to the usual morning-room, from which many a burst of happy laughter, and joyous tones were echoing. Caroline and Emmeline were so full of enjoyment at Edward's return, had so many things to ask and tell, were so perfectly unsuspicious as to his having any concern with his sister's fault, that if they did once or twice think him less lively and joyous, than when he left home, they attributed it simply, to his not having yet recovered the exhausting voyage and his wounds. Miss Harcourt, just as unsuspicious, secretly accused Ellen as the cause of his occasional abstraction: her conduct was not likely to pass unfelt by one so upright, so honorable, and if he had been harsh with her, as from Ellen's fearfully shrinking manner, and complete silence when they were together, she fancied, she thought it was so deserved, that she had no pity for her whatever.

The day passed briskly and happily enough, in seeming to Mrs. Hamilton and Edward, in reality to all the other members of the party—but one. The great subject of regret was Mr. Howard's absence, he might be back at the rectory that evening, and Emmeline was sure he would come to see Edward directly. As the hours waned, Ellen became sensible of a sharp and most unusual pain darting through her temples, and gradually extending over her forehead and head, till she could scarcely move her eyes. It had come at first so suddenly, and lasting so short a time, that she could scarcely define what it was, or why she should have felt so suddenly sick and faint; but it increased, till there was no difficulty in tracing it, and before prayer-time, had become such fearful agony, that, if she had not been inured to pain of all kinds, and endowed with extraordinary fortitude and control, she must more than once have betrayed it by either giving way to faintness, or screaming aloud. She had overheard Mrs. Hamilton desire Robert to request Mr. Maitland to come to Oakwood as soon as he could, and not hearing the reply that he was not expected home till late at night, expected him every moment, and thought he would give her something to relieve it, without her complaining.

Edward had asked his cousins for some music, and then to please Emmeline, had sketched the order of their engagement with the pirates, and no one noticed her, for Mrs. Hamilton's heart was sinking with disappointed hope, as the hours passed, and there was no sign to prove that her surmise was correct, and if it were, that the truth would be obtained.

The prayer-bell rang, and as they rose, Edward's eyes, for the first time since she had joined them, sought and fixed themselves on his sister's face. The paroxysm of pain had for a few minutes subsided, as it had done alternately with violence all day, but it had left her so ghastly pale, that he started in actual terror. It might have been fancy, but he thought there was the trace of his cowardly blow on her pale forehead, raised, and black, and such a feeling of agony and remorse rushed over him, that it was with difficulty he restrained himself from catching her in his arms, and beseeching her forgiveness before them all; but there was no time then, and they proceeded to the library. Every step Ellen took appeared to bring back that fearful pain, till as she sat down, and then knelt in her place, she was sensible of nothing else.

The service was over; and as Mrs. Hamilton rose from the private prayer, with which each individual concluded his devotions, her nephew stood before her, white as marble, but with an expression of fixed resolution, which made her heart bound up with hope, at the very moment it turned sick and faint with terror.

Several of the lower domestics had quitted the library before Edward regained voice, and his first word, or rather action, was to desire those that remained to stay.

"My sister has been disgraced, exposed before you all" he exclaimed, in a tone of misery and determination, that so startled Miss Harcourt and his cousins, they gazed at him bewildered, "and before you all must be her exculpation. It was less for her sin than her silence, and for the increased guilt which that appeared to conceal, you tell me, she has been so severely treated. Aunt Emmeline, I am the cause of her silence—I was the tempter to her sin—I have deceived my commander, deceived my officers, deceived you all—and instead of being what you believe me, am a gambler and a villain. She has saved me again and again from discovery and disgrace, and but for her sin and its consequences would have saved me now. But what has sin ever done but to betray and render wretched? Take Ellen back to your love and care, aunt Emmeline, and tell my uncle, tell Sir Edward the wretch I am!"

For a full minute after these unexpected, startling words there was silence, for none could speak, not even Emmeline, whose first thought was only joy, that Ellen's silence was not so guilty as it seemed. Edward had crossed his arms on the reading-desk, and buried his face upon them. The instantaneous change of sentiment which his confession excited toward Ellen in those most prejudiced can scarcely be described; but Mrs. Hamilton, now that the words she had longed for, prayed for, had been spoken, had scarcely strength to move. Address Edward she could not, though she felt far more pity toward him than anger; she looked toward Ellen, who still remained kneeling, though Ellis stood close by her, evidently trying to rouse her, and with a step far more hurried, more agitated than her children or household had ever seen, she traversed the long room, and stood beside her niece.

"Ellen," she said, as she tried to remove the hands which clasped the burning forehead, as if their rooted pressure could alone still that agonizing pain, "my own darling, devoted Ellen! look up, and forgive me all the misery I have caused you. Speak to me, my child! there is nothing to conceal now, all shall be forgiven—Edward's errors, difficulties, all for your sake, and he will not, I know he will not, cause you wretchedness again; look up, my poor child; speak to me, tell me you forgive me."

Ellen unclasped her hands from her forehead, and looked up in Mrs. Hamilton's face. Her lips moved as if to speak, but in a moment an expression of agony flitted over her face, a cry broke from her of such fearful physical pain, that it thrilled through the hearts of all who heard, and consciousness deserted her at the same moment that Mr. Maitland and Mr. Howard, entered the room together.

ILLNESS AND REMORSE.

It was indeed a fearful night which followed the close of our last chapter. Illness, sufficient to occasion anxiety, both in Herbert and Ellen, had been often an inmate of Oakwood, but it had merely called for care, and all those kindly sympathies, which render indisposition sometimes an actual blessing, both to those who suffer and those who tend. But illness, appearing to be but the ghastly vehicle of death, clothed in such fearful pain that no control, even of reason and strong will, can check its agonized expression, till at last, reason itself succumbs beneath it, and bears the mind from the tortured frame, this is a trial of no ordinary suffering, even when such illness has been brought about by what may be termed natural causes. But when it follows, nay, springs from mental anguish, when the sad watchers feel that it might have been averted, that it is the consequence of mistaken treatment, and it comes to the young, to whom such sorrow ought to be a thing unknown, was it marvel that Mrs. Hamilton, as she stood by Ellen's bed, watching the alternations of deathlike insensibility with paroxysms of pain, which nothing could relieve (for it was only the commencement of brain fever), felt as if she had indeed never known grief or anxiety before. She had looked forward to Edward's confession bringing hope and rest to all; that the aching head and strained nerves of her poor Ellen, only needed returning love, and the quietness of assured forgiveness for herself and Edward, for health and happiness gradually to return; and the shock of such sudden and terrible illness, betraying, as it did, an extent of previous mental suffering, which she had not conceived as possible in one so young, almost unnerved her. But hers was not a character to give way; the anguish she experienced might be read in the almost stern quiet of her face, in her gentle but firm resistance to every persuasion to move from Ellen's bed, not only through that dreadful night, but for the week which followed. The idea of death was absolute agony; none but her God knew the struggle, day after day, night after night, which she endured, to compel her rebellious spirit to submission to His will, whatever it might be. She knew earth's dearest, most unalloyed happiness could not compare with that of Heaven, if indeed it should be His pleasure to recall her; but the thought would not bring peace. She had no reason to reproach herself, for she had acted only as imperative duty demanded, and it had caused her almost as much misery as Ellen. But yet the thought would not leave her, that her harshness and cruelty had caused all the suffering she beheld. She did not utter those thoughts aloud, she did not dare give words to that deep wretchedness, for she felt her only sustaining strength was in her God. The only one who would have read her heart, and given sympathy, strength, comfort, without a word from her, her husband, was far away, and she dared not sink; though there were times when heart and frame felt so utterly exhausted, it seemed at if she must.

Mr. Howard's presence had been an inexpressible relief. "Go to Edward, my dear friend," she had said, as he lingered beside the bed where Ellen had been laid, longing to comfort, but feeling at such a moment it was impossible; "he wants you more than any one else; win him to confide in you, soothe, comfort him; do not let him be out of your sight."

Not understanding her, except that Edward must be naturally grieved at his sister's illness, Mr. Howard sought him, and found him still in the library, almost in the same spot.

"This is a sad welcome for you, Edward," he said, kindly laying his hand on his shoulder, "but do not be too much cut down. Ellen is very young, her constitution, Mr. Maitland assures us is good, and she may be spared us yet. I came over on purpose to see you, for late as it was when I returned from Exeter, and found you had arrived, I would not defer it till to-morrow."

"You thought you came to see the pupil you so loved," answered Edward, raising his head, and startling Mr. Howard, both by his tone and countenance. "You do not know that I am the cause of my poor sister's suffering, that if she dies, I am her murderer. Oh, Mr. Howard," he continued, suddenly throwing himself in his arms, and bursting into passionate tears, "why did I ever leave you? why did I forgot your counsels, your goodness, throw your warning letter to the winds? Hate me if you will, but listen to me—pity me, save me from myself."

Startled as he was, Mr. Howard, well acquainted with the human heart, its errors, as well as its better impulses, knew how to answer this passionate appeal, so as to invite its full confidence and soothe at the same time. Edward poured out his whole tale. It is needless to enter upon it here in detail; suffice it, that the artful influence of Harding, by gradually undermining the good impressions of the home he had left, had prepared his pupil for an unlimited indulgence in pleasure, and excitement, at every opportunity which offered. And as the Prince William was cruising off the coast of British America, and constantly touching at one or other of her ports, where Harding, from his seniority and usefulness, and Edward, from his invariable good conduct, were often permitted to go ashore, these opportunities, especially when they were looked for and used by one practiced in deceit and wickedness, were often found. It does not require a long period to initiate in gambling. The very compelled restraint, in the intervals of its indulgence, but increased its maddening excitement, and once given up to its blind pursuit, Harding became more than ever necessary to Edward, and of course his power over him increased. But when he tried to make him a sharer and conniver in his own low pleasures, to teach him vice, cautiously as he thought he had worked, he failed; Edward started back appalled, and though unhappily he could not break from him, from that hour he misdoubted and shrunk away. But he had given an advantage to his fell tutor, the extent of which he knew not himself. Harding was too well versed in art to betray disappointment. He knew when to bring wine to the billiard-table, so to create such a delirium of excitement, that Edward was wholly unconscious of his own actions; and once or twice he led him into scenes, and made him sharer of such vicious pleasures, that secured him as his slave; for when the excitement was over, the agony of remorse, the misery, lest his confiding captain should suspect him other than he seemed, made him cling to Harding's promises of secrecy, as his only refuge, even while he loathed the man himself. It was easy to make such a disposition believe that he had, in some moment of excitement, done something which, if known, would expel him the Navy; Edward could never recall what, but he believed him, and became desperate. Harding told him it was downright folly to think about it so seriously. It was only known to him, and he would not betray him. But Edward writhed beneath his power; perpetually he called on him for pecuniary help, and when he had none, told him he must write home for it, or win it at the billiard-table, or he knew the consequences; and Edward, though again and again he had resolved he would not touch a ball or cue (and the remorse had been such, that he would no doubt have kept the resolve, had it not been for dread of betrayal), rather than write home, would madly seek the first opportunity, and play, and win perhaps enough, all but a few pounds, to satisfy his tormentor, and for these he would appeal to his sister, and receive them, as we know; never asking, and so never hearing, the heavy price of individual suffering at which they were obtained.

The seven or eight months which had elapsed before his last fatal appeal, had been occasioned by the ship being out at sea. Sir Edward had mentioned to Mr. Hamilton, that Edward's excellent conduct on board had given him a longer holiday on shore, when they were off New-York, to which place he had been dispatched on business to the President, than most of his companions. Edward thought himself safe, for Harding had been unusually quiet; but the very day they neared land, he told him he must have some cash, sneered at the trifling sum Edward had by him, told him if he chose to let him try for it fairly, they should have a chance at billiards for it; but if that failed, he must pump his rich relations for it, for have it he must. Trusting to his luck, for he had often won, even with Harding, he rushed to the table, played, and as might be expected, left off, owing his tormentor fifty pounds. Harding's fiendish triumph, and his declaration that he must trouble him for a check to that amount, signed by the great millionaire, Arthur Hamilton, Esq., goaded him to madness. He drank down a large draught of brandy, and deliberately sought another table and another opponent, and won back fifteen; but it was the last day of his stay on shore, as his enslaver knew, and it was the wretchedness, the misery of this heavy debt to the crafty, merciless betrayer of his youthful freshness and innocence, who had solemnly sworn if he did not pay it by the next letters from his home, he would inform against him, and he knew the consequences, which had urged that fearful letter to Ellen, from which all her suffering had sprung. Edward was much too young and ignorant of the world's ways to know that Harding no more dared execute his threat against him, than he could put his own head in the lion's mouth. His remorse was too deep, his loathing of his changed self too unfeigned, to believe that his errors were not of the heinous, fatal nature which Harding taught him to suppose them; and the anguish of a naturally fine, noble, independent spirit may be imagined. All his poor mother's lessons of his uncle's excessive sternness, and determined pitilessness, toward the faults of those less firm and worthy than himself, returned to him, completely banishing his own experience of that same uncle's excessive kindness. The one feeling had been insensibly instilled in his boyhood, from as long as he could remember, till the age of twelve; the other was but the experience of eighteen short months. Oh, if parents would but think and tremble at the vast importance of the first lessons which reach the understanding of the young beings committed to their care! Let them impress TRUTH, not prejudice, and they are safe. Once fix a false impression, and they know not, and it is well, perhaps, they do not, the misery that tiny seed may sow.

Mr. Howard listened with such earnest, heartfelt sympathy, such deep commiseration, that his young penitent told him every error, every feeling, without the smallest reserve; and in the long conversation which followed, he felt more comforted, more hopeful of himself, than he had done for long, long months. He told with such a burst of remorseful agony, his cruelty to his devoted sister, that Mr. Howard could scarcely hear it unmoved, for on that subject there seemed indeed no comfort; and he himself, though he would not add to Edward's misery by confessing it, felt more painfully self-reproached for his severity toward her than his conduct as a minister had ever excited before.

"Be with me, or rather let me be with you, as much as you can," was Edward's mournful appeal, as their long interview closed; "I have no dependence on myself—a weak, miserable coward! longing to forsake the path of evil, and having neither power nor energy to do so. I know you will tell me, pray—trust. If I had not prayed, I could not have confessed—but it will not, I know it will not last."

"It will, while enduring this heavy trial of your poor sister's terrible illness, and God's infinite mercy may so strengthen you in the furnace of affliction, as to last in returning joy! Despair, and you must fall; trust, and you will hope and struggle—despite of pain or occasional relapses. Your faults are great, but not so great as Harding represented them—not so heavy but that you can conquer and redeem them, and be yet all we have believed you, all that you hoped for in yourself."

"And my uncle—" said Edward, hesitatingly.

"Must be told; but I will answer for him that he will be neither harsh nor unjust, nor even severe. I will write to him myself, and trust to convince him that your repentance, and resolution are sufficiently sincere, to permit you a second trial, without referring to Sir Edward. You have done nothing to expel you from your profession; but it depends on yourself to become truly worthy of its noble service."

There was much in the sad tale he had heard to give hope, and Mr. Howard longed to impart its comfort to Mrs. Hamilton; but he felt she could not listen. While day after day passed, and the poor sufferer for another's errors lay hovering between life and death, reason so utterly suspended, that even when the violent agony of the first seven days and nights had subsided into lethargic stupors, alternating with such quiet submission and gentle words, that, had it not been for their wandering sense, one might have fancied intellect returning; still reason was absent—and, though none said it aloud, the fear would gain dominion, that health might return, but not the mind. The first advice had been procured—what was distance, even then, to wealth?—every remedy resorted to. Her luxuriant hair cut close, and ice itself applied to cool that burning, throbbing pain; but all had seemed vain, till its cessation, at the end of seven days, somewhat renewed Mr. Maitland's hope.

Not one tear had Mrs. Hamilton shed, and so excessive had been her fatigue, that Miss Harcourt and her children trembled for her; conjuring her, for their sakes, for her husband's, to take repose. Mr. Maitland's argument, that when Ellen recovered her senses (which he assured her now he had little doubt she would eventually), she would need the soothing comfort of her presence still more than she could then, and her strength must fail before that—if she so exhausted it—carried more weight than all the rest; and her daughters had the inexpressible relief of finding that when, in compliance with their tearful entreaties, she did lie down, she slept, and slept refreshingly, for nature was exhausted. There was much of comfort in those days of trial, which Mrs. Hamilton fully realized, when Ellen's convalescence permitted her to recall it, though at the time it seemed unnoticed. That Caroline's strong mind and good heart should urge her to do every thing in her power to save her mother trouble, even to entreat Ellis and Morris to show her, and let her attend to the weekly duties with them, and accomplish them so earnestly and well, that both these faithful domestics were astonished and delighted, was not surprising; for hers was a character to display its better qualities in such emergencies. But that Emmeline should so effectually rouse herself from the overwhelming grief, which had at first assailed her at Ellen's fearful sufferings and great danger, as to be a comfort alike to her mother and Edward, and assist Caroline whenever she could, even trying to be hopeful and cheerful for others' sakes, till she actually became so, was so unexpected, from the grief she had indulged in when she parted from her father, that it did surprise. To be in the room with Ellen had so affected her at first, that she became pale, and so evidently terrified, that Mrs. Hamilton half desired her not to come, especially as she could do no good; and Mrs. Greville and Mary had tried to prevail on her to stay with them, but she would not hear of it.

"If I can do no good, can neither help mamma in nursing Ellen, nor do as Caroline does, I can, at least, try to comfort poor Edward, and I will not leave him. If I am so weak as not to be able to endure anxiety and sorrow without showing it, it shall not conquer me. No, no, dear Mary; come and see me as often as you like, but I can not leave home till mamma and Ellen and we are all happy again!"

And she did devote herself to Edward, and so successfully—with her gentle sympathy with his grief, her tender feeling toward his faults, her conviction of her father's forgiveness, her unassuming but heart-breathing piety, which, without one word unduly introduced of a subject so holy, for she felt herself much too lowly and ignorant to approach it—yet always led up his thoughts to God, and from one so young, so humble, and, in general, so joyous, had still greater effect in confirming his returning religious hope, than had his teachers been only those who were older and wiser than himself. However miserable he might be before she came, he looked to her society, her eloquence, as comfort and hope; and soon perceiving this, she was encouraged to go on, though quite astonished—for she could not imagine what she had done to deserve such commendation—when Mr. Howard, one day meeting her alone, took both her hands in his, and with even unusual fervor bade God bless her!—for young, lowly as she was, she not only comforted the erring, but raised and strengthened the penitent's trembling faith and hope.

Poor Edward! harder than all seemed to him his aunt's silence. He knew his sister entirely engrossed her—ill as Ellen was, it could not be otherwise; but he passionately longed only for one word from her: that she forgave him the misery she was enduring. Not aware that such was his feeling, conscious herself that her sole feeling toward him was pity, not anger, and looking to herself alone as the cause of her poor child's sufferings, she did not think for a moment that he could imagine her never referring to his confession originated in displeasure.

Ten or twelve days had so passed, when one afternoon, completely exhausted with two nights' watchfulness—for though nurse Langford and Fanny were in constant attendance on Ellen, she could not rest if she heard that harrowing cry for her, even though her presence brought no comfort—she went to lie down for a few hours on a couch in her dressing-room. Caroline had taken a book, though with not much inclination to read, to sit by her, and watch that her sleep should not be disturbed. How in those moments of quiet did she long for her father! feeling intuitively how much heavier was her mother's trial without his loved support. He had been written to by them all since Edward's confession. Mrs. Hamilton had done so in Ellen's room, only to beseech him to write forgivingly, forbearingly, to the unhappy cause of all. She did not dare breathe her feelings, even on paper, to him, convinced that if she did so, control must give way, and she was powerless at once; but her husband knew her so well that every suppression of individual emotion betrayed more forcibly than the most earnest words, all she was enduring.

Caroline had kept her affectionate vigil nearly two hours, when Edward's voice whispered, "Miss Harcourt wants you, dear Caroline; let me take your place, I will be quite as watchful as yourself; only let me stay here, you do not know the comfort it will be."

To resist his look of pleading wretchedness was impossible. She left him, and Edward drawing a low stool to the foot of the couch, as if not daring to occupy his cousin's seat, which was close by the pillow, gazed on the mild, gentle features of his aunt, as in their deep repose they showed still clearer the traces of anxiety and sorrow, and felt more keenly than ever the full amount of misery, which his errors and their fatal concealment had created. "Why is it," he thought, "that man can not bear the punishment of his faults without causing the innocent, the good, to suffer also?" And his heart seemed to answer, "Because by those very social ties, the strong impulses of love for one another, which would save others from woe, we may be preserved and redeemed from vice again, and yet again, when, were man alone the sufferer, vice would be stronger than remorse, and never be redeemed."

Mrs. Hamilton woke with that painful start which long watchfulness always occasions, and missing Caroline, yet feeling as if she were not alone, her eyes speedily fixed themselves in some surprise on the figure of her nephew, who, unable to bear the thoughts the sight of her exhaustion produced, had bent his head upon the couch. Inexpressibly touched, and glad of the opportunity to speak to him alone, she called him to her, and there was something in the tone that encouraged him to fling himself on his knees by her side, and sob like an infant, saying, almost inarticulately—

"Can you, will you, ever forgive me, aunt Emmeline? Your silence has almost broken my heart, for it seemed to say you never could; and when I look at my poor Ellen, and see how I have changed this happy home into sorrow and gloom and sin, for it is all my work—mine, whom you have loved, treated, trusted, as a son—I feel you can not forgive me; I ought to go from you; I have no right to pollute your home."

"Hush, Edward! do not give utterance or indulgence to any such thoughts. My poor unhappy boy! your errors have brought such fearful chastisement from the hand of God himself, it is not for me to treat you harshly. May His mercy avert yet severer trial! I will not hear your story now; you are too agitated to tell it, and I am not at this moment strong enough to hear it. I am satisfied that you have confided all to Mr. Howard, and will be guided by him. Only tell me how came you first to apply to Ellen? Did the thought never strike you, that in sending relief to you, she might be exposing herself to inconvenience or displeasure? Was there no consideration due to her?"

"I never seemed to think of her, except as glad and willing to help me, at whatever cost to herself," was his reply. "I feel now the cruel selfishness of the belief—but, oh, aunt Emmeline, it was fostered in me from my earliest childhood, grew with my growth, increased with my years, received strength and meaning from my poor mother's utter neglect of her, and too indulgent thought for me. I never thought so till now, now that I know all my poor sister's meek and gentle worth, and it makes me still more miserable. I never could think her my equal; never could fancy she could have a will or wish apart from mine, and I can not trace the commencement of the feeling. Oh! if we had been but treated alike! but taught to so love each other, as to think of each other's happiness above our own, as you taught my cousins!"

"Do you know any thing of the promise to which poor Ellen so constantly refers?" inquired Mrs. Hamilton, after gently soothing his painful agitation.

He did not; but acknowledged that from the time they had become inmates of Oakwood, Ellen had constantly saved him from punishment by bearing the penalty of his faults; recalling numerous incidents, trifling in themselves, but which had always perplexed Mrs. Hamilton, as evincing such strange contradictions in Ellen's childish character, and none more so than the disobedience which we related in our second part, and which Edward's avowal of having himself moved the flower-stand, now so clearly explained. He said, too, that Mr. Howard had thought it necessary, for Ellen's perfect justification, to examine her letters and papers, but that all his appeals to her had been destroyed but one—his last fatal inclosure, the exact contents of which he had so utterly forgotten, written, as they were, in a moment of madness, that he shuddered himself as he read it. He placed the paper in Mrs. Hamilton's hand, conjuring her not to recall her forgiveness when she read it; but she must see it, it was the only amends he could make his poor Ellen, to exculpate her fully. Was it any wonder it had almost driven her wild? or that she should have scarcely known the means she adopted to send him the relief, which, as he deserved, had never reached him.

Mrs. Hamilton read the letter, and as thought after thought rose to her mind, connecting, defining, explaining Ellen's conduct from her fifteenth birthday, the day she received it, to the discovery of her sin, and her devoted silence afterward, trifling incidents which she had forgotten returned to add their weight of evidence, and increase almost to agony her self-reproach, for not seeing the whole before, and acting differently. She remembered now Ellen's procrastination in writing to Edward, the illness which followed, and could well understand her dread lest the finding the notes should be traced to that day, and so throw a suspicion on her brother, and her consequent firmness in refusing to state the day she had found them.

That long interview was one of inexpressible comfort to Edward; but though his unfeigned repentance and full confession gave his aunt hope for him, it did but increase her individual trial, as she returned to Ellen's couch, and listened to wanderings only too painfully explained by the tale she had heard.