Home Influence Part 40

"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 princ.i.p.al 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 p.r.o.nounce 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 crus.h.i.+ng sense of misery for his faults, that the pallid face, and frame so delicately fragile, had still deeper claims for sympathy and cheris.h.i.+ng 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 pa.s.sed 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 a.s.sembled 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 G.o.d.

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 compa.s.sionating 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 compa.s.sion 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. a.s.sociate 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 G.o.d 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 s.h.i.+ne 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 a.s.sured 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 G.o.d, 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 G.o.d, 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 G.o.d, 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."

The earnestness of truth and feeling was always so impressed on Mrs.

Hamilton's manner, whenever she addressed her youthful charge, that her simplest word had weight. Happy indeed is it when youth--that season of bewildering doubt and question, and vivid, often mistaken fancies, and too impetuous feeling--has the rich blessing of such affectionate counsels, such a friend. Why will not woman rise superior to the petty employments and feelings too often alone attributed to her, and endeavor to fit herself for such a thrice blessed mission; and by sympathy with young enjoyments--young hopes--young feelings, so attract young affections, that similar counsels, similar experiences, may so help and guide, that the restless mind and eager heart quiesce into all the calm, deep, beautiful characteristics, which so s.h.i.+ne forth in the true English wife--the true English mother!

A fortnight after Mr. Hamilton's arrival, Ellen was well enough to go down stairs for part of the day, and even to read and write a little.

She was so very anxious to recommence her studies, which for many months had been so painfully neglected, that it was a great trial to her, to find her head was not yet strong enough for the necessary application.

There were many, very many privations and trials, attendant on convalescence after so severe an illness, known only to Ellen's own heart, and to her aunt's quick sympathy; and she very quickly learned in them the meaning of Mrs. Hamilton's words regarding religion in conduct and feeling, as well as in prayer. She tried never to murmur, or dwell on the wish for pleasures which were denied her, but to think only on the many blessings which surrounded her. It was not an easy task so to conquer natural feeling, especially as the trial and its conquest was often known only to herself; but the earnest wish, indeed, to become holy in daily conduct, as well as in daily prayer, never left her mind, and so enabled her at length fully to obtain it.

If Mrs. Hamilton had wanted evidence of her husband's public as well as domestic worth, she would have had it fully now. His danger and his preservation once known, letters of regard and congratulation poured upon him, and Montrose Grahame made a journey down to Oakwood expressly to welcome back, and express his individual grat.i.tude for his friend's safety to his youthful preserver. But Edward so shrunk from praise or admiration, that his uncle, rejoicing at the feeling, would not press him, as he had first intended, to accompany him to Oxford, where he went to see his sons. Percy rated him soundly in a letter for not coming.

Herbert seemed, as if he could only think of his father's danger, and thank G.o.d for his safety, and for permitting Edward to be the means. So great was the desire of Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton to re-a.s.semble all their happy family once more, before Edward left them, that the young men made an exception to their general rule, and promised to spend Easter week at home. It was early in March, and antic.i.p.ated by the home party with the greatest delight.

CHAPTER XIV.

THE RICH AND THE POOR.

"We have had such a delightful excursion, mamma. Ellen, how I do wish you could have been with us!" joyously exclaimed Emmeline, as she ran into the usual sitting room, one of those lovely afternoons, that the first days of March so often bring, promising spring long before she really comes. "It is such a picturesque cottage, and Dame Collins, and Susan, and a host of little ones, look so nice, and so clean, and so pretty, and happy; it does one's heart good to look at them."

"Are you sure you can not find another adjective to apply to them, Emmy?

You have heaped so many together, that it is a pity you can not find a few more."

"But they really do look so comfortable, and are so grateful for all you and papa have done for them: Emmeline's description for once, is not too flowing," rejoined the quieter Caroline, who had followed her sister into the room.

"And were they pleased with your visit?" asked Ellen.

"Oh, delighted! particularly at our making their pretty little parlor our dining-room, and remaining so long with them, that they could show us all their comforts and conveniences, without any bustle."

"Mrs. Collins is really a sensible woman. Do you not think so, mamma?"

inquired Caroline.

"Yes, my dear. She has brought up her own large family and her poor orphan grandchildren so admirably, in the midst of their extreme poverty, and bears such a name for kindness among her still poorer neighbors, that I truly respect and admire her. She is quite one of those in whom I have often told you some of the very loftiest virtues are to be found; and yet to see her, as she trudges about in her homely, humble fas.h.i.+on, never dreaming she is doing or has done any thing remarkable in her hard-working life, who would suspect it?"

"Only look, Ellen, how beautifully our collection will be increased,"

continued Emmeline, who just at that moment was only alive to pleasure, not to contemplation, even of goodness, in which she much delighted, and pouring into her cousin's lap a basket of beautiful sh.e.l.ls and other marine treasures. "Papa has just given us a new cabinet in time, though he only thought of it as a place for his Feroe curiosities. To think of his remembering our tastes even there!"

"But where did you get these from?"