Kitabı oku: «Home Influence: A Tale for Mothers and Daughters», sayfa 24
A draught of cider and half an hour's rest at Mrs. Langford's cottage sufficiently revived Robert to resume his coat; he satisfied himself that his packet of papers was secure, and, as he imagined from the feel of another pocket, the pocket-book also.
What, then, was his consternation, when he approached the first house at which he was to leave ten pounds of the money, about twenty miles from Oakwood to discover that the pocket book was gone! and that which, by its feel, he believed to have been it, an old card-case, that his young master Percy had laughingly thrown at him one day after failing in his endeavor to emblazon it, the sticky materials he had used causing it to adhere to whatever it touched, and so preserving it in Robert's pocket, when almost all the other things had fallen out. He racked his memory in vain as to what could have become of it, convinced that he had not left it at Oakwood, as he first sincerely wished that he had. Two or three other things had also disappeared, and it suddenly flashed upon him, that when carrying his coat over his arm they must have fallen out. He cursed his thoughtlessness again and again, and would have retraced his steps immediately, but the papers with which he was intrusted had to be delivered at Plymouth by a certain hour, and he could not do it. The intense heat of the day gave place in the evening to a tremendous storm of thunder and lightning, wind and very heavy rain, which last continued unabated through the night. He returned home, or rather to his mother's cottage, the next day, in a state of mind little removed from distraction; searching the path he had traversed with his cousin in every direction, but only succeeded in finding some worthless trifles, and the pocket-book itself but open and empty; but at a little distance from it one five pound note. In an instant he remembered that in his hurry he had failed to see to its proper fastening: if he had, all would have been right, for the wind and rain would hardly have had power to open it, and disperse its contents. Hour after hour he passed in the vain search for the remainder; the storm had rendered the path more intricate; the ground was slimy, and quantities of dried sticks and broken branches and leaves almost covered it. He told his tale to his mother in the deepest distress; what was he to do? She advised him to tell the steward the whole story, and to request him to keep back the sum she was in the habit of receiving quarterly, till the whole amount could be repaid. Robert obeyed her, but with most painful reluctance, though even then he did not imagine all the misery his carelessness would entail upon him. Morris, as was natural, was exceedingly displeased, and not only reproved him very severely, but let fall suspicions as to the truth of his story: he knew nothing of his cousin, he said, and could not say what company he might have been led into. If the notes had fallen out of his pocket during his walk, they must be found; it was all nonsense that the wind and rain could so have scattered and annihilated them, as to remove all trace of them. He would not say any thing to his master, because it would only annoy him, and the charities he would give himself, not from Mrs. Langford's allowance, but from Robert's own wages, which he should certainly stop till the whole sum was paid; he should take care how he intrusted such a responsible office to him again.
Robert was at first indignant, and violent in his protestations of the truth of his story; but as it got wind in the servants' hall as he found himself suspected and shunned by almost all, as days merged into weeks, and there was no trace of the notes, and Morris and Ellis both united in declaring that, as no strangers passed through that part of the park, if found they must have been heard of, the young man sunk into a state of the most gloomy despondency, longing to tell his kind master the whole tale, and yet, naturally enough, shrinking from the dread of his suspicion of his honesty, as more terrible than all the rest.
But Mr. Hamilton did not suspect him, and so assured him of his firm belief in his truth and innocence, that it was with great difficulty poor Robert refrained from throwing himself at his feet to pour forth his gratitude. He was so severely punished from his heedlessness, that his master would not say much about it, and soon after dismissing him, summoned Morris, and talked with him some time on the subject, declaring he would as soon suspect his own son of dishonesty as the boy who had grown up under his own eye from infancy, and the son of such a mother. It was very distressing for Mrs. Langford certainly, the old steward allowed, and she looked sad enough; but it was no use, he had tried hard enough to prevent his suspicions, but they would come. None but the servants and the woodmen and gardeners went that path, and if the notes had been dropped there, they must have been found; and it was a very hard thing for the other servants, as none knew who might be suspected of appropriating them. His master was much too kind in his opinions, but he must forgive him if he continued to keep a sharp look out after the young man. Morris was very old, and somewhat opinionated; so all that his master could succeed in, was to insist that he should only keep back half of Robert's wages, till the sum was paid.
"Take away the whole, and if he have been unfortunately led into temptation, which I do not believe he has, you expose him to it again," was his judicious command. "It is all right he should return it, even though lost only by carelessness; but I will not have him put to such straits for want of a little money, as must be the case if you deprive him of all his wages; and now, my good Morris, if you can not in conscience repeat my firm opinion of this lad's innocence to the servants, I must do it myself."
And that very evening after prayers, when the whole household were assembled in the library, Mr. Hamilton addressed them simply and briefly, mentioning that Robert Langford had himself told his tale to him, and that it was his own opinion, and that of their mistress, that he did not deserve the suspicions attached to him, and that his fellow-servants would all be acting more charitably and religiously if they believed his story, until they had had some strong proof to the contrary; he could not of course, interfere with private opinion; he could only tell them his own and their lady's. He acknowledged it was a very unpleasant occurrence, but he begged them all to dismiss the idea that suspicion could be attached to either of them; he felt too convinced that had any one of his household chanced to find the missing notes, they would at once have mentioned it to the steward or housekeeper, more especially, since Robert's loss had been known among them only a few days after it had occurred. Appropriation, he need not tell them, in such a case was theft, and of that sin, he was perfectly certain, not one present would be guilty. He allowed that it would be much more satisfactory to have the tangible proof of Robert's innocence by discovering some trace of them but it was not unlikely the heavy wind and rain had destroyed the thin material of the notes or borne them into the brambly brushwood, where it was scarcely possible they could be found.
If the attention of Mrs. Hamilton, her daughters, and Miss Harcourt had not been naturally riveted on Mr. Hamilton's address, and its effect on the servants, especially Robert, whose emotion was almost overpowering, they must have remarked that Ellen had shrunk into the shade of the heavy curtains falling by one of the windows, and had unconsciously grasped the oaken back of one of the massive chairs; lips, cheek, and brow, white and rigid as sculptured marble. An almost supernatural effort alone enabled her to master the crushing agony, sending the blood up to her cheeks with such returning violence, that when she wished her aunt and uncle good night, she might have been thought more flushed than pale; but it passed unnoticed Mrs. Hamilton too much annoyed on Mrs. Langford's account, to think at that moment of any thing but how she could best set the poor mother's heart at rest. It was very evident that though some of the domestics after their master's address came up to Robert, shook hands with him and begged his pardon, the greater number still sided with Morris, and retained their own less favorable opinion, and she could well imagine what Mrs. Langford's sufferings must be. It only wanted five days to that fixed for Mr. Hamilton's departure, wind permitting; and there were so many things to think of and do for him, that his family could have little thought of any thing else; but Mrs. Hamilton, assured her husband she would leave no means untried to prove Robert's innocence.
For nearly an hour that same night did Ellen, after her attendant had left her, sit crouched by the side of her bed as if some bolt had struck and withered her as she sat. One word alone sounded and resounded in her ears; she had known it, pronounced it to be such to herself numbers of times, but it had never mocked and maddened her as when spoken in her uncle's voice, and in his deepest, most expressive tone – "theft!" And she was the guilty one – and she must see the innocent bearing the penalty of her crime, suspicion, dislike, avoidance, for she dared not breathe the truth. Again came the wild, almost desperate, resolve to seek Mrs. Hamilton that very moment, avow herself the criminal, implore her to take back every trinket belonging to her, to replace it, and do with her what she would. But if she did confess, and so draw attention to her, how could she keep her brother's secret? Could she have firmness to bear all, rather than betray it? What proof of her inward wretchedness and remorse could there be in the mere confession of appropriation, when the use to which she had applied that money and all concerning it, even to the day it was found, must be withheld, lest it should in any way be connected with her letter to her brother. She must be silent; and the only prayer which, night and morning, ay, almost every hour, rose, from that young heart, was for death, ere it was too late for God's forgiveness.
CHAPTER IV.
THE BROKEN DESK
The many secret wishes for an unfavorable wind, that Mr. Hamilton might stay at Oakwood still a little longer, were not granted, and he left his family the very day he had fixed, the 14th of July, just three weeks after his summons, and about ten days before his sons were expected home. Without him Oakwood was strange indeed, but with the exception of Emmeline, all seemed determined to conquer the sadness and anxiety, which the departure of one so beloved, naturally occasioned. Emmeline was so unused to any thing like personal sorrow, that she rather seemed to luxuriate in its indulgence.
"Do you wish to both disappoint and displease me, my dear Emmeline?" her mother said, one day, about a week after her husband had gone, as she entered the music-room, expecting to find her daughter at the harp, but perceiving her instead, listless and dispirited, on the sofa. "Indeed, you will do both, if you give way to this most uncalled-for gloom."
"Uncalled for," replied Emmeline, almost pettishly.
"Quite uncalled for, to the extent in which you are indulging it; and even if called for, do you not think you would be acting more correctly, if you thought more of others than yourself, and tried to become your own cheerful self for their sakes? It is the first time you have ever given me cause to suspect you of selfishness; and I am disappointed."
"Selfishness, mamma; and I do hate the thought of it so! Am I selfish?" she repeated, her voice faltering, and her eyes filling fast with tears.
"I hope not, my love; but if you do not try to shake off this depression, we must believe you to be so. Your father's absence is a still greater trial to Caroline than it is to you, for it compels a very bitter disappointment, as well as the loss of his society; and yet, though she feels both deeply, she has exerted herself more than I ever saw her do before, and so proves, more than any words or tears could do, how much she loves both him and me."
"And do you think I love you both, less than she does?" replied Emmeline, now fairly sobbing.
"No, dearest; but I want you to prove it in the same admirable manner. Do you think I do not feel your father's absence, Emmeline? but would you like to see me as sad and changed as you are?"
Emmeline looked up in her face, for there was something in the tone that appealed to her better feelings at once. Throwing her arms round her, she sobbed —
"Dear mamma, do forgive me. I see now I have been very selfish and very weak, but I never, never can be as firm and self-controlled as you and Caroline are."
"Do not say never, love, or you will never try to be so. I am quite sure you would not like to be one of those weak, selfish characters, who lay all their faults, and all the mischief their faults produce, on a supposed impossibility to become like others. I know your disposition is naturally less strong and firm than your sister's, but it is more elastic, and still more joyous; and so had you not too weakly encouraged your very natural sorrow, you would have been enabled to throw it off, and in the comfort such an exertion would have brought to us, fully recompensed yourself."
"And if I do try now?"
"I shall be quite satisfied, dearest; though I fear you will find it more difficult than had you tried a few days ago. Confess that I am right. Did you not, after the first two or three days, feel that you could have been cheerful again, at least at times, but that you fancied you had not felt sorry enough, and so increased both sorrow and anxiety by determinedly dwelling on them, instead of seeking some pursuit?"
"Dear mamma, shall I never be able to hide a feeling from you?" answered Emmeline, so astonished, that her tears half dried. "I did not know I felt so myself till you put it before me, and now I know that I really did. Was it very wrong?"
"I will answer your question by another, love. Did you find such pertinacious indulgence of gloom, help you to bring the object of your regret and anxiety, and of your own grief before your Heavenly Father?"
Emmeline hesitated, but only for a minute, then answered, with a crimson blush —
"No, mamma; I could not pray to God to protect dear papa, or to give me His blessing, half as earnestly and believingly as when I was happier; the more I indulged in gloomy thoughts, the more difficulty I had to turn them to prayer, and the last few days, I fear I have not even tried."
"Then, dearest, is it necessary for me to answer your former question? I see by that conscious look that it is not. You have always trusted my experience and affection, my Emmeline, trust them now, and try my plan. Think of your dear father, whom you can not love too well, or whose compelled absence really regret too much; but so think of him, as to pray continually in spirit to your gracious God, to have him always in His holy keeping, either on sea or land, in storm or calm, and so prosper his undertaking, as to permit his return to us still sooner than we at present expect. The very constant prayer for this, will make you rest secure and happy in the belief, that our God is with him wherever he is, as He is with us, and so give you cheerfulness and courage to attend to your daily duties, and conquer any thing like too selfish sorrow. Will you try this, love, even if it be more difficult now, than it would have been a few days ago?"
"I will indeed, mamma," and she raised her head from her mother's shoulder, and tried to smile. "When you first addressed me to-day, I thought you were almost harsh, and so cold – so you see even there I was thinking wrong – and now I am glad, oh, so glad, you did speak to me!"
"And I know who will be glad too, if I have prevented his having a Niobe for his Tiny, instead of the Euphrosyne, which I believe he sometimes calls you. I thought there was one particular duet that Percy is to be so charmed with, Emmy. Suppose you try it now." And, her tears all checked, her most unusual gloom dispersed, Emmeline obeyed with alacrity, and finding, when she had once begun, so many things to get perfect for the gratification of her brothers, that nearly three hours slipped away quite unconsciously; and when Caroline returned from a walk, she was astonished at the change in her sister, and touched by the affectionate self-reproach with which Emmeline, looking up in her face, exclaimed —
"Dear Caroline, I have been so pettish and so cross to you since papa left, that I am sure you must be quite tired of me; but I am going to be really a heroine now, and not a shy sentimental one; and bear the pain of papa's absence as bravely as you do."
And she did so; though at first it was, as her mother had warned her, very difficult to compel the requisite exertion, which for employment and cheerfulness, was now needed; but when the will is right, there is little fear of failure.
As each day passed, so quickly merging into weeks, that five had now slipped away since that fatal letter had been sent to Edward, the difficulty to do as she had intended, entreat Mrs. Langford to dispose of her trinkets and watch, became to Ellen, either in reality or seeming, more and more difficult. Her illness had confined her to her room for nearly a week, and when she was allowed to take the air, the state of nervous debility to which it had reduced her, of course prevented her ever being left alone. The day after Mr. Hamilton's appeal to his domestics, she had made a desperate attempt, by asking permission to be the bearer of a message from her aunt to the widow; and as the girls were often allowed and encouraged to visit their nurse, the request was granted without any surprise, though to the very last moment she feared one of her cousins or Miss Harcourt would offer to accompany her. They were all, however, too occupied with and for Mr. Hamilton, and she sought the cottage, and there, with such very evident mental agony, besought Mrs. Langford to promise her secrecy and aid, that the widow, very much against her conscience, was won over to accede. She was in most pressing want of money, she urged, and dared not appeal to her aunt. Not daring to say the whole amount which she so urgently required at once, she had only brought with her the antique gold cross and two or three smaller ornaments, which had been among her mother's trinkets, and a gold locket Percy had given her. Mrs. Langford was painfully startled. She had no idea her promise comprised acquiescence and assistance in any matter so very wrong and mysterious as this; and she tried every argument, every persuasion, to prevail on Ellen to confide all her difficulties to Mrs. Hamilton, urging that if even she had done wrong, it could only call for temporary displeasure, whereas the mischief of her present proceeding might never come to an end, and must be discovered at last; but Ellen was inexorable, though evidently quite as miserable as she was firm, and Mrs. Langford had too high an idea of the solemn nature of a pledged word to draw back, or think of betraying her. She said that, of course, it might be some weeks before she could succeed in disposing of them all; as to offer them all together, or even at one place, would be exposing herself to the most unpleasant suspicions.
One step was thus gained, but nearly a fortnight had passed, and she heard nothing from the widow.
"Will they never come?" exclaimed Emmeline, in mirthful impatience, one evening, about four days after her conversation with her mother; "it must be past the hour Percy named."
"It still wants half an hour," replied Mrs. Hamilton; adding, "that unfortunate drawing, when will it succeed in obtaining your undivided attention?"
"Certainly not this evening, mamma; the only drawing I feel inclined for, is a sketch of my two brothers, if they would only have the kindness to sit by me."
"Poor Percy," observed Caroline, dryly; "if you are to be as restless as you have been the last hour, Emmeline, he would not be very much flattered by his portrait."
"Now that is very spiteful of you, Caroline, and all because I do not happen to be so quiet and sober as you are; though I am sure all this morning, that mamma thought by your unusually long absence that you were having a most persevering practice, you were only collecting all Percy's and Herbert's favorite songs and pieces, and playing them over, instead of your new music."
"And what if I did, Emmeline?"
"Why, it only proves that your thoughts are quite as much occupied by them as mine are, though you have so disagreeably read, studied, worked, just as usual, to make one believe you neither thought nor cared any thing about them."
"And so, because Caroline can control even joyous anticipation, she is to be thought void of feeling, Emmy. I really can pronounce no such judgment; so, though she may have settled to her usual pursuits, and you have literally done nothing at all to-day, I will not condemn her as loving her brothers less."
"But you will condemn me as an idle, unsteady, hair-brained girl," replied Emmeline, kneeling on the ottoman at her mother's feet, and looking archly and fondly in her face. "Then do let me have a fellow-sufferer, for I can not stand condemnation alone. Ellen, do put away that everlasting sketch, and be idle and unsteady, too!"
"It won't do, Emmy; Ellen has been so perseveringly industrious since her illness, that I should rather condemn her for too much application than too great idleness. But you really have been stooping too long this warm evening, my love," she added, observing, as Ellen, it seemed almost involuntarily, looked up at her cousin's words, that her cheeks were flushed almost painfully. "Oblige Emmeline this once, and be as idle as she is: come and talk to me, I have scarcely heard a word from you to-day; you have been more silent than ever, I think, since your uncle left us; but I must have no gloom to greet your cousins, Ellen."
There was no rejoinder to these kind and playful words. Ellen did indeed put aside her drawing, but instead of taking a seat near her aunt, which in former days she would have been only too happy to do, she walked to the farthest window, and ensconcing herself in its deep recess, seemed determined to hold communion with no one. Miss Harcourt was so indignant as scarcely to be able to contain its expression. Caroline looked astonished and provoked. Emmeline was much too busy in flying from window to window, to think of any thing else but her brothers. Mrs. Hamilton was more grieved and hurt than Ellen had scarcely ever made her feel. Several times before, in the last month, she had fancied there was something unusual in her manner; but the many anxieties and thoughts which had engrossed her since her husband's summons and his departure, had prevented any thing, till that evening, but momentary surprise. Emmeline's exclamation that she was quite sure she heard the trampling of horses, and that it must be Percy, by the headlong way he rode, prevented any remark, and brought them all to the window; and she was right, for in a few minutes a horseman emerged from some distant trees, urging his horse to its utmost speed, waving his cap in all sorts of mirthful gesticulations over his head, long before he could be quite sure that there was any body to see him. Another minute, and he had flung the reins to Robert, with a laughing greeting, and springing up the long flight of steps in two bounds, was in the sitting-room and in the arms of his mother, before either of his family imagined he could have had even time to dismount.
"Herbert?" was the first word Mrs. Hamilton's quivering lip could speak.
"Is quite well, my dearest mother, and not five minutes' ride behind me. The villagers would flock round us, with such an hurrah, I thought you must have heard it here; so I left Bertie to play the agreeable, and promised to see them to-morrow, and galloped on here, for you know the day we left, I vowed that the firstborn of my mother should have her first kiss."
"Still the same, Percy – not sobered yet, my boy?" said his mother, looking at him with a proud smile; for while the tone and manner were still the eager, fresh-feeling boy, the face and figure were that of the fine-growing, noble-looking man.
"Sobered! why, mother, I never intend to be," he answered, joyously, as he alternately embraced his sisters, Miss Harcourt, and Ellen, who, fearing to attract notice, had emerged from her hiding-place; "if the venerable towers of that most wise and learned town, Oxford, and all the grave lectures and long faces of sage professors have failed to tame me, there can be no hope for my sobriety; but here comes Herbert, actually going it almost as fast as I did. Well done, my boy! Mother, that is all your doing; he feels your influence at this distance. Why, all the Oxonians would fancy the colleges must be tumbling about their ears, if they saw the gentle, studious, steady Herbert Hamilton riding at such a rate." He entered almost as his brother spoke; and though less boisterous, the intense delight it was to him to look in his mother's face again, to be surrounded by all he loved, was as visible as Percy's; and deep was the thankfulness of Mrs. Hamilton's ever anxious heart, as she saw him looking so well – so much stronger than in his boyhood. The joy of that evening, and of very many succeeding days, was, indeed, great; though many to whom the sanctity and bliss of domestic affection are unknown, might fancy there was little to call for it; but to the inmates of Oakwood it was real happiness to hear Percy's wild laugh and his inexhaustible stories, calling forth the same mirth from his hearers – the very sound of his ever-bounding step, and his boisterous career from room to room, to visit, he declared, and rouse all the bogies and spirits that must have slept while he was away: Herbert's quieter but equal interest in all that had been done, studied, read, even thought and felt, in his absence: the pride and delight of both in the accounts of Edward, Percy insisting that to have such a gallant fellow of a brother, ought to make Ellen as lively and happy as Emmeline, who was blessed nearly in the same measure – looking so excessively mischievous as he spoke, that, though his sister did not at first understand the inference, it was speedily discovered, and called for a laughing attack on his outrageous self-conceit. Herbert more earnestly regretted to see Ellen looking as sad and pale as when she was quite a little girl, and took upon himself gently to reproach her for not being, or, at least, trying to make herself more cheerful, when she had so many blessings around her, and was so superlatively happy in having such a brave and noble-hearted brother. If he did not understand her manner as he spoke, both he and the less observant Percy were destined to be still more puzzled and grieved as a few weeks passed, and they at first fancied and then were quite sure that she was completely altered, even in her manner to their mother. Instead of being so gentle, so submissive, so quietly happy to deserve the smallest sign of approval from Mrs. Hamilton, she now seemed completely to shrink from her, either in fear, or that she no longer cared either to please or to obey her. By imperceptible, but sure degrees, this painful conviction pressed itself on the minds of the whole party, even to the light-hearted, unsuspicious Emmeline, to whom it was so utterly incomprehensible, that she declared it must be all fancy, and that they were all so happy that their heads must be a little turned.
"Even mamma's!" observed Caroline, dryly.
"No; but she is the only sensible person among us, for she has not said any thing about it, and, therefore, I dare say does not even see that which we are making such a wonder about."
"I do not agree with you, for I rather think she has both seen and felt it before either of us, and that because it so grieves and perplexes her, she can not speculate or even speak about it as we do. Time will explain it, I suppose, but it is very disagreeable."
It was, indeed, no fancy; but little could these young observers or even Mrs. Hamilton suspect that which was matter of speculation or grief to them, was almost madness in its agony of torture to Ellen; who, as weeks passed, and but very trifling returns for her trinkets were made her by Mrs. Langford, felt as if her brain must fail before she could indeed accomplish her still ardently desired plan, and give back the missing sum to Robert, without calling suspicion on herself. She felt to herself as changed as she appeared to those that observed her; a black impenetrable pall seemed to have enveloped her heart and mind, closing up both, even from those affections, those pursuits, so dear to her before. She longed for some change from the dense impenetrable fog, even if it were some heavy blow – tangible suffering of the fiercest kind was prayed for, rather than the stagnation which caused her to move, act, and speak as if under some fatal spell, and look with such terror on the relation she had so loved, that even to be banished from her presence she imagined would be less agony, than to associate with her, as the miserable, guilty being she had become.
Mrs. Hamilton watched and was anxious, but she kept both her observations and anxiety to herself, for she would not throw even a temporary cloud over the happiness of her children. A fortnight after the young men's arrival, letters came most unexpectedly from Mr. Hamilton, dated twelve days after he had left, and brought by a Scottish trader whom they had encountered near the Shetland Isles, and who had faithfully forwarded them from Edinburgh, as he had promised. The voyage had been most delightful, and they hoped to reach Feroe in another week. He wrote in the highest terms of Morton; the comfort of such companionship, and the intrinsic worth of his character, which could never be known, until so closely thrown together.
