Kitabı oku: «Home Influence: A Tale for Mothers and Daughters», sayfa 23

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER III.
A SUMMONS AND A LOSS

Mr. Maitland declared Ellen to be ill of a nervous fever which for three days confined her to her bed, and left her very weak for some little time, and so nervous that the least thing seemed to startle her; but, as he said it was no consequence, and she would soon recover, Mrs. Hamilton adopted his advice, took no notice of it, and only endeavored to make her niece's daily routine as varied in employment, though regular in hours and undisturbed in quiet, as she could. Perhaps she would have felt more anxious, and discovered something not quite usual in Ellen's manner, if her thoughts had not been painfully pre-occupied. About a week after their excursion she entered the library earlier than usual, and found her husband intently engaged with some dispatches just received. She saw he was more than ordinarily disturbed, and hesitated a moment whether to address him; but he was seldom so engrossed as to be unconscious of the presence of his wife.

"I am really glad you are here at this moment, Emmeline, for I actually was weak enough to shrink from seeking you with unpleasant news. Letters from Feroe have at length arrived, and my personal presence is so imperatively needed, that I am self-reproached at not going before; the long silence ought to have convinced me that all was not as it should be."

"But what has occurred, Arthur? I had no idea you contemplated the necessity of going," replied his wife very quietly, as she sat down close by him; but the fiat of separation, the thoughts of a perilous voyage, a visit to an almost desolate island, and the impossibility of receiving regular letters, so crowded upon her all at once, that it was a strong effort to speak at all.

"No, dearest; for what was the use of tormenting you with disagreeable anticipations, when there really might have been no foundation for them. The last accounts from Samboe, were, as you know, received nearly two years ago, telling me that Frederic Wilson was dead, but that his son had been received as his successor in the ministry, and as civil guardian of the island, with if possible, a still greater degree of popularity than his predecessors, from his having been educated in Denmark. His parents had lived on straitened means to give him superior advantages, which, as it proves, he would have been much better without. The vices he has acquired have far outrun the advantages. His example, and that of a band of idle, irregular spirits who have joined him, has not only scandalized the simple people but disturbed their homesteads, brought contention and misery, and in some cases, bloodshed; so that in point of social and domestic position, I fear they have sunk lower than when my grandfather first sought the island. The mother of this unhappy young man has, naturally, perhaps, but weakly, shrunk from informing against him; but her brother, the clergyman of Osteroe, has at length taken upon himself to do so, clearly stating that nothing but personal interference and some months' residence among them will effect a reformation; and that the ruin is more to be regretted, as the little island has been for more than half a century the admiration not only of its immediate neighbors, but of all who have chanced to harbor off its coast. He states, too, that if properly directed and not exposed to the contagion of large cities, as his brother has been, poor Wilson's younger son, now a boy of eleven, may become us worthy and judicious a pastor as his father and grandfather, and so keep the office in his family, as my grandfather was so desirous of doing. The question is, how is this boy to be educated on the island, and whom can I find to take the ministry meanwhile."

"And must your own residence there be very long?" inquired Mrs. Hamilton, still in that quiet tone, but her lip quivered.

"It depends entirely on whom I can get to accompany me, dearest. I must set Mr. Howard and Morton to work to find me some simple-minded, single-hearted individual, who will regard this undertaking in the same missionary spirit as the elder Wilson did. If I am happy enough to succeed in this, I hope a year, or somewhat less, will be the farthest limit of our separation."

"A year! a whole long year – dearest Arthur, must it be so very, very long?"

"Who tried to persuade Ellen, a fortnight ago, that a year, even two years, would pass so very quickly?" replied Mr. Hamilton trying to smile, and folding his arm fondly round his wife, he kissed the cheek which had become pale from the effort to restrain her feelings. "It is indeed an unexpected and a painful trial, and, as is generally the case with our rebellious spirits, I feel as if it would have been better borne at any other period than the present. We had so portioned out this year, had so anticipated gratifying Caroline by introducing her to the so long and so eagerly anticipated pleasures of London next January, that I can not bear to think of her disappointment."

"And our boys, too, they say it is so strange to be without their father, even in college term; what will it be when they come home for the long vacation, to which we have all so looked forward? But this is all weakness, my own dear husband; forgive me, I am only rendering your duty more difficult," she added, raising her head from his shoulder, and smiling cheerfully, even while the tears glistened in her eyes. "I must try and practice my own lesson, and believe the term of separation will really pass quickly, interminable as it now seems. We have been so blessed, so guarded from the bitter pang of even partial separation for twenty years, that how dare I murmur now the trial has come? It is God's pleasure, dearest Arthur, though it seems like the work of man, and as His we can endure it."

"Bless you, my beloved! you have indeed put a new spirit in me by those words," replied her husband, with a fondness, the more intense from the actual veneration that so largely mingled with it. "And bitter disappointment as it is to me to be from home when our sons return, it is better so, perhaps, for their company will wile away at least nearly three months of my absence."

Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton remained some hours together that morning in earnest conversation. All of individual regret was conquered for the sake of the other: its expression, at least, not its feeling; but they understood each other too well, too fondly, to need words or complaints to prove to either how intensely painful was the very thought of separation. To elude the performance of a duty which many persons, unable to enter into the hope of effecting good, would, no doubt, pronounce Quixotic – for what could the poor inhabitants of Samboe be to him? – never entered either Mr. or Mrs. Hamilton's mind. He was not one to neglect his immediate duties for distant ones; but believed and acted on the belief, that both could be united. His own large estate, its various farms, parishes, and villages, were so admirably ordered, that he could leave it without the smallest scruple in the hands of his wife and steward. Though interested in, and actually assisting in the political movements of his country, he was still, as from his youth he had firmly resolved to be, a free, independent Englishman; bound to no party, but respected by all; retaining his own principles unshaken as a rock, though often and often his integrity had been tried by court bribes and dazzling offers. And yet, rare blending with such individual feelings, Arthur Hamilton looked with candor and kindness on the conduct and principles of others, however they might differ from his own, and found excuses for them, which none others could. That he should give up all the comforts, the luxuries, the delights of his peculiarly happy home, to encounter several months' sojourn in a bleak, half-civilized island, only in the hope of restoring and insuring moral and religious improvement to a small colony of human beings, whose sole claim upon him was, that they were immortal as himself, and that they had done a kindness to his grandfather more than half a century back, was likely to, and no doubt did, excite the utmost astonishment in very many circles; but not a sneer, not a word seeming to whisper good should be done at home before sought abroad, could find a moment's resting-place near Arthur Hamilton's name.

For half an hour after Mrs. Hamilton quitted her husband she remained alone, and when she rejoined her family, though she might have been a shade paler than her wont, she was as cheerful in conversation and earnest in manner as usual. That evening Mr. Hamilton informed his children and Miss Harcourt of his intended departure, and consequent compelled change of plan. Emmeline's burst of sorrow was violent and uncontrolled. Caroline looked for a minute quite bewildered, and then hastening to her father threw one arm round his neck, exclaiming, in a voice of the most affectionate sincerity, "Dear papa, what shall we do without you for such a long time?"

"My dear child! I thank you for such an affectionate thought; believe me, the idea of your wishes being postponed has pained me as much as any thing else in this unpleasant duty."

"My wishes postponed, papa – what do you mean?"

"Have you quite forgotten our intended plans for next January, my love? My absence must alter them."

For a moment an expression of bitter disappointment clouded Caroline's open countenance.

"Indeed, papa, I had forgotten it; I only thought of your going away for so many months. It is a great disappointment, I own, and I dare say I shall feel it still more when January comes; but I am sure parting from you must be a still greater trial to mamma, than any such disappointment ought to be to me; and, indeed, I will try and bear it as uncomplainingly and cheerfully as she does."

Her father almost involuntarily drew her to his heart, and kissed her two or three times, without speaking; and Caroline was very glad he did so, for when she looked up again, the tears that would come at the first thought of her disappointment were bravely sent back again; and she tried to cheer Emmeline, by assuring her she never could be like her favorite heroines of romance, if she behaved so very much like a child; taking the opportunity when they retired for the night, to say more seriously —

"Dear Emmeline, do try and be as lively as you always are. I am sure poor mamma is suffering very much at the idea of papa's leaving us, though she will not let us see that she does, and if you give way so, it will make her more uncomfortable still."

Emmeline promised to try; but her disposition, quite as susceptible to sorrow as to joy, and not nearly as firm as her sister's, rendered the promise very difficult to fulfill. It was her first sorrow; and Mrs. Hamilton watched her with some anxiety, half fearful that she had been wrong to shield her so carefully from any thing like grief, if, when it came, she should prove unequal to its firm and uncomplaining endurance. Ellen had been out of the room when Mr. Hamilton had first spoken; and engaged in soothing Emmeline; when she re-entered and the news was communicated to her, he did not observe any thing particular in mode of receiving it. But Mrs. Hamilton was so struck with "the expression of her countenance, which, as she tried somewhat incoherently to utter regrets, took the place of its usual calm, that she looked at her several minutes in bewilderment; but it passed again, so completely, that she was angry with herself for fancying any thing uncommon. Caroline, however, had remarked it too, and she could not help observing to Miss Harcourt, the first time they were alone —

"You will say I am always fancying something extraordinary, Miss Harcourt; but Ellen certainly did look pleased last night, when mamma told her of papa's intended departure."

"The expression must have been something extraordinary for you to remark it at all," replied Miss Harcourt; "nobody but Mrs. Hamilton, whose penetration is out of the common, can ever read any thing on Ellen's face."

"And it was for that very reason I looked again; and mamma noticed it too, and was surprised, though she did not say any thing. If she really be pleased, she is most ungrateful, and all her profession of feeling mamma and papa's constant kindness sheer deceit. I never shall understand Ellen, I believe; but I do hope mamma will never discover that she is not exactly that which her affection believes her."

"Pray do not talk so, my dear Caroline, or I shall be tempted to confess that you are giving words to my own feelings. Her conduct with regard to the disappearance of her allowance, the wholly unsatisfactory account of its expenditure, even every month, for she seems to me to mention many things she has never had, banish every hopeful feeling, and I dread more than I can tell you, the very thing you have expressed. But all this is very wrong; we have relieved each other by a mutual acknowledgment, and now let us never revert, even in thought, if possible, to the subject."

Caroline willingly acquiesced, for it was far from agreeable. Mr. Hamilton's preparations, meanwhile, rapidly progressed. He imparted his wishes for a companion willing to remain in the island, till young Wilson should be prepared for the ministry, both to Mr. Howard and Mr. Morton (the latter still remained in his desolate parish, still more isolated in feeling from the loss of both his parents, and Percy's absence), and both, especially Morton, gave him every hope of obtaining the character he wanted. His next inquiry was at Dartmouth for a strong, well-built vessel, fitted to encounter the stormy seas between Scotland and Feroe, determining to do all in his power to provide some means of regular communication between himself and the beloved inmates of his home. Wick, in Caithness, was the farthest post town to which letters could be addressed. Every ten days or fortnight communications were to be sent there, and the Siren, after conveying him to Feroe, was regularly to ply between Samboe and Wick, bringing from the latter place to Mr. Hamilton the various letters that had accumulated there, should unfavorable winds have lengthened the voyage, and forwarding his through that post to his home. By this means, he hoped to hear and be heard of regularly; an intense relief, if it really could be so accomplished, to his wife.

As soon as a ship, a competent captain, mate, and crew were obtained, Mr. Hamilton set off for Oxford and London, wishing in the latter place to see his friend Grahame, and in the former to pass a few days with his sons, who, knowing nothing of his summons, received him with unbounded delight. Their regret, when they heard the cause of his visit, was as great as their joy had been. Percy, in a desperate fit of impatience, wished the little island and all its concerns at the bottom of the sea, the best place for such unruly, disagreeable people; and he was only sobered when his father put before him that, though it must be a very heightened individual disappointment, it was the greatest comfort to him, to think that they would both be with their mother and sisters the first few months of his absence. Percy instantly altered his tone.

"You are quite right, my dear father; I was very selfish not to think of it. Trust me for making my dearest mother as cheerful and as happy as I can. You don't know what a guardian angel the thought of her love has been to me in temptation; and as for Bertie, if ever I thought he was studying himself ill, and not taking the care of himself he ought, or wanted him to take exercise and recreation, when he thought me a great bore, the word mother, made him yield at once."

And Herbert's kindling eye and cheek bore testimony to the truth of his brother's words. His only feeling and exclamation had been, if he might but accompany his father, and save him all the trouble he could; allowing, however, its impossibility, when the circumstances of his still delicate health and the necessity for uninterrupted study, were placed before him.

That visit to Oxford was a proud one for Mr. Hamilton. His sons held that place in the estimation of the professors, superiors, and their fellow-collegians, which their early influences had promised, and which, as the sons of Arthur Hamilton, seemed naturally their own. Percy could so combine firmness in principle, unbending rectitude in conduct, with such a spirit of fun and enjoyment, as rendered him the prime mover of all sports at Oxford, as he had been at Oakwood; and Herbert, though so gentle and retiring as (until Percy's spirit was roused to shield him), gained him many nick-names and many petty annoyances, silently and insensibly won his way, and so bore with the thoughtless, the mirthful, and even the faulty, as at length to gain him the privilege of being allowed to do just as he liked, and win by his extraordinary talents the admiration and love of all the professors with whom he was thrown.

Morton had promised to introduce a person to Mr. Hamilton on his return from Oxford, who, if approved of, would be his willing, his eager assistant, and gladly remain in the island, attending to all that was required in its superintendence, and in the education of young Wilson, till he was old enough and properly fitted to take his father's place. Great, then, was Mr. Hamilton's disappointment, when Morton entered his library according to appointment, but quite alone. Still greater was his astonishment, when he found it was Morton himself, thus eagerly desirous to become his companion, urging his wishes, his motives, Mr. Howard's sanction, with such earnestness, such single-mindedness of purpose, that every objection which, for Morton's own sake, Mr. Hamilton so strenuously brought forward, was overruled; and after a lengthened interview, matters were arranged to the entire satisfaction of both parties. The idea of the companionship and aid of such a friend as Morton bringing as great a relief to both Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton, as their acquiescence filled the whole heart of the young missionary with the most unbounded gratitude and joy. He suggested many little things, which, in the agitation of his hasty summons, had escaped his friends, and his whole being seemed transformed from despondency and listlessness to energy and hope. Engrossed as he was, Mr. Hamilton's usual thought for others had not deserted him, and he remarked that one of his household, Robert Langford, so often mentioned, appeared to linger in the library after morning and evening service, as if anxious to speak to him, but failing in courage so to do. He thought, too, that the young man seemed quite altered, dispirited, gloomy, almost wretched at times, instead of the mirthful, happy being he had been before. Determining to give him an opportunity of speaking before his departure, if he wished it, Mr. Hamilton summoned him to arrange, write a list, and pack some books, which Morton had selected to take with him. For some time Robert pursued his work in persevering silence, but at length fixed his eyes on his master with such beseeching earnestness, that Mr. Hamilton inquired the matter at once. It was some time before the young man could sufficiently compose himself to speak with any coherency, but at last Mr. Hamilton gathered the following details.

About five weeks previous (the first day of June) he had been introduced, as he had very often before been, by his master, with certain papers and law articles to convey to Plymouth, and with a pocket book containing thirty pounds, in two ten and two five pound notes, which he had orders to leave at some poor though respectable families, whom Mr. Hamilton was in the habit of occasionally assisting, though they were out of his own domains. The morning he was to have started on this expedition a cousin, whom he had always regarded as a brother, came unexpectedly to see him. He had just arrived at Plymouth from a four years' residence with his regiment in Ireland: and Robert's glee was so great as to require reiterated commands from the steward to take care of the papers, and not stay at his mother's cottage, where he was to take his cousin, later than the afternoon. He lingered so long before he set off from Oakwood, that he gathered up all the papers as quickly as he could, forgot his principal charge, so far at least as not to look to the secure fastening of the pocket-book, and hastened with his cousin through the brushwood and glade we have before mentioned, to his mother's cottage. It was very hot, and the young men, heated and in eager conversation, took off their coats, threw them loosely over their arms, and proceeded on their walk without them, much too engrossed with each other to be aware that, as they carried their coats, it was the easiest and most natural thing possible for all the smaller contents of their pockets to fall out, and if not missed directly, from the winding and rugged wood path, not likely to be found again.