Kitabı oku: «Home Influence: A Tale for Mothers and Daughters», sayfa 20

CHAPTER XIII.
SUSPICION. – A PARTING, A DOUBLE GRIEF. – INNOCENCE PROVED. – WRONG DONE AND EVIL CONFIRMED BY DOUBT

Lady Helen's ball took place; and Caroline had so conquered herself, that she could listen to Percy's flowing account of its delights with actual cheerfulness. It was so associated with self-reproach, that she could scarcely think of it without pain; but she was so convinced of her folly in permitting such a very little thing so to affect her temper as to cause all the misery she had endured, that she had resolved to punish herself, not only by listening to Percy, but by herself inquiring the details. She was a girl of really a strong mind, and once convinced of error, once released from the fell dominion of temper, she did not care what pain she endured, or what difficulty she encountered, so that she could but convince her mother how truly she regretted, and tried to atone for past misconduct. It was very easy, as Mrs. Hamilton had told her, to regain lost time in her studies, but not quite so easy to check the cross word or unkind thought, and to break from the black cloud that still at times would envelop her. But she did not give way, constantly even making opportunities for self-denial, and doing little kindnesses for Ellen, though she was too truthful to profess an affection which as yet she could not feel.

Early in the following week Mr. Grahame came over to Oakwood with a petition. Annie having taken cold at the party, had been obliged to enact the invalid, much against her inclination, and so entreated her mother to invite Caroline to spend a few days with her; and to her astonishment, her cold, harsh father volunteered to go himself for her. Mr. Hamilton at once acceded; his wife hesitated; but she went at once to Caroline, who chanced to be reading alone in the school-room, for it was the time of recreation, and told her. For a moment her countenance was actually radiant with delight, the next it clouded over.

"You would like it very much, but you are afraid I shall not permit you to go – is that the meaning of your change of countenance?" asked her mother, half smiling.

"I am afraid of myself, mamma; for I fear I am always more ill-tempered and proud after any such pleasure as going to Moorlands would be."

"Would you rather not go, then?"

"I can not say quite that, mamma; I should like it very much, if I could but be sure of myself afterward."

"Did you ever feel such a doubt of yourself before, Caroline, when going to stay with Annie?"

"No, mamma; I seem to have thought a great deal more the last few days, and not to feel half so sure of myself."

"Then I think there is less danger for you, that is, of course, if you are willing to risk the temptation of Lady Helen's too kind consideration and lavish praises, which make mine so very tame."

"Oh, mamma, pray do not say so," interrupted Caroline, very eagerly. "Indeed, I would rather hear you speak and see you smile as you do now, than listen to all that Lady Helen is so kind as to say. I know I did like it very much, and that it did sometimes make me fancy when I came home, that you were almost cold. But, indeed, indeed, I hope I am learning to know you better."

"I hope so, too, dearest. But Mr. Grahame is waiting for you; and, by-the-by, begged me to ask you for some lines you promised to copy out for a print in Lady Helen's album. You may do just as you like about going, because you are quite old and wise enough to decide for yourself. Ill-temper always brings such suffering with it, that if pleasure must recall it, you will be wiser not to go; but if you can resist it – if you think you can return to your quiet daily routine as forbearing and gentle and happy as you are now, go, my love, and enjoy yourself as much as you can."

"I will try and remember all you said about prayer when we think we are most secure, dear mamma," answered Caroline, in a very earnest and somewhat lowered voice. "I know, whenever I have been to Moorlands before, I have felt so elated, so sure I should never be in an ill-temper, so proud from being made so much of, that I fear I have very often relaxed even in my daily prayers, and never thought it necessary to pray against ill-temper. Do you think if I watch myself, and still pray against it, it will save me from being cross and unkind on my return?"

"It will undoubtedly help you, my dear child, very considerably, and render your trial very much easier, but I can not promise you that it will entirely prevent the inclination to feel pettish and unhappy. I have no doubt that in time it will prevent even that; but now, you know, it is very early days, and you have not yet forgotten the bitter pain of last week; still I think you may venture to go, love, and if I do see you happy and gentle on your return, it will do much toward convincing me you are striving in earnest. Make haste and get ready, and do not forget the poem. I will send over your things. Tell Lady Helen I shall expect all her family next Monday evening, to join Edward's little farewell-party, and you can return with them."

With the most delighted alacrity Caroline hastened to get ready, and in her hurry forgot the poem till she re-entered the school-room, which was still untenanted.

"What shall I do for some writing-paper?" she thought; "the desks are all put away, and it will detain me so long to go up again for the keys, and the volume is too large to carry – oh, I will tear out a blank page from this book, it will not be very elegant, but I can recopy it at Moorlands."

And she hastily tore out a page from an exercise-book which lay open on the table; not perceiving that by doing so, a fellow-leaf, which was written on, was loosened, and fell to the ground, mingling with some torn papers which had been put in a heap to be cleared away. She had just finished it, when Fanny came to tell her Mr. Grahame could not wait any longer, and asking if all the papers on the ground were to be removed, Caroline hastily answered in the affirmative, without looking at them, and the girl bore them off in her apron, the written leaf among them.

Now it so happened that this written leaf had already occasioned trouble. Miss Harcourt had been so displeased with Ellen's careless performance of a French exercise that morning, that she had desired her to write it again. It was very difficult, and had materially shortened the time which she had promised to devote to Edward, who was this week released from his attendance on Mr. Howard, to permit him and Ellen to be as much together as possible. Hurried by him, she left her book open on the table to dry, and, finding it closed on her return, put it away, without looking at it. The following day Miss Harcourt, of course, requested to see it, and, to Ellen's utter astonishment, her exercise was not there; only the faulty and blotted theme, with no sign to explain its disappearance. Now we know Miss Harcourt was rather prejudiced against Ellen, and, as she had unhappily failed in truth more than once (perhaps she was not so unjust and harsh as poor Ellen felt her to be), she refused to believe her assurance that she had written it. No one had been in the school-room at the time to whom she could refer: if Ellen had never disobeyed or deceived, of course her word would be sufficient, as her brother's and cousins' would.

"That you have failed again, both in obedience and truth, Ellen, I can not for a moment doubt, and it certainly would be my duty to inform your aunt directly; but as I know it would cause her real suffering to be compelled to punish you just this last week that Edward will be with us for some time, I shall say nothing about it to her, nor inflict any penalty on you to attract her notice, but it is entirely for her sake I forbear. One so hardened in falsehood as you must be, so soon to forget her kind indulgence after your fault only a few weeks ago, can deserve nothing but harshness and contempt. I shall certainly, after this week, warn her not to trust too implicitly in your artful professions of repentance."

Poor Ellen felt too bewildered and too miserable even to cry. That she had written her exercise, she was as positive as that she had been told to do so; but if she had – what had become of it? Harsh as Miss Harcourt seemed, appearances were certainly very much against her. She had not a single proof that she had obeyed, and her word was nothing; even Emmeline looked at her doubtingly, and as if she could scarcely even pity her. It was very little comfort to think her aunt was not to be told. Her own impulse was to go to her, and tell her at once; but how could she be believed? and Mrs. Hamilton's words – "If I ever discover another untruth, you will compel me to adopt still severer measures, pain as it will be to myself," the remembrance of all she had suffered, the disappointment it would be to her aunt to think all she had said and read to her were forgotten, when in reality she was constantly thinking of and trying to act on them, all checked the impulse, and terrified her into silence.

Miss Harcourt was not an acute physiognomist; she could only read in Ellen's face hardihood and recklessness. We rather think Mrs. Hamilton would have read something very different; but she was very much engaged with Edward, and if she did think Ellen looked much more out of spirits, she attributed it to natural feeling at the rapid approach of the day of separation. For her brother's sake, to prove to him she could enter into his joy, she tried very hard not to evince the least symptom of depression, and never to cry before him at least; though every night, that told her another day had gone, and brought before her all sorts of vague feelings and fancies of dread, she either cried herself to sleep, or laid awake, still more unhappy. The suspicion attached to her seemed to double the severity of the trial of parting. Edward was her own; Edward must love her, with all her faults; but even her aunt, her kind, dear, good aunt, must cease to have any affection for her, if so constantly believed guilty of a sin so terrible as falsehood. And she seemed to love her brother still more than ever, every day that brought the hour of parting nearer – sometimes as if she could not bear the pain of not being able to look at his bright face, and listen to his glad laugh and dear voice for three, perhaps six long years. Her aunt's gentle kindness seemed to increase her unhappiness, for though she knew she was innocent, still she felt, if Miss Harcourt had told Mrs. Hamilton, she could not be so caressed and cared for and she was receiving that which she was believed to have forfeited. Miss Harcourt's face certainly seemed to ask her as distinctly as words, how she could be so artful – so deceitful – as to permit her aunt to take such notice of her; and so she often shrunk away, when she most longed to sit by and listen to her.

Edward's spirits never sobered, except now and then, when he thought of leaving Mrs. Hamilton, to whom he had given the same love he had lavished on his mother, perhaps to a still greater extent, for reverence was largely mingled with it. Mr Howard, too, was another whom he grieved to leave, and Mrs. Hamilton so trusted in these apparently strong affections and his good disposition, as to feel but little anxiety; merely sorrow that she was to lose him for a profession of danger. She did not know, nor did Mr. Howard, nor Edward himself, that he was one who would be guided more by the influence of those with whom he was intimately thrown, than by any memory of the absent, or judgment of his own.

Ellen's manner on Monday evening annoyed and prejudiced Miss Harcourt still more; Mrs. Greville and Mary, Lady Helen and all her family, bringing Caroline home with them, Mr. Howard, and some of Edward's favorite companions, all assembled at Oakwood, and every one was determined to be gay and cheerful, and Edward's voice was the merriest, and his laugh the happiest there; and Ellen, though her head ached with the effort, and the constant struggle of the preceding week, was quite cheerful too, and talked to Mary Greville, and Lilla and Cecil Grahame, and even to Mr. Howard, as Miss Harcourt felt she had no right to do; and as must prove her to be that which she had always fancied her. Mrs. Hamilton, on the contrary, saw that in the very midst of a laugh, or of speaking, her niece's eye would rest upon Edward, and the lip quite quiver, and her smile become for the moment so strained, that she was satisfied Ellen's cheerfulness proceeded from no want of feeling; she wondered, indeed, at so much control at such an early age, but she loved her for it, notwithstanding. Once only Ellen was nearly conquered. Mary had begged her to sing a little Hindoo air, of which she was particularly fond, and Edward, hearing the request, said eagerly —

"Do sing it, dear Ellen; I am quite as fond of it as Mary is, for it seems to make me think of India and poor mamma, and it will be such a long time before I hear it again."

She had never in her whole life felt so disinclined to sing, so as if it were quite impossible – as if she must cry if she did; but Edward would think it so unkind if she refused, for she did not know herself why his very words should have increased the difficulty, and what reason could she give him? Mary went and asked Mrs. Hamilton to accompany her; and Ellen did her very best, but her voice would tremble, and just before the end of the second verse it failed entirely; but still she was glad she had tried, for on Mrs. Hamilton saying, very kindly, and in a voice that only she and Mary could hear, "I was half afraid you would not succeed to-night, my dear Ellen, but you were quite right to try," Mary seemed to understand at once why it had been so difficult for her to oblige her, and to be quite sorry she had pressed it so much, and Edward had thanked her, and told her he should sing it in idea very often. She tried to be merry again, but she could not succeed as before, and so she kept as near her aunt as she could, all the remainder of the evening, as if she were only safe there.

Edward, too, had a hard battle with himself, as one by one his favorite companions took leave of him with a hearty shake of the hand, and eager – but in some, half-choked wishes for his health and prosperity; and when all had gone, and Mr. Howard, who had remained for prayers, took him in his arms, and solemnly prayed God to bless him, and save him from danger and temptation, and permit him to return to his family, improved in all things that would make him an affectionate guardian to his orphan sister, and repay all the love and care of his aunt and uncle, it was a desperate effort that prevented him from sobbing like a child; but he had his midshipman's uniform on for the first time, and he was quite resolved he would not disgrace it; therefore he only returned Mr. Howard's embrace very warmly, and ran out of the room. But when his aunt went into his room an hour afterward, it appeared as if he had put off his pride and his uniform together, for, though he was fast asleep, his pillow was quite wet with tears.

The next morning was a very sad one, though Percy and his father did all they could to make it cheerful (we ought to have said before that Percy and Herbert were both going with Mr. Hamilton and Edward). No one liked the idea of losing Edward for so long a time. He had made himself a favorite with all, even with every one of the servants, who, when the carriage was ready at eleven o'clock, thronged into the hall to take a last look at him. He was so altered, that he had that morning, actually of his own accord, shaken hands with every one of them who had ever done any thing for him, especially Ellis and Morris, and Robert, to whom he had given a very handsome present, and thanked him for all his attention.

He kept up very manfully till he came to his aunt, whose emotion, as she held him in a close embrace, was so unusually visible, and for the moment he seemed so to love her, that the idea of the sea lost half its delight, and he felt as if he could almost have liked to remain with her. But Percy's joyous voice —

"Come, Master Edward, I thought you were a sailor, not a school-boy. Off with you; you will not give me time or room for one kiss from mamma before we go," roused him, and he tried to laugh in the midst of his tears, gave Ellen another kiss, and ran into the carriage, where he was quickly followed by his uncle and cousins, and in a very few minutes Oakwood, dear, happy Oakwood, as his whole heart felt it at that moment, was hidden from his sight.

Ellen remained by the window, looking after the carriage, long after it was impossible to see or hear it, very pale, and her eyes very heavy, but not in tears; and as her aunt went to her, and put her arm round her, and began talking to her very cheerfully of all Edward would have to write to her about, and how soon they might hear from him, and that Ellen should answer him as often and as fully as she liked, and that she would not even ask to see her letters to him, or all his to her, as they might have many little affectionate things to say to each other, that they might not care about any one else seeing, and she would trust them both – Ellen seemed as if one pain was soothed, and if indeed she heard often from him, she might bear his departure. But there was still the other source of unhappiness, recalled every time she met Miss Harcourt's cold suspicious look, which had not changed even then. Still she tried to join her cousins, and get her work, for there were no studies that morning, and so some little time passed, by Mrs. Hamilton's exertions, almost cheerfully; but then Ellen left the room to get something she wanted, and, in seeking her own, passed Edward's room, the door of which stood half open. She could not resist entering, and every thing spoke of him so vividly, and yet seemed so to tell her he had gone, really gone, and she was quite alone, that all the pain came back again worse than ever, and she laid her head on his pillow, and her long-checked tears flowed with almost passionate violence.

"My dear Ellen, I have been looking for you every where," said her aunt's kind voice, full an hour afterward; "Emmeline went into your room and could not find you, and I could not imagine what had become of you. It was not wise of you to come here just this morning, love. You have been so brave, so unselfish all this week, that I must not let you give way now. Try and think only that Edward will be happier as a sailor than he would be remaining with you; and though I know you must miss him very, very painfully, you will be able to bear it better. Poor Alice Seaton, of whom you have heard me speak, has no such comfort; her brother could not bear the idea of a sea life, and is scarcely strong enough for it; and yet, poor fellow, it is the only opening his uncle has for him, and his poor sister had not only that pain to bear – for you can fancy how dreadful it would be, if Edward had left us for a life in which he thought he should be miserable – but is obliged to leave the aunt she loves, as much, I think, as you love me, Ellen, and go as a teacher in a school, to bear her accumulated sorrow quite alone. Sad as your trial is, you have still many things to bless God for, dearest, as I am sure you will acknowledge, if, when the pain of the present moment has subsided, you think of Alice, and try to put yourself in her place."

"It is not only parting from Edward," answered Ellen, trying to check her tears, but clasping her arms still closer round her aunt, as if dreading that her own words should send her from her.

"Not only parting from Edward, Ellen, love! what is it then? tell me," replied Mrs. Hamilton, surprised and almost alarmed. But Ellen could not go on, much as she wished it, for her momentary courage had deserted her, and she could only cry more bitterly than before. "Have you done any thing wrong, Ellen? and have you forgotten my promise?" inquired her aunt, after waiting several minutes, and speaking very sorrowfully.

"Miss Harcourt thinks I have, aunt; but indeed, indeed, I have not; I have not been so very wicked as to tell another falsehood. I know no one can believe me, but I would rather you should know it, even if – if you punish me again."

"You must try to be more calm, my dear Ellen, and tell me clearly what is causing you so much additional suffering; for I can not quite understand you. I certainly shall not punish you, unless quite convinced you have failed in truth again, which I do not think you have. Tell me exactly what it is, and look at me while you are speaking."

Ellen tried to obey, but her grief had gained such an ascendency, that it was very difficult. Mrs. Hamilton looked very thoughtful when she ceased, for she really was more perplexed than she allowed Ellen to perceive; and the poor child, fancying her silence could only mean disbelief and condemnation, remained quiet and trembling by her side.

"I promised you that I would not doubt you, Ellen, and I will not now, though appearances are so strong against you," she said, after several minutes' thought. "Come with me to the school-room, and show me your exercise-book; I may find some clew to explain this mystery."

Ellen thought that was quite impossible; but, inexpressibly comforted by her aunt's trust, she went with her directly.

"Ellen has been telling me that you have been very much displeased with her, my dear Lucy," Mrs. Hamilton said, directly she entered, addressing Miss Harcourt, who was sitting reading with Caroline and Emmeline, "and certainly with great apparent justice; but she is so unhappy about it, that I can scarcely believe that she has forgotten all which passed between us a short time ago, and I am going, therefore, with your permission, to try if I can not discover something that may throw a light on the subject."

"I am afraid that will scarcely be possible," replied Miss Harcourt; "however, I am glad she has had the candor to tell you, instead of continuing to receive your notice, as she has done the last week." Ellen had brought her book while Miss Harcourt was speaking, and Mrs. Hamilton attentively examined it.

"Did you not begin one like this the same day, Caroline?"

"Yes, mamma; don't you remember we were obliged to send to Harris for them? as the parcel with the stationery did not come from Exeter as soon as we expected. And we noticed how much thinner they were, though they were the same sized books."

"And did I not hear you say something about their having the same number of leaves, and therefore it must have been only the quality of the paper which made the difference?"

"What a memory you have, mamma," answered Caroline, smiling. "I did not think you were taking the least notice of us, but I do remember saying so now, and, indeed, I very often wish the quality had been the same, for our writing looks horrid."

"Do you happen to remember the number of leaves they contained, and if they were both alike?"

"I know they had both the same number, and I think it was two-and-twenty, but I can tell you in a moment." And with her usual quickness of movement, Caroline unlocked her desk, drew forth her book, and ran over the leaves.

"I am right – two-and-twenty."

"And you are quite sure they had both the same number?"

"Perfectly certain, mamma."

"Then, by some incomprehensible means, two leaves have disappeared from Ellen's – here are only twenty. Have you ever torn a leaf out, Ellen?"

"No, aunt, indeed I have not."

"When did Miss Harcourt tell you to write this missing exercise?"

"Last Monday week – I mean yesterday week."

"Where did you write it, and what did you do with your book afterward?"

"I wrote it at this table, aunt: I was so sorry I had to do it, when Edward depended so much on my going out with him, that I thought it would save time not to get my desk; and as soon as it was done, I left it open to dry. When I came home it was closed, and I put it away without looking at it, and the next morning the exercise was not there."

"Who was in this room after you left it? by-the-by, it was the morning you went to Lady Helen's, Caroline; did you notice Ellen's book open, as she said? Why, what is the matter, my dear?" she added, observing that Caroline looked as if some sudden light had flashed upon her, and then, really grieved.

"I am so very, very sorry, mamma; I do believe it has been all my haste and carelessness that has caused Ellen all this unhappiness. I was in such a hurry to copy the poem for Lady Helen, that I tore a blank leaf out of an open book on the table, without thinking whose it was. In my haste the book fell to the ground, I picked it up to write on it, but never noticed if the fellow-leaf fell out, which it must have done, and no doubt Fanny carried it away with some other torn papers, which she asked me if she were to destroy. I am more sorry than I can tell you, Ellen; pray believe that I did not do it purposely."

"I am sure she will, if it be only for the comfort of our knowing the truth," said Mrs. Hamilton, truly relieved, not only from the explanation, but perceiving Caroline's voluntarily offered kiss was willingly and heartily returned by Ellen. It was almost the first she had ever seen exchanged between them.

"I must believe you, dear Caroline, for you never say what you do not mean," said Ellen, earnestly; "but I do so wish Miss Harcourt could see my exercise; she would quite believe me then."

"And we should all be more satisfied," replied Mrs. Hamilton, perceiving in a moment that Miss Harcourt still doubted, and ringing the bell, she desired the footman to send Fanny to her.

"Do you remember taking some torn papers from this room the morning you went to tell Miss Hamilton that Mr. Grahame was waiting?" she asked.

"Yes, madam."

"And were they all torn up in small pieces?"

"No, madam; there was one like the page out of a book, which made me ask Miss Hamilton if they were all to be destroyed. It was such a nice clean piece, only being written on one side, that I wrapped up some lace in it – Mrs. Ellis having only half an hour before scolded me for not keeping it more carefully."

"Bring me the leaf, my good girl, and Miss Ellen will give you a still better piece for the purpose," replied her mistress, quite unable to suppress a smile, and Ellen hastily took out a large sheet of writing paper, and the moment Fanny returned (she seemed gone an age) gave it to her, and seized her own, which she placed in her aunt's hand, without being able to speak a single word.

"I think that is the very theme, and certainly Ellen's writing, my dear Lucy; we can have no more doubt now," said Mrs. Hamilton, the moment Fanny had left the room, delighted with the exchange, and drawing Ellen close to her, for the poor child could really scarcely stand.

"I have done you injustice, Ellen, and I beg your pardon," replied Miss Harcourt directly, and Mrs. Hamilton would have been better pleased had she stopped there, but she could not help adding, "You know I should never have doubted you, if you had not so often forfeited truth."

Ellen's first impulse had been to go to her, but her last words caused her to bury her face on her aunt's shoulder.

"I really think, Ellen, you ought to thank Ellis for giving Fanny a scolding, as it has done you such excellent service," resumed Mrs. Hamilton, playfully; "and what fee are you going to give me for taking upon myself to prove your innocence in open court? I think myself so very clever, that I shall tell Percy I am a better lawyer without study, than he can hope to be with. You don't seem very capable of doing any thing but kissing me now, and so I will not be very exacting. You have cried yourself almost ill, and so must bear the penalty. Go and lie down in my dressing-room for an hour or two; Emmeline, go with your cousin, and see what a kind, affectionate nurse you can be till I come. It is never too early to practice such a complete woman's office."

Emmeline, quite proud of the charge, and more grieved than she very well knew how to express, till she was quite alone with Ellen, that she, too, had suspected and been cold to her the last week, left the room with her cousin. Caroline seemed to hesitate for a moment, but she was quite certain by her mother's face that she wished to speak with Miss Harcourt, and so, without being told, took up her book, and went into the library.

"And now, Lucy, I am going to ask you a personal favor," began Mrs. Hamilton, the moment they were alone.

"That I will try and not judge Ellen so harshly again," was her instant reply; "you have every right to desire it, my dear friend, not to ask it as a favor; I was too prejudiced and too hasty; but your own dear children are so truthful, so open, that I fear they have quite spoiled me for the necessary patience and forbearance with others."

"You have not quite guessed it, Lucy. Appearances were so very strongly against that poor child, that I am not at all astonished you should have disbelieved her assertion. In the moment of irritation, it is not unlikely I should have done so myself; but the favor I am going to ask you, is merely that you will try and never show that you doubt her word, or refer to her past failures. I am quite convinced that untruth is not Ellen's natural disposition, but that it has been caused by the same circumstances which have made her such a painfully timid, too humble character. If, with all her efforts to conquer herself, she still finds her word doubted, and the past brought forward, she never will be able to succeed. Examine as strictly and carefully as you please, and as I am sure she will desire, if necessary – as she did to-day – but oblige me, and never doubt her. If she finds we never do, it will raise her self-esteem, and give her a still further incentive to adhere as strictly to the truth, as she sees we believe she does. I am certain the habit of falsehood has often been strengthened by the injudicious and cruel references to one or two childish failures. If I am never to be believed, what is the use of trying to tell the truth? is the very natural question; and the present pain of carefulness being greater than the visible amount of evil, the habit is confirmed. Will you oblige me?"