Kitabı oku: «Home Influence: A Tale for Mothers and Daughters», sayfa 33

Mr. Hamilton briefly, but most eloquently, narrated the events of the previous night, dwelling only sufficiently on his imminent peril, to evince the real importance of Edward's extraordinary exertions, not to harrow the feelings of his listeners more than need be. That the young officer's determined opposition to the almost angrily expressed opinions of Captain Harvey and old Collins as to the better landing-place, had saved them from the effects of the huge wave, which had burst like a water-spout a minute after they had all leaped in safety on shore, almost overwhelming the projecting sand to which Collins had wished to direct the boat, and so proving at once Edward's far superior nautical knowledge, for had they steered there, the frail bark must inevitably have been upset, and its crew washed by the receding torrent back to sea. Harvey and Collins acknowledged their error at once, and looked eagerly for Edward to say so to him, but he had vanished the moment they had achieved a safe landing, to Mr. Hamilton's annoyance, for he had not the least suspicion who he was, and only longed to express, if he could not otherwise evince his gratitude, Collins and Grey refusing the smallest credit, declaring that if it had not been for this young stranger officer, of whom they knew nothing, not even his name, not a man would have stirred; that for any fisherman or mere ordinary sailor to have guided the boat to and from the sinking vessel, in such a sea, was so impossible, that no one would have attempted it; old Collins ending, with the superstition of his class, by a declaration, that his disappearance convinced his already more than suspicion, that it was some good angel in a boy's likeness; for Arthur Hamilton would never have been permitted so to perish: an explanation, Mr. Hamilton added, laughingly, that might suit his Emmy, but was rather too fanciful for him. However, his young preserver was nowhere to be found, but, to his extreme astonishment, and no little relief (for now that he was so near home, his anxiety to hear of all, especially Ellen, whom he scarcely dared hope to find alive, became insupportable), Mr. Howard suddenly stood before him, grasping both his hands, without the power, for a minute or two, to speak. Mr. Hamilton overwhelmed him with questions, scarcely giving him time to answer one before he asked another. They had nearly reached the hotel, when Captain Harvey's bluff voice was heard exclaiming —

"Here he is, Mr. Hamilton; he is too exhausted to escape our thanks and blessings now. What could the youngster have tried to hide himself for?"

But before Mr. Hamilton could make any rejoinder, save to grasp the young man's hands strongly in his own, Mr. Howard said, eagerly —

"Oblige me, Captain Harvey; take that boy into our hotel, it is only just round the corner; make him take off his dripping jacket, and give him some of your sailor's stuff. He is not quite strong enough for his exertions to-night, and should rest at once."

Captain Harvey bore him off, almost carrying him, for exertion and a variety of emotions had rendered him faint and powerless.

"Do you know him, Howard? who and what is he?" But Mr. Howard did not, perhaps could not reply, but hurried his friend on to the hotel; and entered the room, where, having called for lights, and all the ingredients of grog-punch, which he vowed the boy should have instead of the brandy and water he had called for, they found Edward trying to laugh, and protesting against all coddling; he was perfectly well, and he would not go to bed, and could not imagine what right Captain Harvey had to be a sailor, if he thought so much of a storm, and a blow, and a wetting.

"Nor should I, if you were sailor-rigged; but what business have you with this overgrown mast of a figure, and a face pale and delicate as a woman's?"

And so like his dying mother it was, that Mr. Hamilton stood for a moment on the threshold, completely stupefied. We leave our readers to imagine the rest; and how Captain Harvey carried the seemingly marvelous news that the brave young officer was Mr. Hamilton's own nephew, over the town, and in every fisherman's hut, in a miraculously short space of time.

We may as well state here at once, to save farther retrospection, that Mr. Hamilton, by the active and admirable assistance of Morton, had, after a three months' residence at Feroe, perceived that he might return to England much sooner than he had at first anticipated; still he did not like to mention even the probability of such a thing to his family, till perfectly certain himself. Morton never ceased persuading him to name a period for his return, knowing the comfort it would be to his home; but Mr. Hamilton could not bear the idea of leaving his friend in his voluntary banishment so many months sooner than they had reckoned on. When, however, the letters came from Oakwood, detailing Edward's return, and the discoveries thence proceeding, his anxiety and, let it be owned, his extreme displeasure against his nephew, prompted his return at once. Morton not only conquered every objection to his immediate departure, but tried, and in some measure succeeded, to soften his anger, by bringing before him many points in Mr. Howard's letter, showing real, good, and true repentance in the offender, which a first perusal of a narrative of error had naturally overlooked. The seas, however, were so fearfully tempestuous and the winds so adverse, that it was impossible either to leave Feroe, or get a letter conveyed to Scotland, for a full fortnight after the Siren's last voyage. Nothing but the extreme urgency of the case, increased by the fact that the detention of the Siren at Wick had given Mr. Hamilton a double packet of letters, but the second, though dated ten days later, gave the same hopeless account of Ellen, could have made him attempt a voyage home in such weather; yet he felt he could not rest, knowing intuitively the misery his wife must be enduring, and scarcely able to bear even the thought of what seemed most probable, that Ellen would be taken from her, and the aggravated trial it would be. The voyage was a terrible one, for length and heavy gales. More than once they wished to put into port, that Mr. Hamilton might continue his journey by land, but their only safety seemed keeping out at sea, the storm threatening to dash them on rock or shoal, whenever in sight of land.

By the time they reached the Land's End – they had come westward of England, instead of eastward, as they went – the vessel was in such a shattered and leaky condition, that Captain Harvey felt and acknowledged, she could not weather out another storm. The calm that had followed the heavy gales, gave hope to all; even though the constant shiftings of the wind, which was now not more than what, in sailor's parlance, is called a cat's-paw, prevented their making as much way as they desired. At length they were within twenty miles of Dartmouth, and not a doubt of their safety disturbed them, until the darkening atmosphere, the sullen rise and suppressed roar of the billows, the wind sobbing and wailing at first, and then bursting into that awful gale, which we have before described, banished every human hope at once. The rudder snapped; every half-hour the water gained upon the hold, though every man worked the pumps. There was not a shred of canvas, but the masts, and yards, and stays bent and snapped like reeds before the blast. To guide her was impossible; she was driven on – on – till she struck on a reef of rock about a mile, or less, perhaps from Dartmouth. Then came their signals of distress, as a last lone hope, for the crew of the Siren were all too good seamen to dare believe a boat could either be pushed off, or live in such a sea. Their wonder, their hope, their intense thankfulness, when it was discovered, may be imagined. The rest is known.

"And how did you get this disfiguring blow, my dear Edward?" inquired his aunt, whose eyes, it seemed, would turn upon him, as if impossible to connect that slight figure with such immense exertions – though some time had passed, and a social, happy breakfast, round which all still lingered, had enabled them to subdue too painful emotion, and only to be conscious of the most deep and grateful joy.

"Pray do not call it disfiguring, aunt; I am quite proud of it. Last night I could have dispensed with such a striking mark of affection from the poor Siren, though I really hardly felt it, except that the blood would trickle in my eye, and almost blind me, when I wanted all my sight and senses too. But this morning Mr. Howard has made such a kind fuss about it, that I think it must be something grand."

"But what did you hide yourself for, Ned?" demanded Emmeline, all her high spirits recalled. Her cousin hesitated and a flush mounted to his forehead.

"It was fear, Emmeline; absolute fear!"

"Fear!" she repeated, laughing; "of what? of all the bogies and spirits of the winds and waves, whose wrath you dared, by venturing to oppose them? Nonsense, Edward! you will never make me believe that."

"Because you do not know me," he answered, with startling earnestness. "How can your gentle nature understand the incongruities of mine? or loving your father as you do, and as he deserves, comprehend the dread, belief in his unpitying sternness to youthful error, which from my childhood he held – he holds – my fate, forgiveness or exposure, and how could I meet him calmly? Emmeline, Emmeline, if I had been but as morally brave as I may be physically, I should have had nothing to dread, nothing to hide. As it is, uncle Hamilton, judge, act, decide as you would, if I had not been the undeserved means of saving you – it will be the best for me;" and, rising hurriedly, he left the room before any one could reply.

"But you will forgive him, papa; you will try him again; and I am sure he will be morally brave, too," pleaded Emmeline; her sister and Miss Harcourt joining in the entreaty and belief, and Mrs. Hamilton looking in his face without uttering a word. Mr. Hamilton's answer seemed to satisfy all parties.

Ellen meanwhile had awoke, quite refreshed, and all pain gone, been dressed and conveyed to her daily quarters, the events of the morning entirely unknown to her; for though the joyful news, spreading like wildfire through the house, had reached Mrs. Langford's ears, and made her very happy, she had quite judgment enough, even without a message to the effect from her mistress, to keep it from Ellen till carefully prepared.

"What can I say to my little Ellen for deserting her so long?" inquired Mrs. Hamilton, playfully, as she entered her room, about twelve o'clock, after a long private conversation with her husband.

"I wish you would tell me you had been lying down, dear aunt; it would satisfy me better than any other reason."

"Because you think it would do me the most good, dearest. But look at me, and tell me if you do not think I must have been trying some equally efficacious remedy." Ellen did look, and so radiant was that kind face with happiness, that she was startled.

"What has happened, aunt Emmeline? You have heard from my uncle," she added, her voice trembling. "What does he say? – will he – "

"He says, you must summon all your smiles to greet him, love; for he hopes to be with us very, very shortly, so you will not wonder at my joy?"

Ellen tried to sympathize in it; but Mrs. Hamilton soon saw that her perhaps near dread of what should be her uncle's judgment on her brother and herself, prevented all pleasurable anticipation of his arrival, and that the only effectual way of removing it was to let them meet as soon as possible.

CHAPTER XIII.
FORGIVENESS

Three days after Mr. Hamilton's arrival, a cheerful party assembled in his wife's dressing-room, which, in its elegant appurtenances – signs as they were, of a most refined and beautiful taste – certainly deserved a higher appellation; but boudoir, Percy had always declared, did not harmonize at all with the old English comforts of Oakwood, and he would not have a French word to designate his mother's room especially. Ellen was on her sofa working; Edward, who she thought had only returned that morning, at her side, reading; Caroline and Emmeline, drawing, the one with some degree of perseverance, the other with none at all. It seemed as if she could not sit still, and her wild sallies, and snatches of old songs, repeatedly made Miss Harcourt look up from her book, and Mrs. Hamilton from her work, surprised.

"Emmeline, I can not draw," exclaimed Caroline, at length; "you are making the table as restless as yourself."

"Why can you not say it was moved by an irresistible sympathy? It is most extraordinary that you will still speak plain matter-of-fact, when I am doing all I can to make you poetical."

"But what am I to poetize on now, Emmeline? – the table, or yourself? because, at present, they are the only subjects under consideration, and I really can not see any thing very poetical in either."

"Not even in me, Lina?" archly replied Emmeline, bending down so that her face should come before her sister, instead of her copy, which was a very pretty, small marble figure. "Now, if you were not the most determined piece of prose in the world, you would find poetry even in my face.

 
"For, lo! the artist no more gazed
On features still and cold;
He stood, bewilder'd and amazed,
As living charms unfold.
 
 
"As if touch'd by yon orient ray,
The stone to life had warm'd;
For round the lip such bright smiles play,
As never sculptor form'd.
 

There, Caroline, that is what you ought to have felt. If I can make poetry on my own face – "

"Poetry on yourself! Why, Emmeline, I thought you were repeating a verse of some old poet, with which I am unacquainted. I really beg your pardon. I did not know your favorite Muse had dubbed you follower as well as worshiper."

"Nor did I till this moment. She feared for her reputation near such a love of prose as you are, and so touched me with inspiration. I am exceedingly obliged to her; but even if I failed to make you poetical, Caroline, you might have emulated Cowper, and instead of singing the 'Sofa,' sung the 'Table.' Indeed I think a very pretty poem might be made of it. Look at the variety of tasteful and useful things laid on a table – and there it stands in the midst of them, immovable, cold, insensible just like one on whom we heap favors upon favors, and who remains so wrapped in self, as to be utterly indifferent to all. Now, Caroline, put that into rhyme, or blank verse, if you prefer it; it is a new idea, at least."

"So new," replied her sister, laughing, "that I think I will send it to Percy, and request him to turn it into a Greek or Latin ode; it will be so much grander than my English version. You have so astonished mamma, Emmeline, by your mad mood, that she has actually put down her work."

"I am so glad!" replied Emmeline, springing to her mother's side; "I like other people to be as idle as myself."

"But there is a medium in all things, young lady," answered her mother, half-gravely, half in Emmeline's own tone; "and I rather think your conscience is telling you, that it is not quite right to desert one Muse for another, as you are doing now."

"Oh, but my drawing must wait till her Muse inspires me again. Poetry does not always come, and her visits are so delightful!"

"Then I am afraid you will think me very harsh, Emmeline; but delightful as they are, I must not have them always encouraged. If you encourage the idea of only working when the fit of inspiration comes upon you – in plain words, only when you feel inclined – you will fritter life away without one solid thought or acquirement. You think now, perhaps, habituated as you are to employment, that this is impossible; but you are just of an age to demand very strict watchfulness over yourself to prevent it. Now that you are emerging from the routine of childhood's lessons, and too old to be compelled to do that which is right, and – rendering your task of control more difficult – more susceptible to poetry, and what you term inspiration, than ever, you must try and infuse a little of Caroline's steady, matter-of-fact into your poetry, instead of almost despising it, as so cold and disagreeable. Now, do not look so very sad, and so very serious, love, and jump at the conclusion that I am displeased, because I speak seriously. I love your joyousness far too dearly to check it, or wish you to do so, especially in your own family; but just as you have learned the necessity of, and evinced so well and so feelingly, control in emotions of sorrow, my Emmeline, so I am quite sure you will trust my experience, and practice control, even in the pleasant inspiration of poetry and joy."

Emmeline sat very quiet for several minutes; she was just in that mood of extreme hilarity which renders control excessively difficult, and causes the least check upon it to be felt as harsh and unkind, and almost to bring tears. She was not too perfect to escape from feeling all this, even though the person who had caused it was the mother she so dearly loved; but she did not give way to it. A few minutes' hard struggle, and the momentary temper was so conquered, that, with an even more than usually warm kiss, she promised to think quite seriously on all her mother said; and, an effort far more difficult, was just as joyous as before.

"I have made so many mistakes in my drawing, mamma, I really do not think I can go on with it to-day; do let me help you, I will take such pains with my work, it shall be almost as neat as yours; and then, though my fingers are employed, at least I may go on talking."

Mrs. Hamilton assented, telling her she might talk as much as she pleased, with one of those peculiar smiles of approval which ever made Emmeline's heart throb, for they always told her, that the thoughts and feelings, and secret struggle with temper, which she imagined must be known only to herself, her mother by some mysterious power had discovered, and rewarded.

"Edward what are you so deep in? – 'Fragments of Voyages and Travels' – I thought it was something much deeper than that by the deep attention you are giving it. You should dip in oceans, not in fragments of water, Ned."

"I did not feel inclined for the exertion," he replied, smiling.

"Do you know," she continued, "when I first read that book, which I did merely because I had a lurking sort of affection for a handsome cousin of mine who was a sailor, I was so charmed with the tricks you all played in the cockpit, that I was seized with a violent desire to don a middy's dress, and come after you; it would have made such a pretty story, too; but I did not think mamma and papa would quite approve of it, so I desisted. Should I not make a very handsome boy, Edward?"

"So handsome," he replied, again smiling, "that I fear you would not have preserved your incognita half an hour, especially with those flowing curls."

"My dear Emmeline, do tell me, what has made you in this mood?" asked Ellen; "last week you were so sad, and the last three days you have been – "

"Wild enough to frighten you, Ellen; ah, if you did but know the reason."

"You had better satisfy her curiosity, Emmy," said Mrs. Hamilton, so meaningly, that Emmeline's ready mind instantly understood her. "Tell her all that did occur in that awful storm three days ago, as poetically and lengthily as you like; no one shall interrupt you, if you will only be very careful not to exaggerate or alarm."

Edward gave up his seat to his cousin, and Emmeline launched at once into a most animated description of the storm and the shipwreck, and the rescue; cleverly contriving so to hide all names, as to elude the least suspicion of either the preserved or the preserver having any thing to do with herself, Ellen becoming so exceedingly interested, as to lose sight of the question which at first had struck her, what this could have to do with Emmeline's wild spirits.

"You do not mean to say it was his own father he saved?" she said, as her cousin paused a minute to take breath; "your tale is becoming so like a romance, Emmy, I hardly know how to believe it."

"I assure you it is quite true; only imagine what my young hero's feelings must have been, and those of the family, to whom he gave back a husband and a father!"

"I should think them so intense, so sacred, as to be hardly joy at first, and scarcely possible to be imagined, even by your vivid fancy, Emmy."

"I don't know, Ellen, but I think I can imagine them; you may shake your head, and look wise, but I will prove that I can by-and-by. But what do you think of my hero?"

"That I should like to know him, and admire him quite as much as you can desire – and who told you all this?"

"One of the principal actors in the scene?"

"What, has your penchant for any thing out of the common way reached Dartmouth, and old Collins brought you the tale?"

"No," replied Emmeline, laughing; "guess again."

"William Grey?"

"No."

"One of the rescued crew who may know my aunt?"

"Wrong again, Ellen."

"Then I can not guess, Emmeline; so pray tell me."

"You are very silly, Ellen; were not Mr. Howard and Edward both at Dartmouth at the time? why did you not guess them? Not that I had it from either."

"Edward!" repeated Ellen, "did he know any thing about it?"

"More than any one else dearest," answered Mrs. Hamilton, cautiously, but fondly; "put all Emmeline's strange tale together, and connect it with my happiness the other morning, and I think your own heart will explain the rest."

"More especially with this speaking witness," continued Emmeline playfully putting back Edward's hair, that Ellen might see the scar. She understood it in a moment, and clasping her arms round her brother's neck, as he knelt by her, tried hard to prevent emotion, but could not, and burst into tears.

"Tears, my little Ellen; I said I would only be greeted with smiles," exclaimed a rich, deep voice close beside her, and before she had time to fear his presence, she felt herself clasped with all a father's fondness in her uncle's arms; her head resting on his shoulder, and his warm kiss on her cheek.

"Edward!" was the only word she could speak.

"Do not fear for him, my dear Ellen; true repentance and a firm resolution to amend are all I ask, and if his future conduct really prove them, the errors of his youth shall be forgotten, as if they had never been."

"And – and – "

"I know all you would say, my dear child. I did think there could be no excuse, no palliation, for your sin; but even if I still wish the temptation had been resisted, you have indeed suffered for it, more than the harshest judgment could desire; let it be forgotten as entirely and as fully as it is forgiven."

In a very few minutes Ellen's composure was so fully restored, and her heavy dread so subsided, that the relief seemed to her almost a dream. Could it be possible that it was the relative she had pictured as so harsh and stern, and pitiless to youthful error, who had drawn a chair close by her sofa, and caressingly holding her hand in his, and looking so kindly, so earnestly, in her altered face, was trying to amuse her by telling her so many entertaining things about Feroe and Mr. Morton, and his voyage home, and alluding to her brother's courage, and prudence, and skill, in such terms as almost brought the tears again? Mr. Hamilton was inexpressibly shocked at the change which mental and bodily suffering had wrought in his niece. There is always something peculiarly touching, and appealing to the best emotions, in youthful sorrow or suffering of any kind; and her trial had been such an aggravated one – combining such agonized remorse, for an act, which the harshest judgment, knowing all points of the case, could scarcely pronounce as other than involuntary, with the most heroic, but perfectly unconscious self-sacrifice, and not only terror for her brother's fate, but an almost crushing sense of misery for his faults, that the pallid face, and frame so delicately fragile, had still deeper claims for sympathy and cherishing than even when caused by ordinary illness. The loss of her unusually luxuriant hair, except the soft bands which shaded her face, visible under the pretty little lace cap, made her look much younger than she really was, and so delicately transparent had become her complexion, that the blue veins were clearly traceable on her forehead, and throat, and hands; the dark, soft lash seemed longer than before, as it swept the pale cheek, the brow more penciled, and the eye, whether in imagination, from her friends knowing all she had endured, or in reality, was so expressive of such deep, quiet feeling, that the whole countenance was so altered and so improved, that it seemed as if the heavy, sallow child was rapidly changing into one of those sweet, lovable, heart-attracting girls, who, without any actual beauty, can never be passed unnoticed.

At Ellen's request, Mrs. Hamilton had, as soon as she was strong enough, read with her, morning and evening, the devotional exercises which were read below to the assembled family. Mrs. Hamilton soon perceived, and with no little pain, that Ellen shrunk from the idea of being well enough to rejoin them, in actual suffering. Here again was an effect of that same vivid imagination, of whose existence, until the late events, in one so quiet, seemingly so cold, Mrs. Hamilton had not the least idea of. Ellen had been so long accustomed to be silent as to her feelings, in fact, carefully to conceal them, that much as she might wish and intend to be unreserved, her aunt feared it would cause her some difficulty to be so, and she could not hope to succeed in controlling imagination, unless she were. That night, however, Ellen's unreserved confidence gave her hope. When the devotional exercises, in which she had joined with even more than usual earnestness and fervor, were concluded, she said, with almost Emmeline's confidence, as she laid her hand on her aunt's —

"I am so very, very happy to-night, dear aunt, that I am afraid I do not think enough of what is past. I did so dread my uncle's return – so tremble at what his sentence would be on Edward and myself, that even your kindness would not remove the weight; and now, that I have found it all so groundless, and he is so kind – so indulgent, I am so relieved, that I fear I must have thought more of his anger than the anger of God. My sin remains the same in His sight, though you and uncle Hamilton have so fully forgiven it, and – and – I do not think I ought to feel so happy."

"Indeed, my dear Ellen, I think you may. Our Heavenly Father is still more merciful than man, as Mr. Howard so clearly proved to you, in the long conversation you had with him. We know, by His Holy Word, that all he asks is sincere repentance for sin, and a firm conviction that in Him only we are made sufficiently righteous for our penitence to be accepted. I believe, Ellen, that His forgiveness was yours, long before I could give you mine, for He could read your heart, and saw the reason of your silence, and all the remorse and suffering, which, from the appearances, against you, I might not even guess; and that, in His compassionating love and pity, He permitted your increased trial; ordaining even the failure of the relief to Edward, to convince you, that, not even in such a fearful case as yours, might error, however involuntary, prosper. I can trace His loving providence even in the fact of your finding one more note than you wanted, that discovery might thence come, which, without such a seeming chance, was, humanly speaking, impossible. He has shown compassion and love for you and Edward, in the very sufferings He ordained. So do not check your returning happiness, fearing it must be unacceptable to Him. Try to trace all things, either of joy or sorrow, to Him. Associate Him with your every thought, and believe me, my own Ellen, your very happiness will both draw you nearer to Him, and be an acceptable offering in his sight."

Ellen listened eagerly, gratefully; she felt as if, with every word Mrs. Hamilton said, the film of doubt and vague fancies was dissolving from her mind, and, after a short pause, she said —

"Then you do not think, aunt Emmeline, my inability to pray for so long a time, was a proof that God had utterly forsaken me? It made me still more wretched, for I thought it was a sure sign that I was so irredeemably wicked, He had left me to the devices of my own heart, and would never love or have mercy on me again. Even after you had quite forgiven me, and proved to me my promise was a mistaken one and not binding, I still felt the difficulty to pray, and it was so painful."

"Such inability is very often so entirely physical, my dear Ellen, that we must not think too much about it. Our simple duty is to persevere, however little satisfactory our devotions; and put our firm trust in our heavenly Father, that He will heal us, and permit His countenance so to shine upon us again, as to derive comfort from our prayers. Your inability before your illness was the natural consequence of Mr. Howard's severe representations, which he has since assured me, he never would have used, if he could have had the least idea of the cause of your silence. You, my poor child, were suffering too much, from a complete chaos of conflicting feelings and duties, to be able to realize this, and I am not at all astonished, that when you most yearned for the comfort of prayer and trust, the thought that by your silence you were failing in your duty to me and so disobeying God, should utterly have prevented it. Since your severe illness the inability has been entirely physical. As strength and peace return, you will regain the power, and realize all its comfort. Try, and under all feelings trust in and love God, and do not be too much elated, when you can think seriously and pray joyfully, nor too desponding when both fail you. In our present state, physical causes alone, so often occasion these differences of feeling in hours of devotion, that if we thought too much about them, we should constantly think wrong, and be very miserable. Try and prove your desire to love and serve God, in your daily conduct and secret thoughts, my Ellen, and you will be able to judge of your spiritual improvement by action and feeling, far more truly and justly than by the mood in which you pray."