THE MOTHER'S RECOMPENSE;

A SEQUEL TO HOME INFLUENCE. 

BY GRACE AGUILAR. 

IN TWO VOLUMES. 

VOL. II. 

LEIPZIG

BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ

1859. 

CHAPTER I. 

"Who amongst this merry party will become sufficiently sober to assistme in a work of charity?" was Mrs. Hamilton's address, one afternoon, asshe entered her daughter's room, where Emmeline, her young friends LadyFlorence and Lady Emily Lyle, and even the usually quiet Ellen, wereemploying themselves in drawing, embroidery, and such light amusementsas diligently as the merry speech, the harmless joke, and the joyouslaugh of truly innocent enjoyment would permit. 

"A case of extreme distress has come before me, " she continued, "forwhich alms and other relief will not be sufficient; clothing isprincipally required. Can any of you consent to put aside these prettythings for a few days, merely for the sake of obliging me and doinggood? I have set every hand to work, and now for further assistance cometo you. To whom shall I appeal?"

"To me--to me--to me!" every voice exclaimed spontaneously, and theyeagerly crowded round her to know what she required, what case ofdistress had occurred, for whom they were to work. 

Gratified and pleased at their eagerness, Mrs. Hamilton smilinglyimparted all they wished to know. The simple tale drew from the artlessgroup many exclamations of pity, combined with the earnest desire torelieve in whatever way their kind friend would dictate, and their taskwas received by all with every demonstration of pleasure. 

"You, too, Ellen, " said Mrs. Hamilton, smiling; "I thought you once saidyou had no time for work. "

"Not for ornamental work, aunt! but I hope you have never asked in vainfor my assistance in such a case as this, " answered Ellen, blushing asshe spoke. 

"No, love; my words did you injustice. But you appear to have found timefor ornamental work also, if this very pretty wreath be yours, " saidMrs. Hamilton, bending over her niece's frame, and praising the delicacyof her flowers. 

"Oh, I have time for any and everything now, " exclaimed Ellen, in a toneof animation, so very unusual, that not only her aunt but her youngcompanions looked at her with astonishment. 

"Ellen, yon are becoming more and more incomprehensible, " said Emmeline, laughing. "If Edward do not come home soon, as I suspect thisextraordinary mood is occasioned by the anticipation of his arrival, Iam afraid your spirits will carry you half way over the Channel to meethim. Mamma, take my advice, and keep a strict watch over the person ofyour niece. "

"You know, Ellen, you are as full of fun and mischief as I am, quiet anddemure as we once thought you, " said Lady Emily. 

"Is she? I am glad of it, " said Mrs. Hamilton, playfully. "Do not lookso very much ashamed of your mirth, my dear Ellen, and bend over yourwork as if you had been guilty of some extraordinary misdemeanour. Youknow how pleased I always am to see you happy, Ellen, " she added, in alower voice, as she laid her hand sportively on her niece's head, whichwas bent down to conceal the confusion Emmeline's words had calledforth. 

Some little time longer Mrs. Hamilton remained with the young party, entering with her usual kindness into all their pleasures and pursuits, and left them perhaps even happier than she had found them. 

Ellen's change of manner had been noticed by the whole party assembledat Oakwood; and by most of them attributed to the anticipation of thelong-absent Edward's return. That indefinable manner which had formerlypervaded her whole conduct had disappeared. She no longer seemed to havesomething weighing on her mind, which Mrs. Hamilton sometimes fancied tohave been the case. Cheerful, animated, at times even joyous, sheappeared a happier being than she had ever been before; and sincerelyher aunt and uncle, who really loved her as their child, rejoiced in thechange, though they knew not, guessed not the real cause. Ingratiatingherself with all, even the stern Duchess of Rothbury, who, with her nowonly unmarried daughter, Lady Lucy, had accepted Mrs Hamilton's pressinginvitation to Oakwood, relaxed in her manner towards her; and Sir GeorgeWilmot, also a resident guest, declared that if Edward were not proud ofhis sister on his return, he would do all in his power to hinder hispromotion. 

Mr. Hamilton and his family had employed the greater part of a verybeautiful August in conducting their guests to all the most picturesqueand favourite spots in the vicinity of Oakwood. About a week after thecircumstance we have narrated, St. Eval and Lady Gertrude joined themin the morning of a proposed excursion, which included the whole party, with the exception of Mrs. Hamilton and Ellen. The Earl and his sisterhad been instantly enlisted as a most agreeable reinforcement; nor wasthe young Earl very sorry for an excuse to spend a whole day in enjoyingthe beauties of Nature _tête-à-tête_ with his betrothed, who, since thecandid explanation of her agitation on first hearing of Annie'selopement, for which her knowledge of Lord Alphingham's former marriagehad well accounted, had become if possible dearer than ever; and thisexcursion was indeed one of perfect enjoyment to both. 

Ellen, for some unaccountable reason, which her young friends couldneither penetrate nor conceive, refused to accompany them, declaringthat most important business kept her at home. 

"Edward will not come to-day, so do not expect him, " had been Emmeline'sparting words. 

The ruralizing party were to dine amid the ruins of Berry Pomeroy, andwere not expected home till dusk, to a substantial tea. 

It might have been seven in the evening that Ellen quietly entered thelibrary, where her aunt was engaged in writing, and stood by her side insilence, as if fearful of interrupting by addressing her. 

"Wait a few minutes, my love, and I shall be ready to attend to you, ifyou require my assistance in the arrangement of your work, " Mrs. Hamilton said, alluding to the parcel of baby-linen she perceived in herniece's hand. Ellen smiled and obeyed. In a few minutes Mrs. Hamiltonlaid aside her writing, and looked up, as if expecting her niece wouldspeak. 

"Well, Ellen, what grand difficulty can you not overcome?"

"None, my dear aunt. My task is done; I only want your approval, "replied Ellen. 

"Done!" repeated her aunt, in an accent of astonishment. "My dear Ellen, it is impossible; I only gave it you a week ago. You must have workedall night to finish it"

"Indeed I have not, " replied Ellen, quickly yet earnestly. 

"Then I certainly must examine every little article, " said Mrs. Hamilton, laughing, "or I shall decidedly fancy this extreme rapiditycannot have been productive of neatness, which last I rather prefer tothe first. "

Ellen submitted her work to her scrutiny, without reply, and remainedkneeling on a stool at her aunt's feet, without any apprehension as tothe sentence that would be pronounced. 

"Really, Ellen, I shall incline to Emmeline's opinion, and believe somemagic is at work within you, " was Mrs. Hamilton's observation, as shefolded up the tiny suit with very evident marks of satisfaction. "Howyou have acquired the power of working thus neatly and rapidly, when Ihave scarcely ever seen a needle in your hand, I cannot comprehend. Iwill appoint you my sempstress-general, in addition to bestowing myreally sincere thanks for the assistance you have afforded me. "

Ellen pressed her aunt's hand to her lips in silence, for an emotionMrs. Hamilton beheld, but could not understand, choked her voice. 

"What is the matter, love? has anything occurred to annoy you to-day?You look paler and more sad than usual; tell me what it is. "

"Do you remember what--what chanced--have you forgotten the event thattook place this very day, this very hour, in this very room, three yearsago?" demanded Ellen, almost inaudibly, and her cheek blanched to thecolour of her robe as she spoke. 

"Why recall the painful past at such a moment, my sweet girl? has it notbeen redeemed by three years of undeviating rectitude and virtue? I hadhoped the recollection had ere this long ceased to disturb you, " repliedMrs. Hamilton, with much feeling, as she pressed her lips to her niece'sbrow. 

"It never can, it never will, unless--unless--" Strong and almostfearful emotion prevented all she had wished to say, and throwing intoMrs. Hamilton's lap a small calf-skin pocket-book, she flung her armsround her neck, and burying her face in her bosom, murmured, in a voicechoked with sobs, "The amount of all I took is there--all--all. Oh, takeit, and let me thus feel it as a debt which I have paid. "

"Ellen, my own Ellen, be composed, " entreated Mrs. Hamilton, alarmed bythe extreme agitation she beheld. "Tell me, love, what are the contentsof this pocket-book? why do you entreat me so earnestly to take it?"

Struggling violently with herself, Ellen tore open the little book, andplaced in her aunt's hand bank notes to the amount of those which hadonce been so fatal a temptation. 

"They are mine--all mine. I have gained them honestly; indeed, indeed Ihave; I have worked for them. It was to gain time for this I refused togo out with you last winter. I had hoped my long, long task would havebeen done before, but it was not. Oh, I thought I should never, nevergain the whole amount, but I have now; and, oh, tell me I have in partredeemed my sin; tell me I am more worthy of your love, your kindness;tell me I am again indeed your own happy Ellen. "

She would have said more, but no words came at her command, and Mrs. Hamilton remained silent for a few minutes, in surprise and admiration. 

"My Ellen, my own much-loved Ellen!" she exclaimed at length, and tearsof unfeigned emotion mingled with the repeated kisses she imprinted onher niece's cheek, "this moment has indeed repaid me for all. Little didI imagine in what manner you were employed, the nature of your tedioustask. How could you contrive to keep it thus secret from me? what timecould you find to work thus laboriously, when not one study oremployment have I seen neglected?"

"I thought at first I never should succeed, " replied Ellen, her strongemotion greatly calmed; "for while Miss Harcourt remained with us, I hadonly two hours before prayers in the morning, and sometimes I haveventured to sit up an hour or two later at night; but not often, for Ifeared you would discover me, and be displeased, for I could not, darednot tell you in what I was employed. The winter before last I earned somuch from embroidery and finer kinds of work, that I thought I shouldhave obtained the whole a year ago; but I was disappointed, for here Icould only do plain work, at which I earned but little, for I could notdo it so quickly. I had hoped there would have been no occasion torefuse your wish, that I should accompany you and Emmeline, but I foundthe whole amount was still far from completed, and I was compelled toact as I did. "

"And is it possible, my Ellen, you have intrusted your secret to no one;have demanded no sympathy, no encouragement in this long and painfultask?"

"I could not have accomplished nor did I commence it, without the kindassistance and advice of Ellis. My dear aunt, I knew, reposed greatconfidence in her, and I thought if she did not disapprove of my plan, Ishould not be acting so very independently, and that with her assistancemy secret would not be so difficult to keep: she procured me employment. My name nor my reasons for seeking it were never known to those for whomI worked. "

"And could she approve of a task such as this, my Ellen? Could shecounsel such painful self-denial and tedious labour?"

"She did all she could to dissuade, and at first positively refused toassist me; but at last yielded to my entreaties, for she saw I nevershould be happy till I could look on the past more as a debtthan--than--" She paused, then added--"My own spirit rebelled enough;that was far more difficult to overcome than other dissuasions. "

"And what strong impulse could have urged you to this course ofself-denial, my sweet girl? I know not yet whether I shall not scold youfor this almost needless infliction of pain, and for the deception itinvolves towards me, " said Mrs. Hamilton, with reproachful tenderness. 

"Forgive me, oh, forgive me that!" exclaimed Ellen, clasping the handshe held. "I have often and often felt I was deceiving you; failing inthat confidence I had promised you should never have again to demand;but I dared not tell you, for I knew you would have prohibited thecontinuance of my task. "

"I should indeed, my Ellen; and tell me why you have done this. Was itindeed because you imagined nothing else could atone for the past?"

"Because I felt--I knew, though I was restored to your favour, yourconfidence, my conscience was not at peace, because I had read, '_If thewicked restore the pledge, give again that which he had robbed, walk inthe statutes of life, without committing iniquity, he shall surely live, he shall not die_;' and I felt, however I might endeavour to be virtuousand good, till I had given again that which I had robbed, I dared notimplore the mercy of my God. "

It is impossible to do justice by mere description to the plaintiveeloquence, to the mournfully-expressive voice with which these simplewords were said, betraying at once those thoughts and feelings which hadbeen so long concealed in Ellen's meek and youthful heart, the hiddenspring from which her every action had emanated; Mrs. Hamilton felt itspower, the sentiment was too exalted, too holy for human praise. Shefolded her niece to her bosom. 

"May the Almighty searcher of hearts accept this sacrifice and blessyou, my dear child. Secretly, unostentatiously, it has been done. Puremust have been the thoughts which were yours when thus employed, whensuch was their origin, and we may hope, indeed, they have been accepted. Had no self-denial attended the payment of your debt, had you merelyentreated your uncle to repay himself from the fortune you possess, Iwould not have accepted it; such a payment would neither have beenacceptable to me, nor to Him whom, I firmly believe, my Ellen soughtmore to please. But when every action the last few years has proved tome, the words you repeated have indeed been the foundation of thisself-conquest, I cannot but humbly, trustingly, think it will be anaccepted offering on high. Nor will I refuse to comply with yourrequest, my dearest Ellen; I will receive that which you have soperseveringly and so painfully earned; it shall be employed inpurchasing prayers for us all, from those whom it may relieve. Let notthe recollection of the past again disturb you, my sweet child. Solicitude and pain you indeed once caused me, but this moment hasredeemed it all. Continue thus undeviatingly to follow the blessed pathyou have chosen, and our Ellen is and ever will be deserving of all thelove which those to whom she is so dear can lavish upon her. "

For a few minutes there was silence, for the solemnity with which shespoke had touched a responding chord; but the thoughts of the orphanarose to heaven, silently petitioning for grace to continue in thatblessed path of which her aunt had spoken, in thankfulness for havingbeen permitted to conclude her painful task, and thus obtained theapprobation of her more than mother, the relative she so revered andloved. 

"And this, then, was the long task which your numerous avocations duringthe day prevented your completing, and you therefore took the time fromthat allotted to recreation and amusement--this, which so stronglyemboldened my little Ellen, that even my coldness had no effect, exceptto make her miserable. What do you not deserve for thus deceiving me? Ido not think I know any punishment sufficiently severe. " Mrs. Hamiltonhad recalled all her playfulness, for she wished to banish every traceof sadness and emotion from the countenance of her niece. Ellen raisedher head to answer her in her own playful tone, when they were bothstartled by the declining light of day being suddenly obscured, as if bythe shadow of a figure standing by the open window near them. It was, however, so dark, that the outlines of the intruder were alone visible, and they would have been unrecognised by any, save by the eye ofaffection. 

Ellen sprung suddenly to her feet. "Edward!" burst gladly from her lips, and in another second a fine manly youth had darted through the opencasement, and the long parted brother and sister were in each other'sarms. For a minute only Ellen was pressed in his embrace, and thenreleasing her, he turned towards his aunt, and even as a devoted mother, a fond and dutiful son, they met, for such had they been in the longyears of separation. Frequently had that high-spirited boy been temptedto error and to sin, but as a talisman had her letters been. He thoughton the years that were passed, on their last interview, when every wordhad graven itself upon his heart, on the devotedness of his orphansister, the misery he had once occasioned; he thought on these things, and stood firm, --the tempter fled. He stood before them erect inyouthful beauty, no inward stain bade him turn from those fond looks orshrink from the entwining arms of his young sister. And, oh, how blessedis it thus to meet! to feel that vanished years have not estranged us, distance has not diminished love, that we are to each other even as weparted; to feel again the fond kiss, to hear once more the accents of avoice which to us has been for years so still, --a voice that bringswith it the gush of memory! Past days flit before us; feelings, thoughts, hopes, we deemed were dead, all rise again, summoned by thatsecret witchery, the well-remembered though long silent voice. Letyears, long, lingering, saddening years drag on their chain, let youthhave given place to manhood, manhood to age, still will it be thesame--the voice we once have loved, and deemed to us for ever still--oh, time, and grief, and blighted hope will be forgotten, and youth, in itsundimmed and joyous beauty, its glow of generous feelings, its brightanticipations, all, all again be ours. 

"Mother; yes, now indeed may I call you mother!" exclaimed Edward, whenthe agitation of this sudden meeting had subsided, and he found himselfseated on a sofa between his aunt and sister, clasping the hand of theformer and twining his arm caressingly round the latter. "Now indeed mayI indulge in the joy it is to behold you both again; now may I standforth unshrinkingly to meet my uncle's glance, no guilt, or shame, orfear has cast its mist upon my heart. This was your gift, " he drew asmall Bible from his bosom. "I read it, first, because it had beenyours, because it was dear to you, and then came other and holierthoughts, and I bowed down before the God you worshipped, and imploredHis aid to find strength, and He heard me. "

Mrs. Hamilton pressed his hand, but spoke not, and after a briefsilence, Edward, changing his tone and his subject, launched at once, with all his natural liveliness, into a hurried tale of his voyage toEngland. An unusually quick passage gave him and all the youngsters theopportunity they desired, of returning to their various homes quiteunexpectedly. The vessel had only arrived off Plymouth the previousnight, or rather morning, for it was two o'clock; by noon the ship wasdismantled, the crew dismissed, leave of absence being granted to all. And for the first time in his life, he laughingly declared he fanciedbeing the captain's favourite very annoying, as his presence andassistance were requested at a time when his heart was at Oakwood;however, he was released at last, procured a horse, and galloped away. His disasters were not, however, over; his horse fell lame, as if, Edward said, he felt a seaman was not a fit master for him. He wasnecessitated to leave the poor animal to the care of a cottager, andproceed on foot, avoiding the village, for fear of being recognisedbefore he desired; he exercised his memory by going through the lanes, and reached Oakwood by a private entrance. Astonished at seeing therooms, by the windows of which he passed, deserted, he began to fear thefamily were all in London; but the well-known sound of his aunt's voicedrew him to the library, just as he was seeking the main entrance tohave his doubts solved. He stood for a few minutes gazing on the twobeings who, more vividly than any others, had haunted his dreams bynight and visions by day; he had wished to meet them first, and alone, and his wish was granted. 

Wrapped in her happy feelings, it was her brother's arm around her, herbrother's voice she heard, Ellen listened to him in trembling eagerness, scarcely venturing to breathe, lest that dear voice should be still, lest the hand she clasped should fade away, and she should wake and findit but a dream of bliss--Edward could not really have returned; and Mrs. Hamilton felt emotion so powerfully swelling within, as she gazed oncemore on the brave preserver of her husband, the child of her sister, hervery image, that it was with difficulty she could ask those manyquestions which affection and interest prompted. 

Edward had scarcely, however, finished his tale, before the sound ofmany and eager voices, the joyous laugh, and other signs of youthfulhilarity, announced the return of the party from their excursion. Norwas it long before Emmeline's voice, as usual, sounded in loud laughingaccents for her mother, without whose sympathy no pleasure was complete. 

"Do not disturb yourselves yet, my dear children, " Mrs. Hamilton said, as she rose, knowing well how many, many things the long-separatedorphans must have mutually to tell, and penetrating with that readysympathy--the offspring of true kindness--their wish for a short time toremain alone together. "You shall not be summoned to join us till tea isquite ready, and if you wish it, Edward, " she added, with a smile, "youshall have the pleasure of startling your uncle and cousins as agreeablyas you did us. I will control my desire to proclaim the happy tidings ofyour safe return. "

She left the brother and sister together, sending Robert with, a lamp, that they might have the gratification of seeing each other, which theincreasing darkness had as yet entirely prevented; and a gratificationto both it was indeed. Edward had left his sister comparatively well, but with the traces of her severe illness still remaining vividlyimpressed upon her features; but now he saw her radiant in health, inhappiness, and beauty so brilliant, he could hardly recognise that fairand graceful girl for the ailing, drooping child she had once been. Noror was the contrast less striking between the Ellen of the presentmeeting and the Ellen of the last; then wretchedness, misery, inwardfever, consumed her outward frame, and left its scorching brand upon herbrow. Remorseful anguish had bowed her down; and now he had returnedwhen her heart was free and light as the mountain breeze, herself-inspired penance was completed; and nothing now existed to make hershrink from the delight of devoting hours to her brother. 

"Tell James to go over to the Rectory, with my compliments to Mr. Howard, and if he be not particularly engaged, I beg he will join usthis evening, " said Mrs. Hamilton, a short time after she had left thelibrary, addressing Martyn, then crossing the hall. 

"Have you any particular wish for our worthy rector this evening, Emmeline?" demanded Mr. Hamilton, gazing, as he spoke, with admirationand surprise on the countenance of his wife, whose expressive featuresvainly strove to conceal internal happiness. 

"A most earnest desire, " she replied, smiling somewhat archly. 

"Indeed, I am curious"--

"I am sorry, dear Arthur, for I am no advocate for curiosity, and cannotindulge it. "

"Ah, papa, there is a gentle hint for you, and a broader one for me, "exclaimed Emmeline, laughing; while conjectures as to what Mrs. Hamilton's business with the rector could possibly be, employed the timemerrily till the whole party were assembled. 

"You may depend, Emmeline, it is to arrange all the necessary minutiaefor your marriage, " said Lord St. Eval, who had been persuaded to remainat Oakwood that night. "Your mother has selected a husband for you;and, fearing your opposition, has sent for Mr. Howard that all may besaid and done at once. "

"I hope, then, that I am the man, " exclaimed Lord Louis, laughing;"there is no one else whom she can very well have at heart, not that Isee, " he added, looking mischievously round him, while some strange andpainful emotions suddenly checked Emmeline's flow of spirits, andutterly prevented her replying. 

A flush of crimson dyed her cheek and brow; nay, her fair neck partookits hue, and she suddenly turned towards her mother, with a glance thatseemed of entreaty. 

"Why, Emmeline, my dear child, you surely cannot believe there is theleast particle of truth in my mischievous son's assertion?" said theMarchioness of Malvern, pitying, though she wondered at her very evidentdistress. 

"And is marriage so very disagreeable to you even in thought?" demandedLord St. Eval, still provokingly. 

"The very idea is dreadful; I love my liberty too well, " answeredEmmeline, hastily rallying her energies with an effort, and she ran onin her usual careless style; but her eye glanced on the tall figure ofyoung Myrvin, as he stood with Herbert at a distant window, and wordsand liveliness again for a moment failed. His arms were folded on hisbosom, and his grey eye rested on her with an expression almost ofdespair, for the careless words of Lord Louis had reached his heart--"Noone else she can have. "

Lord Louis had forgotten him, or intentionally reminded him that he wasindeed as a cypher in that noble circle; that he might not, dared notaspire to that fair hand. He gazed on her, and she met his look; and ifthat earnest, almost agonized glance betrayed to her young and guilelessbosom that she was beloved, it was not the only secret she that nightdiscovered. 

Mr. Hamilton was too earnestly engaged in conversation with Sir GeorgeWilmot to notice the painful confusion of his child; and Mrs. Hamiltonwas thinking too deeply and happily on Ellen's conduct and Edward'sreturn, to bestow the attention that it merited, and consequently itpassed without remark. 

"Mother, I am sorry to be the first to inform you of such a domesticmisfortune, " said Percy, soon after entering the room, apparently muchamused, "but Robert has suddenly lost his wits; either somethingextraordinary has happened or is about to happen, or the poor fellow hasbecome bewitched. You smile, mother; on my honour, I think it no smilingmatter. "

"Never mind, Percy; your favourite attendant will, I have no doubt, recover his senses before the night is over. I am not in the leastanxious, " replied his mother, smiling. 

"Percy, your mother has clothed herself to-night in impenetrablemystery, so do not hope to discover anything through her, " said Lord St. Eval, laughing, and the young men continued gaily conversing with LadyGertrude and Caroline, till the entrance of Mr. Howard and theannouncement of tea or supper; of both of which, after a day spent inthe country as this had been, the evening meal partook. 

"Ellen--where is Ellen?" said several voices, as they seated themselvesround the hospitable board, and observed her place was vacant; and SirGeorge Wilmot eagerly joined the inquiry. 

"She will join us shortly, Sir George, " replied Mrs. Hamilton, andturning to a servant near her, desired him to let Miss Fortescue knowtea was ready. 

"I will go, madam. Stand back, James, let me pass, " exclaimed Robert, hastily, and he bounded out of the apartment with a most extraordinaryfailing of his wonted respect. 

"There, proof positive; did I not tell you the lad was mad, " said Percy, and, as if in confirmation of his words, almost directly after a loudand joyful shout sounded from the servants' hall. 

Mr. Hamilton looked up inquiringly, and in doing so his eye caught anobject that caused him to start from his seat with an exclamation ofsurprise and pleasure; while Percy, leaping over chairs and tables thatstood in his way, unheeding Lord Louis's inquiry, whether Robert hadinfected him, shook and shook again the hand of the long-absentrelative, in whom both he and Herbert could only recognise the preserverof their father. Herbert and his sisters simultaneously left theirseats, and crowded round him. Warmly, affectionately, Edward greetedthem one and all, and rapidly answered the innumerable questions ofPercy; defended his sister from all share in his concealment, of whichHerbert and Emmeline laughingly accused her. The flush of almost painfulbashfulness still lingered on his cheek, as he marked the eyes of allfixed upon him, strangers as well as friends; but as he turned in thedirection of his aunt, and his eye fell on the venerable figure of hisrevered preceptor, who stood aside, enjoying the little scene he beheld, as the remembrance of the blessed words, the soothing comfort thatimpressive voice had spoken in his hour of greatest need, the lessons ofhis childhood, his dawning youth, rushed on his mind, control, hesitation, reserve were all at an end; he broke from the surroundingand eager group, even from the detaining arm of his sister, sprangtowards him, and clasping both Mr. Howard's hands, his eyes glistenedand his voice quivered, as he exclaimed--

"Mr. Howard, too! one of my first, my best, and kindest friends. Ellentold me not of this unexpected pleasure; this is joy, indeed. "

"A joy to me, too, my dear boy, equally unexpected; we must thank Mrs. Hamilton for this early meeting. I knew not the pleasure she hadprepared for me, " replied Mr. Howard, returning the pressure of Edward'shand with equal warmth. 

"Nor did any one, my good sir. Never will I say again a lady cannot keepa secret, " said the Marquis of Malvern, jestingly. "Mr. Hamilton, as youdo not seem inclined to honour me, without asking, I must entreat aformal introduction to that gallant nephew of yours, whose name is notunknown to naval fame, though as yet but one of her junior officers. "

"I really beg your pardon, my dear Lord; Edward's sudden appearance hasstartled me out of all etiquette. To one and all, then, of my goodfriends here, allow me to introduce to their indulgent notice this saidEdward Fortescue, midshipman and gallant officer on board His Majesty'sgood ship Prince William; and, in order that all reserve may be at anend between us, I propose a bumper to the health and prosperity of thewanderer returned. "

"Most excellent, my dear father; one that I will second with all myheart, " exclaimed Percy, eagerly. "For that amphibious animal looksmarvellously like a fish out of water amongst us all: and here we admitno strangers. Edward, there is a vacant seat reserved for you by mymother's side, who looks much as if she would choose you for her knightthis evening; and, therefore, though your place in future is amongst theyoung ladies, to whom by-and-bye I mean to introduce you by name andcharacter, we will permit you to sit there to-night. Ellen, my littlecoz, where are you? You must be content with looking at your brother, not sitting by him. I cannot allow such breaches of etiquette; that isquite impossible. "

"I am perfectly satisfied where I am, Percy, " replied his cousin, laughing, as she obeyed the Marchioness of Malvern's request and seatedherself beside her. Every eye was turned on Ellen with an admiration, which, had not her thoughts been engrossed with her brother, would havebeen actually painful to one of her quick feelings. Lady Malvern longedto hear from her young favourite, in words, the internal delight whichwas so evident in every feature, and by her kindly sympathy succeeded inher wishes. The young sailor's health was celebrated with enthusiasm;and Edward gracefully, though briefly, returned his thanks, while thekindness of all around him, the easy friendliness of those who werestrangers, and the joy of feeling himself once more in the midst ofthose he loved, soon placed him perfectly at ease. 

Ellen looked eagerly round her circle of friends, to mark the impressionmade by Edward, and even her fond affection was fully satisfied. SirGeorge Wilmot had not spoken, but his eye kindled with animation as inthe gallant young sailor he recalled his own youthful days, while someother sad remembrances kept him silent, and checked his usual hilarity. Lord Malvern appeared almost as interested as Mr. Hamilton. LadyGertrude's kind glance met hers, and told, by its silent eloquence, howwell she sympathised in Ellen's feelings; and Lord St. Eval too, hissmile spoke volumes, though his natural reserve prevented his addressingEdward, while the young and lively members of the party seemed to findabundant amusement in the anecdotes and adventures he narrated. ArthurMyrvin gazed earnestly at him, and for a time banished his owndistressing thoughts in the endeavour to trace in the fine manly youthbefore him some likeness to the handsome, yet violent and mischievousboy he had first and last seen in the village of Llangwillan. 

"I have heard so much of Eward, from my friend Ellen here, that I ammost anxious to cultivate his acquaintance, and trust Castle Malvernwill often be graced by the presence of such a gallant young sailor, "was the Marchioness of Malvern's kind address, after they had adjournedto the drawing room, as, leaning on the arm of Ellen, she advanced tothe young man, who, from Percy's lively introduction, was playing theagreeable to Lady Florence and Lady Emily Lyle, while Lord Louis, whofound something in Edward's countenance that promised a kindred feelingfor fun and frolic, was demanding question after question, which Edwardwas answering in a manner calculated to excite the continued merrimentof his companions, till a sign from his aunt called him to her side. 

"So I must entreat Admiral Sir George Wilmot to deign to notice mynephew, it will not be given unasked, " she said, approaching the agedofficer, who was sitting a little apart, shading his eyes with his hand, as if in deep thought. "Sir George, I shall impeach you of high treasonagainst me, the liege lady of this fortress, that on a night when all isjoy, you, who are generally the gayest, should be sad. What excuse canyou urge in your defence?"

"Is Edward unworthy of the high privilege of being a sailor, SirGeorge?" whispered Ellen, archly, "or is your wrath against me, for notjoining your expedition this morning, to be extended to him? will younot look on him as a brother seaman?"

"Nay, Ellen, I must toil through long years of servitude, I must reapvery many laurels, ere I can deserve that title, " said Edward. "The nameof Sir George Wilmot is too well known on the broad seas for me to hopefor more than a word of encouragement from him, or to enable me to lookon him with any other feelings than those of the deepest reverence andrespect. "

"Ay, ay, young man, you wish to surprise the old hulk to surrender;gaily rigged and manned as you are, you think, by a show of homage tome, to surprise me into paying it to you, " said the old man, rousinghimself from his abstraction, and laughing as he spoke. "Do not deny it, youngster, but I forgive you; for I have been an old fool, Mrs. Hamilton. I plead guilty, and throw myself on your mercy. You, MistressEllen, you deserve nothing from me, after rejecting every courtly speechI could think of this morning, to persuade you to crowd sail and steerout under my guidance instead of remaining safe in harbour. Jokes apart, if you, young sir, will feel pleasure in the friendship of an oldtime-worn servant of his Majesty as I am, I offer you my hand, with allthe warmth and sincerity of our noble profession. For your uncle's sakeas well as your own, my best wishes and my best offices shall beexercised in tacking on lieutenant to your name. "

"And you will do nothing, then, for _my sake_, Sir George, nor for myaunt's, whose dignity your sadness has offended?" said Ellen, smiling, as did Mrs. Hamilton. 

"Your aunt would forgive my sadness, my dear child, did she know itscause. I was wrong to encourage it, but I could not look on these brightfeatures, " he laid his hand, which trembled, on Edward's arm, "withoutseeing again past times peopled with those who have passed away. Mrs. Hamilton, I thought again the merry favourite of my old friend, yourfather, stood before me, the gay, the thoughtless, lovely Eleanor; shewas like him, in the bloom of youth and freshness, when I last beheldher; and I thought, as mine eye glanced on this well known uniform, there was another still of whom he reminded me, --the adopted son of myaffections, the darling of my childless years, Charles, my gallantwarm-hearted Charles! Nearly six years was he with me, when his courageearned him a lieutenant's berth; he changed his quarters and hiscommander, and I saw him no more. Such was he; such--oh, I thoughtEleanor and Charles again were before me, and I longed for the friend ofmy early years, to recognise in his grandson the features of hisEleanor, the voice, the laugh, and figure of his Charles. Forgive me, mydear children, I have frightened away your mirth, and made myselfgloomy. "

There was silence as he ceased, and Sir George was the first to breakit, by addressing Edward with animation, questioning him as to all hishopes and anticipations with regard to his promotion, which, as his sixyears of service were now passed, he allowed to occupy his mind, and insuch conversation all traces of gloom quickly vanished; and Ellen, interested in their conference, lingered near them in recovered spirits, till the bell summoned all those who chose to join in the eveningprayer. All attended, except young Myrvin, who had departed. Herbertfelt anxious on his friend's account, for many reasons, which we mustpostpone explaining till a future page; suffice it now to say that theyoung man's conduct not seeming to be such as his profession demanded, adegree of scarcely-perceptible, but keenly-felt coldness was displayedtowards him, both by Mr. Hamilton and Mr. Howard. Herbert had this nightremarked that his cheek was pale, his eye almost haggard, and his wordsand manner often confused, and he had endeavoured to elicit the cause ofhis inward disturbance, but unsuccessfully; the young man, although veryevidently unhappy, appeared to shrink from his confidence, and Herbert, though grieved, desisted from his friendly office. That night Mr. Hamilton resigned his place at the reading-desk to the worthy minister, who, both in public and private worship, knew so well the duties of hissacred office. He read the chapters of the evening, with a brief butexplanatory commentary on each, and after the usual prayers, broke forthinto a strain of earnest thanksgiving for the safe return of him who, since he had last addressed his God, surrounded by his family, had beenexposed to the temptations and dangers of the sea, and mercifullypreserved through them all, and permitted to return in joy and peace. To all, save to the orphans and Mr. And Mrs. Hamilton, his words appliedbut to the terrors of the deep, but they well knew where the thoughts oftheir minister had wandered; they knew that fervent thanksgiving wasoffered up for his preservation from those sins which had been his onhis last return; they knew he blessed his Maker for the promise ofvirtue he beheld; His grace had enabled him to overcome temptation, andreturn to the home of his boyhood comparatively unstained. 

Edward contrasted his present feelings with those which he hadexperienced the first night of his last return, and Ellen thought onthat bitter anguish, the public shame which had been hers in that veryhall, that very night three years before, and the young hearts of boththe orphans were filled with warm and deep thanksgiving. The thoughts ofall were composed and tranquillized when Mr. Howard ceased, and in thelittle time that intervened between the conclusion of the service andthe family separating to their rooms, no light and frivolous conversedisturbed the solemn but sad impression on the minds of each. 

"I cannot part from you for the night, my dear cousin, " said Edward, somewhat archly, though in a low voice, as he approached the spot whereCaroline and St. Eval stood, "without offering you my warmestcongratulations on your future prospects, and without requesting anintroduction from _you_ to him, in whom I am to welcome a new relative. I have been wishing to do so all the evening, but when I was at libertyI missed you. "

Evidently pleased, Caroline looked up into St. Eval's face, but beforeshe could speak, the young earl had warmly pressed Edward's hand, andanswered with sincerity and kindness equal to his own. The whole partyvery soon afterwards dispersed. 

Were it ours to follow our young and still, in appearance, childlikefriend Emmeline Hamilton to her room that night, we should see that thesmiles which had beamed around her lip had passed away, the flush on hercheek was no longer there, and one or two bright drops might have beenobserved slowly falling on her pale cheek, as she sat in deep musing, ere she retired to her couch. She had dismissed Fanny, alleging that shedid not require her aid, and her long silky hair loosened from itsconfinement, hung carelessly in golden waves around her. Tears fell onher hand; she started, and flung back her tresses, looked fearfullyaround her, and passed her hand across her eyes, as if to checkthem--but ineffectually; another, and another fell; she leaned hercrossed arms upon the pillow, and her head drooped on them, and shewept, wept as she had never wept before, and yet she knew not wherefore;she was sad, how deeply sad, but that young and guileless spirit knewnot why. Child she was still in looks, in playfulness, in glee; a childshe still believed herself, but she was no child--that age of buoyancyhad fled, and Emmeline was, indeed, a woman, a thinking, feeling, ay, and loving woman. 

It might have been nearly a week after Edward's return, when, onentering the library one morning, Mrs. Hamilton observed her husband, Mr. Howard, and Edward in earnest conference, the latter appearingsomewhat agitated. She would have retreated, imagining her presencemistimed, but Edward, the instant he perceived her, sprung forward, andseizing both her hands, exclaimed, in a voice of entreaty--

"Dearest aunt, will not you use your influence with my uncle, andprevail on him to take the sum I have saved at different times, from myprize-money and other things, to replace that which--which was lostthree years ago. To obtain sufficient, I have denied myself allunnecessary indulgence; it has checked my natural extravagance;prevented me, when sometimes I have been strongly tempted to play, orjoin my messmates in questionable amusements. In saving that, I havecured myself of many faults; it has taught me economy and control, forby the time the whole amount was saved, my wishes and evil inclinationswere conquered. I look on it as a debt which I had bound myself to pay. I anticipated the pleasure of telling my dear sister, she might banishthe past entirely from her mind, for I would not write a word of myintentions, lest I should fail in them ere I returned. And now my unclerefuses to grant my request; Mr. Howard will not second me; and--and Isee how it is, " he continued, with a return of former violence in hismanner, as he paced the room, and a flush burned on his cheek, "my unclewill not consent to look on it as a debt; he will not permit me, even asfar as this will do it, to redeem my sister. "

"You are quite mistaken, my dear boy, " replied Mr. Hamilton, mildly. "Your sister's own conduct has sufficiently proved to me her repentanceand amendment; her gentle virtues and faultless conduct have quiteredeemed the past, and so has yours. I refuse to take your well-earnedsavings, merely because they really are not necessary. "

"But if it will give me pleasure, if it will satisfy me. Dearest aunt, plead for me; you know not the relief it will be, " again entreatedEdward, as he paused in his hasty walk, and looked beseechingly in hisaunt's face. 

"Nay, dear Edward, do not demand impossibilities, " she replied, smiling, "I cannot plead for you. That money with which you appear so very eagerto part must return to your own purse; your sister's debt is alreadypaid. "

"Paid!" repeated Mr. Hamilton and Mr. Howard, in astonishment, whileEdward stood, as if bewildered. "How, and by whom?"

"By Ellen herself, " replied Mrs. Hamilton; and, addressing her husband, she added, "I should have told you before, but we have been both toomuch engaged the last two days to allow any time for privateconversation; and my Ellen had entreated that only you should know hersecret; but she would, I know, have made an exception in Mr. Howard'sfavour had I demanded it, for his excellent lessons have in allprobability assisted in making her the character she is; and as for herbrother--why, in charity, he shall know this strange tale, " she added, smiling; and briefly, but with affecting accuracy, she related all thathad passed between her and Ellen on the evening of Edward's return. Mr. Hamilton and Mr. Howard listened in astonishment, for they knew not thequiet steadiness, the unwavering firmness of Ellen's private character;they guessed not the deep remorse which had been her own, nor for howlong it had guided and purified her actions. Edward had concealed hisface in his hands, his arms resting upon the table, for he felt in thistale of persevering effort and self-denial, in comparison with Ellen's, as if his had sunk to nothing; the bright lustre of his sister'scharacter dimmed even to obscurity his own. 

"And have you questioned Ellis? do you know in what manner she contrivedso secretly to render her assistance?" demanded Mr. Hamilton, with muchinterest. 

"I have, " replied his wife, "I did so that same night; for even Edward'sunexpected return could not banish his sister from my mind. She told me, that at first she did all she could to turn Ellen from her purpose; butwhen she found her resolution was unalterably fixed by some means toearn sufficient to repay the cause of so much distress, she enteredwarmly into her plan; and, with the active assistance of Robert, procured her work from the baby-linen warehouses at Plymouth. She firstbegan with the plainest work, but that succeeded so well, finer wasgiven to her. In London she worked embroidery, purchasing the materialsfrom her own pocket-money, and consequently largely increasing herhoard. Spite of her ill-health, the first winter we spent in London, sheperseveringly continued her irksome task, rising even in the coldestweather at six, the provident care of Ellis causing her fire to belighted almost the earliest in the house. Robert was the messengeremployed to and fro, but no one knew her name or rank; for, devoted aswe well know he is to Ellen, he took the trouble of changing his liveryfor plain clothes, whenever Ellis sent him on his mission. Her secrethas, indeed, been well preserved both from us and those who employedher. Many, very many silent tears Ellis believes have fallen over mypoor Ellen's tedious task; many a struggle to adhere to her resolution, and not throw it aside in despair; and frequently, she told me, after along, solitary evening, she has thrown her arms round Ellis's neck, andwept from exhaustion, and the misery of hope deferred, for at first itdid appear an endless labour; but she persevered unshrinkingly, combating her wishes to accompany me wherever Emmeline visited. "

"And it was this, then, that caused her determination to remain at hometill next year, " observed Mr. Hamilton; "poor child, our harshness wasno sweetener of her task. "

"It was not, indeed; the night of Emmeline's introduction, Ellis says, she wept as if her heart would break, as if she could not keep hersecret any longer; but she struggled with herself, and conquered;although many times, during my estrangement, she has longed to confessall, but the fear that I should forbid her continuing her taskrestrained her. "

"I am very glad she persevered in her secret, " said Mr. Howard, warmly;"it is this quiet steady perseverance in a painful duty that has pleasedme far more than even the action itself, guided as that was by properfeeling. Extraordinary sacrifices of our own formation are not, ingeneral, as acceptable to Him for whose sake they are ostentatiouslymade, as the quiet steady discharge of our destined duties--the one isapt to beget pride, the other true humility, but this unshakenresolution in one so young, had its origin from true repentance, andaided as it has been by the active fulfilment of every duty, strengthened as it has, no doubt, been by prayer, I cannot but trust herheavenly Master will look down with an eye of mercy on His youngservant. Look up, Edward; you, too, have done your duty. Why should yoursister's conduct cause this sudden depression, my young friend?"

"Because, " exclaimed he, with an earnestness almost startling, and ashe looked up his eyes glistened with tears, "because all my efforts sinkto nothing beside hers. I deemed myself becoming worthy; that theconquests over inclination I made would obliterate the past; but whatare my sacrifices compared to hers? Weak, frail, sensitive creature asshe is, thus secretly, laboriously to earn that sum which, because itrequired one or two petty sacrifices of inclination, I deemed that I hadso nobly gained. What have been my efforts compared to hers?"

"Almost as great to you, my dear boy, as hers were to her, " said Mr. Hamilton, kindly; "you, too, have done well. Your past errors havealready, in my mind and in that of Mr. Howard and your aunt's, beenobliterated by the pleasure your late conduct has bestowed. She has nothad the temptations to extravagant pleasure which have been yours; tosave this sum you must have resigned much gratification. You have actedthus excellently, in part, to regain the good opinion of your friends, and the kind wish of restoring perfect peace to your sister: in thefirst, you have fully succeeded; in the second, when your sister knowswhat has been the secret purpose of your life for three long years, heraffections will amply repay you. You are deserving of each other, mydear Edward; and this moment I do not scruple to say, I am proud to feelmyself so nearly related to those who, young as they both are, have sonobly and perseveringly performed their duty both to God and man. "

Young Fortescue raised his uncle's hand, wrung it between both his own, and impetuously darted from the room. 

"That boy would teach me never to despair again, my good friend, " saidMr. Hamilton, addressing the worthy clergyman. "When last he left me Ihad learned to hope and yet to fear, for I dreaded his exposure to hisformer temptations; and now--glad, indeed, am I to acknowledge myselfvanquished, and to own you were ever in the right. "

Mr. Howard smiled. 

"And now does my husband regret his having adopted my sister's orphansas his own?" demanded Mrs. Hamilton, entwining her arm in her husband's, and looking caressingly in his face. 

"No, my dearest wife; once, indeed, when I beheld you in fancy about tosink beneath the accumulation of misery and anxiety both Edward andEllen's conduct occasioned, I did in secret murmur that the will of myheavenly Father had consigned to us the care of such misguided ones; Ifear I looked on them as the disturbers of family peace and harmony, when it was the will of my God. I felt indignant and provoked with them, when I should have bowed submissively to Him. I have been blessed inthem when I deserved it not. You ever trusted, my Emmeline, though fargreater distress was your lot than mine. You never repented of thatkindness which bade your heart bleed for their orphan state, and urgedyou to take them to your gentle bosom, and soothe them as your own. Iknow that at this moment you have your reward. "

Mrs. Hamilton was prevented from replying by the entrance of Edward, whoeagerly inquired for his sister, alleging he had searched every room inthe house and could not find her. 

"She has gone with Herbert to the village to take the fruits of her ownwork, some baby linen, to the poor woman in whose fate I am sointerested, " replied Mrs. Hamilton, and turning to her husband, added--"Now we really are alone, my dear Arthur, will you give a littleof your time to inform me in what manner I can best lay out, for thisunfortunate being's advantage, the sum my Ellen has placed in my hands?Do not look at me, Edward, as if to implore me to take yours also, for Imean to be very positive, and say at once I will not. "

"Come with me, my young friend, and we will go and meet Herbert andEllen, " Mr. Howard said, smiling; "a walk is the best remedy for nervesfevered as yours are at present, and I should be glad of your company. "And Edward, with eager pleasure, banishing all traces of formeragitation, departed arm in arm with a companion whom he still so reveredand loved, recalling with him reminiscences of his boyhood, anddetailing with animation many incidents of his late trip. This walk, quiet as it was, was productive, both to Mr. Howard and his pupil, ofextreme pleasure; the former, while he retained all the gravity anddignity of his holy profession, knew well how to sympathise with youth. Increased duties in the ministry had caused him to resign the schoolwhich he had kept when we first knew him, to the extreme regret of bothmaster and pupils. Mr. Howard regarded young people as the tender lambsof his fold, whom it was his especial charge to train up in the paths ofgrace, and guard from all the dangerous and hidden pitfalls of sin;their parents might neglect, or, ignorant themselves, pursue a mistakenmethod, but he was the shepherd placed over the flock, and whileuntiringly, zealously, he endeavoured to lead the older members of hiscongregation to the only rock of salvation, the younger were the objectsof his especial care. To them all was bright, the world in all itsdangerous, because more pleasurable, labyrinths was before them. He saw, he knew their perfect ignorance, and he trembled, while he prayed so tolead them, that the lessons of their minister might check them in thecareer of imprudence or of sin. 

"Were I one of the fathers of Rome I should say, _benedicite_, mychildren, " he said, playfully, as Herbert and Ellen, apparently inserious yet happy conversation approached and joined them, "but as I ammerely a simple minister of a simple faith, I greet you with theassurance you are blessed in your charitable office. "

"And how, my kind friend, could you contrive to discover such was ouremployment?" replied Herbert, smiling. "Can my mother have beenbetraying us?"

"Oh, she has been a sad traitress this morning, betraying all kinds ofsecrets and misdemeanours, " said Mr. Howard, laughing, and casting onEllen a glance of arch meaning, while Edward could scarcely contain hisimpatience to seize his sister's arm and bear her off with him. 

"And we, too, have been hearing many tales of you, Mr. Howard, " shesaid. "We have heard very many blessings on your name in the cottage wehave left, although, alas! events have occurred there of a very painfulnature. "

"And why, alas, my dear child?" said Mr. Howard, affectionately. "Do youdeem it so sad a thing to die?"

"It is wrong, I know, to regard it thus, Mr. Howard, " replied Ellen;"but yet, to leave all those we love on earth, to sever the tender cordsof affection binding us unto this world, must be, even to the strongestand most pious minds, a draught of bitterness. "

"Do not, my dear children, " said Mr. Howard, "imagine I deem it wrong toindulge in earthly affections. Far from it; they are given us to sweetenlife, to draw our hearts in thanksgiving to him who gave them, and thusindulged are pleasing unto Him. And how did you find poor Nanny to-day?"he added, after a brief pause. 

"Suffering very much in body, but in a blessed state of mind, " repliedEllen, "which she greatly attributed to you; for she told me, before myaunt discovered them and placed them where they now are, before she sawyou, death was a trouble awful in anticipation. She had ever tried to doher duty in life, to remember her Maker in her youth, and believed thatshe had succeeded; but when she knew that she must die, all appearedchanged; the aspect of death was different, when seemingly at a distanceto that which it presented when near at hand. She longed for someminister of the Lord to pray for her, to comfort her in those momentswhen suffering prevented serious thoughts, and it was affecting to hearher bless that charity which had not only placed her soul under yourguidance, but provided also so many bodily comforts. "

"And you have been exercising the duties of the ministry before you havedonned your gown, my dear Herbert, " said Mr. Howard, glancingapprovingly on his young friend. "Glad indeed shall I be to hail you asa young brother in my sacred office; for with you it will be indeed theservice of the heart, and not of interest or compulsion. Would that yourfriend Arthur possessed one-half of your earnest zeal, or that youcould inspire him with the same love for his sacred calling whichanimates you. "

"I know not what to make of Arthur, " said Herbert, somewhat sadly, "heis strangely, unaccountably changed the last few months. When he wasfirst settled in his curacy, his conduct was such as to excite theapprobation of both my father and yourself; and now, I greatly fear, that he is alienating both. "

"Do not condemn him harshly, without good proof, dear Mr. Howard, " saidEllen, earnestly. "I, too, have noticed that he is changed, though Iscarcely know in what manner; but for his father's sake and for mine, donot treat him coldly before my uncle at least. He has many faults, butsurely some good qualities. "

"I trust he has; but I wish he would not so carefully conceal them, andsuffer his parishioners to have cause to relate so many tales of neglectand levity in their curate, " replied Mr. Howard; "but we will not bringforward accusations when the accused is not present to defend himself:and here we are at the Rectory before I had thought we were half way. Will you come in, my young friends, and share an old man's homelyluncheon?"

Gladly would they have done so, but Ellen had promised to return toOakwood in time for that meal, and was compelled to refuse; adding, thatboth her brother and cousin might, for the Rectory was so near one ofthe entrances to the park, she could easily return alone; but such wasnot Mr. Howard's intention. He knew how Edward longed for a few minutes'private conversation with his sister, and playfully detaining Herbert, declaring he could not do without one at least, dismissed the orphans ontheir walk, bestowing his parting blessing on Ellen with a warmth thatsurprised her at the time, but the meaning of which was fully explainedin the interesting conversation that passed between her and her brotherere they reached the house, and as the expression of approbation in theminister she loved, filled her young mind with joy, while the mutualconfidence bestowed in that walk added another bright link to the chainof affection which bound the souls of that brother and sister so fondlytogether. 

CHAPTER II. 

It was the hour when all in general retired to rest, and the inmates ofOakwood had dispersed for the purpose; but this night thoughts of amingled and contending nature occupied Mrs. Hamilton's mind, andprevented all wish for sleep. Her guests had the last week increased, and the part of hostess had been kindly and pleasingly performed; butthe whole of that day she had longed to be alone, and gladly, gratefullyshe hailed that hour which enabled her to be so. Shading her eyes withher hand, she gave to her thoughts the dominion they demanded. Maternalambition, maternal pride, in that silent hour fell before the stronger, more absorbing power of maternal love. But a few brief hours, and thechild of her anxious cares, of fervent petitions at the throne of grace, would be no longer an inmate of her father's house, her place in thathappy home would be a void. On the morrow, ay, the morrow, for theintervening weeks had fled, her child would be another's. True, but fewmiles would separate their homes; true, that he on whom that preciousgift would be bestowed, was in all respects the husband she would haveselected for her Caroline, the husband for whom the involuntary prayerhad arisen; virtue and piety, manliness and sincerity were his, besidesthese attributes, which to some mothers would have been far morebrilliant, he was noble, even of exalted rank; but all, all these thingswere forgotten in the recollection, that on the morrow she must bidfarewell to her cherished treasure, the link, the precious link ofprotection would be severed, and for ever. Thoughts of the past mingledwith the present, and softened yet more that fond mother's feelings. Pain, bitter pain, Caroline had sometimes cost her, but pleasure, exquisite in its kind, had mingled with it. No longer would it be hersto watch with trembling joy the dawning virtues which had flourishedbeneath her eye; a link would be broken between them, a slender oneindeed, but still broken, --though Mrs. Hamilton reproached herself forindulging in such feelings of sadness, when so many blessings promisedto gild the lot of her child. And yet, alas! what mother devoted to herchildren as she had been, and still was this noble and gentle woman, could part from a beloved one even for a brief space, even forhappiness, without one pang, selfish as it might be, selfish as perhapsit was? for anxiety for the future darkened not the prospects of earthlybliss, her trust in the character of St. Eval was too confiding; it wasonly her fond heart which for a time would be so desolate. Her ear wouldlinger in vain for the voice it loved; her eye seek in sorrow for thegraceful form, the beauteous features on which it had so loved to gaze. New ties would supply to Caroline the place of all that she had left;deep springs of fond emotions, such as she had never felt before, wouldopen in her heart, and then would she still love, would she still lookto that mother, as in childhood and in youth she had done? Vainly shestruggled to subdue these thoughts, and bring forward in their stead thevisions of happiness, which alone had visited her before. Thronging andtumultuously they came, and tears stole slowly from those mild eyes, which for herself so seldom wept; while engrossed in her ownreflections, she heard not the soft and careful opening of her door, sheknew not that the beloved object of those tears had entered her room, and was kneeling beside her. 

"Mother!" murmured Caroline, in a voice tremulous and weak with emotionequal to her own. Mrs. Hamilton started, and her lip quivered with theeffort she made to smile her greeting. "Mother, my own mother, forgivemy intrusion; I thought not to have found you thus. Oh, deem me notfailing in that deep reverence your goodness, your devotedness, havetaught me to feel for you; if my love would bid me ask you why you weep, may I not share your sorrow, mother?"

"These are but selfish tears, my own; selfish, for they fall only when Ithink that to-morrow bears my Caroline away, and leaves her mother'sheart for a time so lone and sad, that it will not even think of thehappiness I so fondly trust will be hers, in becoming the bride of himshe loves. Forgive me, my own Caroline; I had no right to weep and callfor these dear signs of sympathy at such a time. "

Silently and tearfully Caroline clung to her mother, and repeatedlypressed her hand to her lips. 

"And why are you not at rest, my child? you will have but few briefhours for sleep, scarcely sufficient to recall the truant rose to thesepale cheeks, and the lustre to this suddenly dimmed eye, my Caroline;"and the mother passed her hand caressingly over her brow, and parted theluxuriant hair that, loosened from the confining wreath of wild flowerswhich had so lately adorned it, hung carelessly around her. She lookedlong and wistfully on that young bright face. 

"You ask me why I am not at rest; oh, I could not, I felt I could notpart from you, without imploring your forgiveness for all the past;without feeling that it was indeed pardoned. Never, never before has myconduct appeared in such true colours: dark, even to blackness, whencontrasted with yours. Your blessing is my own, it will be mineto-morrow; but, oh, it will not be hallowed to my heart, did I notconfess that I was--that I am unworthy of all your fondness, mother, andimplore you to forgive the pain I have so often and so wantonlyinflicted upon you. Oh, you know not how bitterly, how reproachfully, myfaults and errors rushed back to my mind, as I sat and thought this wasthe last night that Caroline Hamilton would sleep beneath this roof;that to-morrow we parted, and I left you without once acknowledging Ideserved not half your goodness; without one effort to express thedevoted gratitude, the deep, the reverential love, with which my heartis filled. Mother, dearest, dearest mother! oh, call me but yourblessing, your comfort, --I never have been thus; wilful and disobedient, I have poisoned many hours which would otherwise have been sweet. Mother, my own mother, say only you forgive me--say that no lingeringpang I on my account remains. "

"Forgive you, my beloved! oh, long, long since have every childish faultand youthful error been forgiven. Could resentment harbour in my heartso long? could memory linger on moments of pain, when this last year notone fault, not one failing of duty or of love has stained your conduct?Even as my other children have you been my blessing, my comfort; thedearer, when I thought on the doubts and fears of the past. Pain you mayhave once caused me; but, oh, you know not how blessedly one proof ofaffection, one hour of devotion in a child can obliterate from amother's heart the remembrance of months of pain. Think no more of whatis past, my own; remember only that your mother's blessing, her ferventprayers will hover round you wherever you may be; that, should sicknessand sorrow at any time be your portion, however distant we may be, yourmother will come to soothe and cheer, your mother's bosom will still beopen to receive you. "

Caroline answered not, for her tears fell fast upon the hand she held;tears not of sorrow but of emotion, blessed in their sadness. She bowedher head before Mrs. Hamilton, and murmured--

"Bless me, my mother!"

"May the God of infinite love, the Father of unclouded mercies, who hathbeen so unchangeably merciful to his servants, look down from Hisresplendent throne and bless you, my beloved! May he sanctify and blessthat event, which promises to our darkened eyes so much felicity! May Heguide my child in His own paths, and hearken to her mother's prayer!"

"We will not separate this night to pray each in solitude, my child; letus read, and address our heavenly Father together, as we were wont todo, when it was my task to raise your infant thoughts and simpleprayers to Him who heard and answered. I cannot part from you till theseagitated feelings are more composed, and prayer will best enable them tobe so. "

Willingly, gladly Caroline lingered, and their private devotions, whichever attended their retiring to rest, were performed together. Theirblessed influence was mutually felt. He whom they so fervently addressedlooked down upon His good and faithful servants, and poured upon themother's soul and on that of her child the calm and tranquillizing dewof His blessing. 

The morning dawned, and common-place as is the expression, yet we mustconfess the day was lovely; one of those soft, delicious September daysso well known to all who are acquainted with the climate of Devonshire. Gaily the sun looked down from his field of stainless azure, and peepedthrough the windows of the elegant little room which the taste of heryoung bridesmaids had decorated as Caroline's tiring-room for the day, and his bright rays played on the rich jewels scattered on the toilette, and decked them with renewed brilliance; and at times his light wouldfall full upon the countenance of the young bride, sometimes pensive, atothers, radiant in beaming smiles, as she replied to the kind words ofLady Gertrude, or in answer to the playful conversation of her youngerbridesmaids, who, full of life, and hope, and innocence, hovered likefairy spirits round their queen. The tears which had fallen from theeyes of Emmeline on her sister's neck that morning were dried, yet stillthere were some lingering traces of sadness on her fair sweet face, which she struggled vainly to conceal, but which were regarded as thesorrow of an affectionate heart thus parting from the sister of itslove. 

And Lilla Grahame, too, was there, smiling with, real and heartfeltpleasure. She had observed the slight cloud on Emmeline's brow, and withevery affectionate art endeavoured to remove it. 

The toilette of the bride was completed, save her jewels, which Ellenhad entreated might be her office to arrange, and, smilingly, LadyFlorence resigned her place by Caroline's side. 

"For Edward's sake and for mine, dearest Caroline, will you, decked asyou are with jewels so far more precious, yet will you wear this, andregard it indeed as the offering of the sincerest affection foryourself, the warmest prayers for your welfare, from those who for somany years have felt for you as if you were indeed their sister? poor asis the gift, will you let Edward see it is not rejected?" and Ellen, aswith a flushed cheek and quivering lip she spoke, placed on the arm ofher cousin a bracelet, composed of her own and her brother's hair, andclasped with chaste yet massive gold. The braid was fine and delicate, while the striking contrast of the jet black and rich golden hair ofwhich it was composed, combined with its valuable clasp, rendered it notan unfit offering on such a day. 

"Is it to remind me of all my unkindness towards you, Ellen, in dayspast, of my hour of pride?" replied Caroline, in a low voice, as shethrew her arm caressingly round her cousin, and fondly kissed her. "Iwill accept your gift, my dear Ellen, and sometimes look upon it thus. "

"Nay, do not say so, dearest Caroline, or I shall feel inclined to takeit even now from your arm, and never let you see it more; no, ratherlet it be a remembrance of those poor orphans, whose lives _you_ havenot done the least to render happy. Gratefully, affectionately, shall weever think of you, dear Caroline, and, oh, may this little offering bidyou sometimes think thus, and thus only of us. "

The carriages were rather later than expected, and Lady Gertrudeobserving Caroline somewhat pale, though no other sign denotedagitation, endeavoured, by talking more sportively than usually was herwont, to while away the time till the important moment arrived. 

It came at length, and Caroline, with a faltering step, entered thecarriage, which conveyed her to the old and venerable church, accompanied by Mr. And Mrs. Hamilton and Lady Gertrude, who had promisedto remain near her. The fair girls that held the rank of bridesmaidsfollowed, and three other carriages contained the invited guests to thewedding. Not a creature was visible to disturb by acclamations thebridal party on their route, and take from the calm and holy beauty ofthe early morning; but that the day was remembered was clearly visible, for there were garlands of the brightest, fairest flowers, which must, by their number and variety, have been culled from many gardens of manyvillages, festooning the hedges of the green lanes through which theypassed, and many a gay pennon pendant from oak or stately elm flutteredin the breeze. All was so still and calm, that ere the carriage stoppedat the church porch Caroline had conquered the inward trembling of herframe, and her heart thrilled not perhaps so anxiously as did both herparents', when, leaning on the arm of her proud and happy father, shewalked steadily, even with dignity, up the church, where Mr. Howard, young Myrvin, Lord St. Eval, his parents, Lord Louis, Percy, Herbert, and Edward there stood, and a faint but expressive smile played roundher lips, in answer to St. Eval's eager yet silent greeting. He couldnot speak, his feelings of happiness were too deep, too ecstatic forwords, but she had but to look on his expressive face, and all, all wassaid. 

There was a moment's solemn pause as they knelt beside the altar, andthen the voice of Mr. Howard sounded, and its ever emphatic tones rungwith even more than its usual solemnity on the ears of all the assembledrelatives and friends, with thrilling power on the bride and bridegroom. Calmly and clearly Caroline responded; her cheek was pale, but her lipquivered not, and perhaps, in that impressive service, the agitation ofher mother was deeper than her own. She struggled to retain hercomposure, she lifted up her soul in earnest prayer, that the blessingof her God might indeed hallow the ceremony on which she gazed, and ereher child arose, and led forward by her young enraptured husband, approached for her parent's blessing and embrace, she was enabled togive both without any visible emotion, save that her daughter might havefelt the quick pulsations of her fond heart, as she pressed her in herarms. 

We will not linger on the joyous festivity which pervaded the lordlyhalls of Oakwood on this eventful day. 

The hour had come when Caroline, the young Countess of St. Eval, badefarewell to her paternal home. The nearest relatives of the bride andbridegroom had assembled with them in a small apartment, at Caroline'srequest, for a few minutes, till the carriage was announced, for thoughresolved not to betray her feelings, she could not bear to part fromthose she loved in public. She had changed her dress for a simple yetelegant travelling costume, and was now listening with respectfuldeference but glistening eyes to the fond words of her mother, who, twining her arm around her, had drawn her a little apart from theothers, as if her farewell could not be spoken aloud; their attentionwas so arrested by a remark of Lord Malvern, and his son's reply, thatthey turned towards them. 

"Do not again let me hear you say our Gertrude never looks animated orinterested, " the former said, addressing the Marchioness, somewhattriumphantly. "She is as happy, perhaps, if possible, even happier thanany of us to-day, and, like a good girl, she shows it. Gertrude, love, is it your brother's happiness reflected upon you?"

"Let me answer for her, sir, " replied St. Eval, eagerly. "You know notwhy she has so much reason to look and, I trust, to feel happy. She seesher own good work, and, noble, virtuous as she is, rejoices in it;without her, this day would never have dawned for me, Caroline wouldnever have been mine, and both would have lived in solitarywretchedness. Yes, dearest Gertrude, " he continued, "I feel how much Iowe you, though I say but little. Happy would it be for every man, couldhe receive from his sister the comfort, the blessing I have from mine, and for every woman, were her counsels, like yours, guided by truthalone. "

"The Earl and Countess of St. Eval left Oakwood about two o'clock, fortheir estate in Cornwall, Castle Terryn, in an elegant chariot and foursuperb greys, leaving a large party of fashionable friends andrelations to lament their early departure. " So spoke the fashionablechronicle in a paragraph on this marriage in high life, which containeditems and descriptions longer and more graphic than we have anyinclination to transcribe. 

A select party of the Marquis of Malvern's and Mr. Hamilton's friendsremained to dinner, and, at the request of Percy and Lord Louis, dancingfor the younger guests concluded the evening. The day had dawned in joy, and no clouds disturbed its close. Fatigued, and her thoughts stillclinging to her child, Mrs. Hamilton was glad to seek the retirement ofher own room. Her thoughts turned on her Caroline, and so fondly didthey linger there, that Emmeline's strange diversity of wild spirits andsudden but overpowering gloom did not occupy her mind as powerfully asthey would otherwise have done; she did not regard them, save as theeffects of excitement natural to such an eventful day; she guessed notthat of all her household the heart of her Emmeline was the heaviest, her spirits weighed down by a gloom so desponding, so overwhelming, thatsleep for many hours fled from her eyes. She had powerfully exertedherself during the day, and now in solitude, darkness, and silence, thereflux of feeling was too violent for that young and, till lately, thoughtlessly joyous heart to bear. Her heavy eyes and pallid cheeksattracted notice indeed the following morning, but they were attributedto fatigue from the gay vigils of the preceding night, and gladly didthe poor girl herself encourage the delusion, and obey her mother'splayful command to lie down for a few hours, as a punishment forindulging an overplus of excitement. 

Herbert's pleasure, too, the preceding day had been alloyed by anxiety;and perhaps his solicitude and his sister's sorrow proceeded from oneand the same cause, which our readers will find at length, a few pageshence, when Arthur Myrvin becomes a prominent object in our history. 

Pleasure, in a variety of festive shapes, but innocent in all, was forthe next month the presiding genius of Oakwood and its vicinity. LordMalvern's family remained as guests at Oakwood during that time, andsome few college friends of Percy and Herbert, but Mr. Hamilton's otherfriends departed for their respective homes the week following themarriage. 

The young Earl and Countess of St. Eval meanwhile resided at theirbeautiful retreat of Castle Terryn, which the taste of the young Earlhad rendered in every respect a residence suited to the rank andfeelings of those who claimed it as their own. 

Nothing now prevented our young friend Ellen from joining in theamusements that offered themselves, and she enjoyed them even more thanshe had expected, for she was accompanied by her brother, who haddeservedly become an universal favourite, and Mrs. Hamilton had thepleasure, at length, of seeing not only health but happiness beamingapparently unclouded on the countenance of her niece. 

Mr. Grahame, for the sake of Lilla, who was becoming dearer each day toboth her parents, for her true character for the first time stoodclearly forth, struggled with his gloom, and accompanied her where-overher wishes led; and her cheerful spirits, her unpretending manners, andconstant and active affection, manifesting itself in a thousanddifferent ways, to amuse the couch of her now really ailing mother, didmuch to palliate the disappointment and misery the conduct of his elderdaughter had occasioned. 

Herbert's secret was still inviolably kept; no one suspected that heloved, much less that he was betrothed. Nearly two years had passed ofthat long period which must elapse ere Herbert could hope to make Maryhis wife. They had glided quickly, very quickly by, and so too might theremainder; but there was a dark, foreboding feeling pressing heavilyupon Herbert's heart as he looked forward, that robbed anticipation ofits charm, and rendered him even more pensive than from his boyhood hadbeen his wont. To strangers, even to his family, he was still the same;to his God alone he laid his spirit bare. 

Six weeks after the marriage of Caroline, Oakwood and its neighbourhoodwas as quiet as it has been when we knew it in former years. 

Lord Malvern's family stayed ten days at Castle Terryn, by the pressinginvitation of the young couple, and then returned to their estate inDorsetshire, leaving Lady Gertrude, however, for a few weeks' longerresidence with her brother and his wife. The young men returned tocollege. Lilla Grahame remained at home till after the Christmasvacation, when she was once more to reside with Mrs. Douglas for sixmonths or a year longer, according to the state of her mother's health, who no longer wished to quit Moorlands; and therefore her husband gladlyconsented to her remain there till Mrs. Hamilton paid her annual visitto London. About this time also, Ellen, accompanied by her brother, fulfilled her promise of visiting her old friend, Mr. Myrvin, anddelighted him by making his pretty vicarage her residence till near themiddle of November. Edward, with whom the kind old man was as muchpleased as he had been with his sister, also remained at Llangwillanduring that time, with the exception of three or four flying visits toOakwood, and latterly to Castle Terryn, where Mr. And Mrs. Hamilton, with Emmeline, were staying the few last weeks of his and his sister'svisit at the vicarage. Their company was particularly soothing to Mr. Myrvin at this period; for the letters of his son were causing himextreme solicitude, revealing intentions, to understand which we mustfor a short period retrace our steps, and thus commence another chapter. 

CHAPTER III. 

Young Myrvin had been, at the period of Caroline's marriage, rather morethan a year as Mr. Howard's curate. At first, as we have seen, theexample of Herbert had done much towards reconciling him to aprofession, which was for many reasons opposed to his feelings. When inthe company of his friend, he had imparted to him his struggles with thepride and ambition which still lurked within him, spite of all hisendeavours and resolutions to conquer and banish them. While Herbert wasnear him all was well; his duty was regularly performed, in a mannerthat satisfied his rector, and sufficiently rewarded Mr. Hamilton forthe interest he had taken in his and his father's welfare; but whenHerbert left Oakwood, Arthur's distaste for his occupation returned withrenewed strength, to which newly-dawning emotions added weight. Mostpainfully had Arthur, when first intimate with Mr. Hamilton, endeavoured to guard himself from the danger to his peace, which hefelt existed in the society of beings so amiable and attractive as werehis daughters; but his efforts were vain, as our readers may havealready discovered. There was a nameless, an indescribable charm in theappearance and manner of Emmeline which he could not resist. It was somefew months ere the whole extent of evil was discovered, not perhapsentirely till Emmeline returned to London, and Oakwood was desolate, painfully desolate to the young man, who, when lingering within itsancient walls, forgot everything around him, save the bright andbeautiful being who was to him its charm. When, however, that fair formhad departed from his sight, he was awakened to the delusive nature ofhis hopes, and with the knowledge, exquisite even in its despair, thathe loved Emmeline Hamilton, his profession became more and moredistasteful. Had he followed the paths of ambition, as his inclinationprompted, had he but had the means of seeking some station whence hemight at length have risen to eminence, he cared not what the obstacles, his union with her might not have been so difficult to overcome, or, atleast, he might not have met her; and did he wish that such had been thecase? no; misery in its most agonizing shape stood before him, and yetthe cause of that misery was the one bright star that appeared to gildhis lot. 

A poor curate of a country parish, with no resources but his salary toincrease his scanty means, no power of rendering himself of consequencein the eyes of the world; and, alas! the fruit of many years' hardlabour from father to son--one-half of which might have rendered himsufficiently independent to have chosen his own profession--was gone. Poor as he was, could he ever look forward to possess the hand ofEmmeline? he felt the utter impossibility, and bitterly he knew he lovedbut to despair. These contending feelings diverted his thoughts as maywell be supposed, and caused him to be careless in the discharge of hisclerical duties, abrupt and strange in his manner with Mr. Howard; andunfortunately there was one in the village who was ready to turn thesimplest circumstance to the young curate's disadvantage. 

It was not likely the sinful and licentious man who, by Mr. Hamilton'sactive exertions, had not only been dispossessed of the living ofLlangwillan, but very nearly of his gown also, would permit these, whathe termed injuries, to pass unavenged. Against the elder Myrvin he felthis efforts would be unavailing, nor did he feel inclined to try asecond time, when he had once been foiled; but Arthur he believed asurer mark. A farm of some consequence was to be let on Mr. Hamilton'sestate; it was very easy to settle in it a man lower in rank, but hard, unrelenting as himself, an unprincipled instrument of his will. Thebusiness was done, and the new neighbour, prepossessing in appearanceand manners, speedily ingratiated himself with all, and even obtained, by a semblance of hard-working industry, and regular attendance atpublic worship, seconded by quiet and unobtrusive conduct, the noticeand regard of his landlord, Mr. Hamilton. 

This man had entered his farm about four or five months after Arthur hadbeen installed as Mr. Howard's curate, and cautiously and yetsuccessfully he executed the wily requirements of his employer. Soguardedly did he work, that no one could trace to him, who ever spokeas the friend of their curate, the prejudice which had slowly but surelypenetrated the mind of every man against him, and interpreted hissimplest action in the worst light. There were some rumours afloat ofmisdemeanours during his college life; it mattered not whether they weretrue or false, they were received and encouraged by the credulous. Hewas a Welshman too, full of evil qualities, and clothed withinvulnerable pride, which last idea was unfortunately confirmed byMyrvin's distaste for his profession, which prevented his entering intothe joys and sorrows of his parishioners, mingling familiarly and kindlywith them as a minister of God should do. 

How or when this prejudice began, or what was its origin, not one of thegood folks of the village could have told, for they really did not know;but still it existed, and Arthur knew it. He felt himself disliked, andinstead of endeavouring to conciliate good-will and remove prejudice, his mind was in such a fevered state of excitement, that he indulged inevery bitter feeling toward those with whom he had to deal, and shrunkyet more from the performance of his duty. Instances of careless neglectwere often found, and became magnified in the relation. The young curatewas not always at hand when his presence was principally required; henever left directions where he might be found. Abuse crept into thatparish, which in the time of his predecessor had been one of the mostorderly in Mr. Hamilton's domains--abuses in the younger inhabitants, atwhich old men looked grave, and cited the neglect of their curate as thecause, though to what abuses young Myrvin had given countenance allwould have found it difficult to tell. That he did not rebuke them itwas true; he did not perhaps observe them, but it was said, and justly, he must have been strangely blind not to do so. 

The villagers understood not that preoccupation of mind which doesindeed render us blind to all things, save to the one intense subject ofthought. 

Complaints were made to and heard by the rector, who, faithful to histrust, visited the parish, made inquiries, heard tales concerning hiscurate that startled his charity, and finally spoke severely to Arthuron his careless and neglectful conduct. It would have been better forArthur had pride remained banished during that interview; but, unfortunately, fired with indignation at anything resembling censureeven from a superior, it returned with full force, and by his haughtysilence with regard to some of the charges brought against him, hisill-disguised contempt of others, confirmed every evil report concerninghim which Mr. Howard had heard. Mildly he requested that the futuremight atone for the past, and that Myrvin would remember the sacred posthe held. The unhappy young man heard him without reply; but when therector had departed, he strove to think soberly on the charges broughtagainst him, and look within himself to know if he deserved them. Neglect and carelessness--yes, he had given cause for both. Otheraccusations of much graver import he dismissed at once, satisfied thatthe very thought of such vices had never even for one moment stained hismind, and as secure in his own integrity and right feeling, as he wasaware of the prejudice against him, he determined--as, alas! how many insuch cases do--not to alter his general conduct, lest it should be saidhe tacitly admitted the truth of every report against him. Had he onlybeen accused of neglect in parochial duties, he might perhaps, if histroubled spirit had permitted him, have endeavoured to attend moreclosely to them; but his pride prevented him from striving to obtain thegood-will of those who seemed only alive to every circumstance tendingto his disadvantage. Would he endeavour to conciliate those whom he wellknew disliked him? no; the very act of so doing would be brought againsthim, and sternly he resolved that haughtiness and pride should stillcharacterise his deportment. What mattered it what people thought orsaid, if it was untrue? he cared not; the world was a wilderness to hisexcited and irritated fancy, in which there bloomed but one sweetflower, too pure, too beautiful for him to touch. It was his doom hethought to grovel on the earth, hers to shine like a star in the sphereabove him. 

Not long after Mr. Howard's interview with his curate, Mr. Hamilton'sfamily and his guests arrived at Oakwood, and Herbert eagerly sought hisfriend. He was shocked at the change he perceived in his appearance, which, though marked, was yet quite indescribable; that Arthur wasunhappy, that his profession was more than ever distasteful to him, hesoon discovered; but the real cause of these feelings he tried in vainto probe. He saw, with the deepest regret, that all his formerexhortations on the subject, his earnest entreaties that Arthur wouldpersevere till he brought a willing heart as an offering to his Maker, all had been without effect; but yet his kind heart could not cast awayhis friend, opposite as were their feelings on a subject which toHerbert was of vital importance. It was strange that a character suchas Herbert Hamilton should have selected Arthur Myrvin for his chosenfriend, yet so it was. It might have been pity, sympathy, which hadfirst excited this friendship. The indignation he felt at theunjustifiable treatment Arthur had received while a servitor at collegehad excited an interest, which had at first completely blinded him tohis many faults; and when they were discovered, the ardent desire andhope that he might be of service in removing them from the otherwisenoble character of his friend still preserved and, indeed, heightenedhis regard. Though frequently disappointed during his absence, at thebrevity and sometimes even confused style of Arthur's letters, he hadbuoyed himself up with the hope that his representations had had theireffect, and he should find him, on his return, reconciled and happy inthe exercise of his duties. Again he urged, with a kindness of mannerthat caused Arthur to wring his hand, and then pace the room inill-concealed agony, the necessity, now that he had indeed taken orders, of endeavouring to do his Master's work on earth, of forcing hisrebellious spirit to submission. Arthur listened to him attentively, sadly; but vainly Herbert strove to instil in him a portion of thatheavenly love which was to him the main-spring of his life. Arthur lovedwith an intensity, which utterly prevented his looking up to heaven asthe goal, to reach which all earthly toil was welcome; and still noteven to Herbert did he breathe one syllable of the fire that wasinwardly consuming him. Had he been any one but Herbert Hamilton, theunhappy young man would have sought and found relief in his confidence;but not to the brother of the being he loved, oh, not to him--he couldnot, dared not. 

"Herbert, " he would say, in a voice hoarse with contending feelings, "did I dare betray the secret of this tortured heart, the true cause ofmy misery, you would pity, even if you condemned me; but ask it not--askit not, it shall never pass my lips; one thing only I beseech you, and Ido so from the regard you have ever seemed to feel for me. However youmay hear my character traduced, my very conduct may confirm every evilreport, yet believe them not; I may be miserable, imprudent, mad, butnever, never believe the name of Arthur Myrvin is stained with vice orguilt. Herbert, promise me this, and come what may, one friend, atleast, is mine. "

Herbert gazed on him with doubt, astonishment, and sorrow, yet anirresistible impulse urged him to promise all he asked, and Myrvinlooked relieved; but painfully he felt, though he noticed it not to hisfriend, that the manner of Mr. Hamilton towards him was changed;cordiality and kindness had given place to coldness and reserve. 

The whirl of a gay and happy London season had produced no change in theoutward appearance and demeanour of Emmeline Hamilton. It had not beento her the ordeal it had been to her sister. She came forth from the gayworld the same pure, innocent being as she had entered it. Admired shewas by all with whom she was associated, but her smile was not soughtfor, her conversation not courted, as had been Caroline's, therefore hertemptations had not been so great, but she was universally beloved. 

Her mother sometimes wondered that Emmeline, keenly susceptible as shewas to every other emotion, should still remain so insensible toanything resembling love. "She is indeed still the same innocent anddarling child, " she thought, and rested in pleased and satisfiedsecurity. She little knew, penetrating even as she was, that those youngaffections were already unconsciously engaged, that one manly figure, one melancholy yet expressive face utterly prevented the reception ofany other. Emmeline knew not herself the extent of influence that secretimage had obtained; she guessed not the whole truth until that nightwhen her marriage had been jestingly alluded to, and then it burst uponher, stunning her young mind with a sense of scarcely-defined yet mostpainful consciousness. Arthur Myrvin had looked to Emmeline's return toOakwood with many mingled feelings; she might be perhaps, even as hersister, a betrothed bride; he might have to witness, perhaps toofficiate at her nuptials; he might see her courted, receivingattentions from and bestowing smiles on others, not casting one look orone thought on him, who for her would have gladly died. The idea wasagony, and it was the sufferings occasioned by the anticipation of idealmisery that had produced the change in face and form which Herbert hadbeheld and regretted. 

They met, and as if fortune favoured their secret but mutual affection, alone, the first time since Emmeline had returned from London. Unaccustomed to control, and at that time quite unconscious she hadanything to conceal, though wondering why every pulse should throb, andher cheek so flush and pale, her agitation of manner, her expressed andevidently felt sorrow for the traces of suffering she beheld, sunk asbalm on the sorrowing heart of the young man, and his first three orfour interviews with her were productive of a happiness so exquisite, that it almost succeeded in banishing his gloom; but short indeed wasthat period of relief. Speedily he saw her, as he had expected, surrounded by gay young men of wealth and station. He felt they lookeddown on him; they thought not of him, as a rival he was unworthy, asincapable of loving a being so exalted; but in the midst of thesewretched thoughts there arose one, that for a brief space was so bright, so glad, so beautiful, that while it lasted every object partook itsrays. He marked her, he looked, with eyes rendered clear from jealousy, for some sign, it mattered not how small, to say she preferred thesociety of others to his own; ready as he was to look on the darkestside of things, he felt the hesitating glance, the timid tone with whichshe had latterly addressed him, contrary as it was to the mischievousplayfulness which had formerly marked her intercourse with him, wasdearer, oh, how much dearer than the gaiety in which she had indulgedwith others. This change in her manner was unremarked by her family. 

The eye of love, however, looked on those slight signs in a verydifferent light. Did she, could she love one so unworthy? The very ideaseemed to make him feel as a new and better man. He covered his eyeswith his hands, lest any outward sign should break that blessedillusion, and then he started, and returning recollection brought withit momentary despair. Did she even love him--were even her parents toconsent, --his own, --for his vivid and excited fancy for one minuteimagined what in more sober moments he knew was impossible--yet evenwere such difficulties removed, would he, could he take that fair andfragile creature from a home of luxury and every comfort to poverty?What had he to support a wife? How could they live, and what hope hadhe of increasing in any way his fortune? Was he not exciting heraffections to reduce them, like his own, to despair? And could she, beautiful and delicate as she was, could she bear the deprivation of hislot? She would never marry without the consent of her parents, and theirapproval would never be his, and even if it were, he had nothing, notthe slightest hope of gaining anything wherewith to support her; andshe, if indeed she loved him, he should see her droop and sink beforehis eyes, and that he could not bear; his own misery might be endured, but not hers. No! He paced the small apartment with reckless anddisordered steps. His own doom was fixed, nothing could now preventit--but hers, it might not be too late. He would withdraw from hersight, he would leave her presence, and for ever; break the spell thatbound him near her. Ere that hasty walk in his narrow room wascompleted, his resolution was fixed; he would resign his curacy, anddepart from the dangerous fascinations hovering round him. 

Yet still he lingered. If he had been too presumptuous in thinking thusof Emmeline--if he were indeed nothing to her, why should he inflictthis anguish on himself? Why need he tear himself from her? The night ofEdward's return, while in one sense it caused him misery, by the randomremark of Lord Louis, yet, by the agitation of Emmeline, the pang wassoftened, though he was strengthened in his resolve. Four daysafterwards, the very evening of that day when Mr. Howard had alluded tohis neglect of duties, before Herbert and his cousins, he tendered hisresignation, coldly and proudly refusing any explanation, or assigningany reason for so doing, except that he wished to obtain a situation astutor in any nobleman or gentleman's family about to travel. So greatlyhad the mind of Mr. Howard been prejudiced against the unhappy youngman, by the false representations of his parishioners, that he ratherrejoiced at Myrvin's determination, having more than once feared, if hisconduct did not alter, he should be himself compelled to dismiss himfrom his curacy. But while pleased at being spared a task so adverse tohis benevolent nature, he yet could not refrain from regarding thisstrange and apparently sudden resolution as a tacit avowal of many ofthose errors with which he was charged. 

Feeling thus, it will be no subject of surprise that Mr. Howard acceptedhis curate's resignation; but while he did so, he could not refrain fromgiving the young man some kind and good advice as to his future life, which Arthur, aware the rector regarded him through the medium ofprejudice, received not in the same kind spirit as it was offered. Helistened silently indeed, but with an air of pride which checked all Mr. Howard's really kind intentions in his favour. 

The rector, aware that Mr. Hamilton would be annoyed and displeased atthis circumstance, did not inform him of Myrvin's intentions till somefew weeks after Caroline's marriage, not indeed till he felt compelledby the wish to obtain his approval of a young clergyman who had been hispupil, and was eager to secure any situation near Mr. Howard, and towhom therefore the curacy Arthur had resigned would be indeed a mostwelcome gift. Mr. Hamilton was even more disturbed, when all was toldhim, than Mr. Howard had expected. It seemed as if Arthur had forgottenevery tie of gratitude which Mr. Hamilton's services to his father, evenforgetting those to himself, certainly demanded. His determinedresolution to assign no reason for his proceeding but the one abovementioned, told against him, and Mr. Hamilton, aware of the many evilreports flying about concerning the young man, immediately imagined thathe resigned the curacy fearing discovery of misdemeanours which mightend even more seriously. 

Herbert, too, was deeply pained that his friend had left him to learnsuch important intelligence from the lips of another instead ofimparting it himself. It explained all the apparent contradictions ofArthur's conduct the last month, but it surprised and grieved him, yetthe mystery caused him both anxiety and sadness, for Myrvin wasevidently determined in no way to solve it. That he was unhappy in noordinary degree, was to the eye of friendship very evident, not only inthe frequent wildness of his manner, but in the haggard cheek andbloodshot eye; and sympathy thus ever kept alive in one so keenlysusceptible of the woes of others as was Herbert Hamilton, sympathycontinually excited, prevented all decrease of interest and regard. Percy was irritated and annoyed; Myrvin had disappointed him. Hisconduct, in return for Mr. Hamilton's kindness, appeared as ungratefulas unaccountable, and this caused the more fiery temper of the youngheir of Oakwood to ignite and burst forth in a flame in the presence ofArthur, whose meek forbearance and, he now began to fancy, silentsuffering tamed him after a brief period, and caused him, with his usualfrankness and quick transition of mood, to make him an apology for hisviolence. He was touched by the young man's manner, but they continuednot on the same terms of friendly intimacy as formerly. 

Mrs. Hamilton's charitable nature, heightened also by Herbert'sunchanging regard, would not permit her to credit the tales that wereabroad concerning him. She regretted his determination, for it appearedlike wilfully casting away the friendship and interest of those who werelikely to do him service. She guessed not the real motive of hisresolve, if she had, she would have honoured even as she now regardedhim with pity; but almost for the first time the penetration of Mrs. Hamilton was at fault. Emmeline's feelings, even as those of Arthur, were successfully concealed; from her brother Herbert she had firstheard of Myrvin's intentions. She listened in silence, but her lipquivered and her cheek grew pale; and when she sought the solitude ofher own room, tears relieved her, and enabled her to act up to herdetermination, cost what it might, to be the same playful, merry girlbefore her parents as was her wont, not that she meant in any way todeceive them, but she had learned that she loved Arthur Myrvin, and knewalso that to become his wife, situated as they were, was a thingimpossible. 

Had Emmeline really been the romantic girl so generally believed, shewould now have done all in her power to overcome every difficulty, byregarding poverty as the only criterion of true love; she would have fedher imagination with visions of herself and Arthur; combating manfullyagainst evil, so they shared it together; she would have robed povertywith an imaginary halo, and welcomed it, rejoicing to become his wife, but such were not her feelings. The careful hand of maternal love haddone its work, and though enthusiasm and romance were generally thecharacteristics most clearly visible, yet there was a fund of good andsober sense within, that few suspected, and of which even her parentsknew not the extent, and that plain sense effectually prevented her everbecoming the victim of imagination. 

Emmeline loved Arthur Myrvin, loved him with an intensity, a fervour, which only those who possess a similar enthusiastic temperament canunderstand. She felt convinced she was not indifferent to him; but agonyas it was to her young heart to part from him, in all probability forever, yet she honoured his resolution; she knew, she felt its origin, and she rejoiced that he went of his own accord, ere their secretfeelings were discovered. 

Notwithstanding all her endeavours, her spirits flagged, and at theconclusion of the Oakwood festivities she appeared so pale and thin, that Mrs. Hamilton consulted Mr. Maitland. Emmeline had resisted, asmuch as she could without failure of duty, all appeal to medical advice, and it was with trembling she awaited his opinion; when, however, it wasgiven, she rejoiced that he had been consulted, for had her parentsentertained any suspicions of the real cause, it would have completelybanished them. He said she was merely suffering from the effects of alengthened period of excitement, that quiet and regularity of pursuitswould in all probability restore both health and spirits. A smile, faintand apparently without meaning, played round her lips as her motherrepeated what he had said, and playfully declared she should moststrictly adhere to his advice. 

Arthur had shrunk from the task of acquainting his father with hisintentions, for he well knew they would give him pain, and cause himextreme solicitude, and he postponed doing so till his plans for thefuture were determined. He had even requested Ellen and Edward, who werestill his friends, to say but little concerning him during their stay atLlangwillan; but if they revealed his intentions, he implored them touse all their influence with his father to reconcile him to this bitterdisappointment of his cherished hopes. He had determined not to returnto Llangwillan, he felt he could not bear to see his parent with theconsciousness that he had acted contrary to his wishes; he would nottherefore do so till he had succeeded in obtaining the situation he soearnestly desired. But as the period when he should resign his curacynow rapidly approached, he no longer refrained from writing to hisfather, and Ellen proved her regard for both father and son, byaffectionately endeavouring to soothe Mr. Myrvin's disappointment andsolicitude, which were, as his son expected, extreme. She succeeded, atlength, in persuading him, that could he obtain the situation he so muchdesired, Arthur would be more likely to advance than in retaining hispresent occupation. 

The period of Arthur's departure came a few days before Christmas. Hewent to bid Mr. Hamilton farewell the very morning on which thatgentleman intended riding over to Exeter to meet Ellen and her brother, on their return from Llangwillan. To Arthur this interview was indeed apainful one. From the moment his resolution to depart had been fixed, that moment the blessed truth had strangely and suddenly burst upon himthat he was beloved; a new spirit appeared to dawn within, and midstthe deep agony it was to feel he was parting for ever from a being he sodearly loved, there was a glow of approving conscience that nerved himto its endurance. It was this which had enabled him to conquer hisirritation at Percy's violence, and the grief it was to feel thatHerbert too must doubt him. He esteemed, he loved, was deeply gratefulto Mr. Hamilton, and his evident displeasure was hard to bear; yet eventhat he had borne, strengthened by secret yet honourable incentives. Butthat morning, his heart throbbing with ill-concealed anguish, for thefollowing day he would he miles from Oakwood, never, never to beholdEmmeline again, his frame weakened, his blood fevered from thelong-continued mental struggle, the stern address of Mr. Hamilton stunghim to the quick. 

Mr. Hamilton was not one of those who could disguise his sentiments. Ifinterested at all in the fortunes of another, he felt he must speak, however severe in some cases his words might seem. As the chosen friendof his son--the victim for a time of oppression and injury--young Myrvinhad excited his interest too powerfully for him entirely to abandon iteven now, and therefore he spoke plainly to him even as he thought. 

"You are casting from you, " he said, "a friend who was both able andwilling to assist you, apparently without the slightest regret, evenwith indifference. As the chosen and dear companion of my valued son, your interests were mine, and gladly would I have done all in my powerto forward your views, had your conduct been such as I expected andrequired, but such it appears has been far from the case. Yourunaccountable resignation of a situation, which, though not one ofgreat emolument, was yet of value, unhappily confirms every evil reportI have heard. The same unsteady and wavering spirit which urges you totravel, instead of permitting you to remain contented in the quietdischarge of sacred duties, may lead you yet more into error, and I warnyou as a friend, govern it in time. You may deem me intrusive in myremarks, I speak but for your own good, young man; and though yourforgetfulness of the sacred nature of your profession could not fail tolessen my esteem and regard, yet for your father's sake I would imploreyou to remember that your calling involves duties of the most solemnnature, and renders you a much more responsible being both in the sightof God and man. "

Arthur answered him not. His cheek burned and his heart throbbed, but itwas the father of Emmeline, the benefactor of his father, who spoke, andhe might have spoken more and more severely, but he would have beenunanswered; even to defend his own stainless integrity and innocence hecould not have spoken, the power of speech appeared to have entirelydeserted him. Never could he have been said to hope, but the words hehad heard proved to him that he had lost the esteem and regard of Mr. Hamilton, and darkened his despair. He fixed his large, dark grey eyesearnestly on Mr. Hamilton's face, so earnestly, that for some timeafterwards that look was recalled with melancholy feelings; he bent hishead silently yet respectfully, and quitted the room without uttering asingle word. 

Struck by his haggard features, and the deeply mournful tone of hisvoice, as he bade her farewell and thanked her for all her kindness, Mrs. Hamilton, whose kindly nature had never permitted her to share herhusband's prejudice against him, invited him, if his time permitted, toaccompany her on her walk to Moorlands, where she had promised LadyHelen and Lilla to spend the day during her husband's absence. There wassuch extreme kindness in her manner, pervading also her words, thatArthur felt soothed and comforted, though he found it difficult toconverse with her on the indifferent subjects she started, nor could heanswer her concerning his plans for the future, for with a burning cheekand faltering voice he owned they were not yet determined. He gazed onher expressive features, which responded to the interest she expressed, and he longed to confess the whole truth, and implore her pity, herforgiveness for having dared to love her child; but with a strong efforthe restrained himself, and they parted, in kindness, indeed, but nothingmore. 

"Emmeline is gone down to the school, " said Mrs. Hamilton, unasked, andthus betraying how entirely she was free from all suspicions of thetruth, "and she goes from thence to see a poor woman in the outskirts ofthe village. You must not leave us without wishing her farewell, or shewill think you have not forgiven all the mischievous jokes she hasplayed off upon you so continually. "

Arthur started, as he looked on her face. Again the wish arose to tellher all, but it was instantly checked, and bowing with the deepestreverence, as he pressed in his her offered hand, hastily withdrew. 

Should he indeed see Emmeline, and alone? Her mother's voice had bid himseek her, but the same motives that bade him resign his curacy, causedhim now to feel the better course would be to fly at once from thefascination of her presence, lest in a moment of excitement he should betempted to betray the secret of his love; but while passion struggledwith duty, the flutter of her dress, as Emmeline suddenly emerged from agreen lane, and walked slowly and, he thought, sadly along, caught hiseye, and decided the contest. 

"I will be guarded; not a word of love shall pass my lips. I will onlygaze on her sweet face, and listen to the kind tones of her dear voiceagain, before we part for ever, " he thought, and darting forwards, wasspeedily walking by her side. He believed himself firm in his purpose, strong, unwavering in his resolution; but his heart had been wrung toits inmost core, his spirit bent beneath its deep, wild agony, and atthat moment temptation was too powerful; he could not, oh, he could notpart from her, leave her to believe as others did. Could he bear thatshe, for whose smile he would have toiled day and night, to be regardedwith esteem, to obtain but one glance of approbation, could he bear thatshe should think of him as the unworthy being he was represented? No! hefelt he could not, and in one moment of unrestrained and passionatefeeling, his love was told, the treasured secret of his breaking heartrevealed. 

Emmeline heard, and every limb of her slight frame trembled, almostconvulsively, with her powerful struggle for composure, with the wishstill to conceal from him the truth that he was to her even as she tohim, dear even as life itself; but the struggle was vain. The anguishwhich the sight of his deep wretchedness inflicted on that young andgentle bosom, which from childhood had ever bled for others' woes, wastoo powerful, and led on by an irresistible impulse, she acknowledgedhis affections were returned; for she felt did she not speak it, theextreme agitation she could not hide would at once betray the truth, butat the same instant she avowed her unhappy love, she told him they mustpart and for ever. She conjured him for her sake to adhere to hisresolution, and leave the neighbourhood of Oakwood; she thanked him withall the deep enthusiasm of her nature, for that regard for her peacewhich she felt confident had from the first dictated his resigning hiscuracy, and braving the cruel prejudices of all around him, even thoseof her own father, rather than betray his secret and her own; ratherthan linger near her, to play upon her feelings, and tempt her, in theintensity of her affection for him, to forget the duty, the gratitude, the love, she owed her parents. 

"Wherefore should I hide from you that the affection, the esteem youprofess and have proved for me are returned with equal force?" continuedthis noble-minded and right-feeling girl, as they neared Mrs. Langford'scottage, where she felt this interview must cease--she could sustain itno longer. "I would not, I could not thus wound the kind and generousheart of one, to whose care I feel I could intrust my earthly happiness;but as it is, situated as we both are, we must submit to the decrees ofHim, who, in infinite wisdom and mercy, would, by this bitter trial, evince our love for Him, and try us in the ordeal of adversity andsorrow. He alone can know the extent of that love we bear each other;and He, if we implore Him, can alone give us sufficient strength toobtain the conquest of ourselves. We part, Arthur--and if not for ever, at least till many years have passed. Forget me, Arthur; you have by thehonourable integrity of your conduct wrung from me a secret I had deemedwould have died with me; for I knew and felt, and so too must you, itsutter, utter hopelessness. "

Her voice for the first time, faltered; audibly, but with a strongeffort, she rallied, "I do not ask from you an explanation of therumours to your discredit, which are flying about this neighbourhood, for not one of them do I believe; you have some secret enemy, whose evilmachinations will, I trust, one day be clearly proved; perhaps you havebeen neglectful, heedless, and I may have been the cause. But let notthis be, dear Arthur, let me not have the misery of feeling that anill-fated love for one thus separated from you has rendered recklessthat character which is naturally so good, so bright, and noble. Oh, formy sake, yield not to despair; shake off this lethargy, and prove to thewhole world that they have wronged you, that the fame of Arthur Myrvinis as stainless as his name. "

Arthur moved not his eyes from her as she thus spoke, every word sheuttered increased the strong devotion he felt towards her; but as thepurity, the nobleness of her character was displayed even clearer thanever before him, he felt himself unworthy to possess her, and yet thatsuch a being loved him, avowed her love, acknowledged that to him shecould intrust her earthly happiness without a single doubt, thatknowledge exalted him above himself, soothed that morbid sensitivenesswhich had oppressed him, and, ere her sweet voice had ceased to urge himon to exertion, to trust in Him who had ordained their mutual trial, hehad inwardly resolved to nerve himself to the task, and prove that shewas not deceived in him, that he would deserve her favourable opinion. He gazed on her as if that look should imprint those fair and childlikefeatures on the tablet of his memory. 

"I will obey you, " he said at length, in a voice hoarse with contendingemotions. "We part, and when I return years hence, it may be to see youthe happy wife of one in all respects more suited to you; but then, eventhen, although love for me may have passed away, remember it is you, whose gentle voice has saved a fellow-creature from the sinfulrecklessness of despair; you who have pointed out the path which, I callheaven and earth to witness, I will leave no means untried till it istrodden. Had you refused to hear me, had you scorned my affections, leftme in displeasure for my presumption, oh, Emmeline, I might indeed havebecome that which I am believed; but now you have inspired me with a newspirit. The recollection that you have not deemed me so utterlyunworthy, will never, never leave me; it shall cling to me, and if evilassail me, that fond thought shall overcome temptation. The vainlongings for a more stirring profession shall no more torment me, it isenough _you_ have not despised me; and however irksome may be my futureduties, they shall be performed with a steadiness and zeal which shallprocure me esteem, if it do no more, and reconcile my conscience to myjustly offended Maker. If, in future years, you chance to hear the nameof Arthur Myrvin spoken in terms of respect and love, you will traceyour own work; and oh, Emmeline, may that thought, that good deed, provethe blessing I would now call down upon your head. "

He paused in strong and overpowering emotion, and Emmeline sought invain for words to reply; they had reached the entrance to Mrs. Langford's little garden, and now the hour had come when they must part. "Farewell, dearest Arthur, may God bless you and give you peace! Leaveme now, " she added, after a moment's pause. But Arthur could only fixhis eyes mournfully on her face, as though her last look should neverleave him; then, suddenly, he raised her hand to his quivering lip. Onemoment, through blinding tears, he gazed on that dear being he loved sowell; yet another moment, and he was gone. 

Emmeline leaned heavily against the little gate, a sickness as of deathfor a moment crept over her and paralysed every limb; with a strongeffort she roused herself and entered the cottage, feeling greatlyrelieved to find Mrs. Langford was absent. She sunk on a low seat, andburying her face in her hands, gave way for the first time to a violentburst of tears; yet she had done her duty, she had acted rightly, andthat thought enabled her to conquer the natural weakness which, for ashort time, completely overpowered her, and when Mrs. Langford returned, no signs of agitation were evident, except a more than ordinarypaleness, which in her present delicate state of health, was easilyattributable to fatigue. 

Now it so happened that Widow Langford possessed a shrewdness andpenetration of character, which we sometimes find in persons of herclass, but which was in her case so combined, from long residence in Mr. Hamilton's family, with a delicacy and refinement, that she generallykept her remarks very much more secret than persons in her sphere oflife usually do. It was fortunate for our poor Emmeline that it was so, for the widow had chanced to be an unseen witness of Arthur'simpassioned farewell. She heard the concluding words of both, marked thedespairing glance of Arthur, the deadly paleness of her dear MissEmmeline, and connecting these facts with previous observations, sheimmediately imagined the truth; and with that kindness to which we havealluded, she retreated and lingered at a neighbour's till she thoughther young lady had had sufficient time to recover her composure, insteadof acting as most people would have done, hastened up to her, under theidea she was about to faint, and by intrusive solicitations, and yetmore intrusive sympathy in such a matter, betrayed that her secret hadbeen discovered. 

Mrs. Langford shrunk from acting thus, although this was not the firsttime she had suspected the truth. She knew Emmeline's character well, and doted on her with all the affection a very warm heart could bestow. Having been head nurse in Mrs. Hamilton's family from Herbert's birth, she loved them all as her nurslings, but Emmeline's very delicate healthwhen a baby, appeared to have rendered her the good woman's especialfavourite. 

At the time of Caroline's marriage, Miss Emmeline's future prospectswere, of course, the theme of the servants' hall; some of whom thoughtit not at all improbable, that as Miss Hamilton had become a countess, Miss Emmeline might one day be a marchioness, perhaps even a duchess. Now Widow Langford thought differently, though she kept her own counseland remained silent. Miss Emmeline, she fancied, would be very muchhappier in a more humble sphere, and settled down quietly near Oakwood, than were she to marry some great lord, who would compel her to liveamidst the wear and tear of a gay and fashionable life. Arthur Myrvinchanced to be a very great favourite of the widow's, and if he could butget a richer living, and become rather more steady in his character, andif Miss Emmeline really loved him, as somehow she fancied she did, whyit would not only be a very pretty, but a very happy match, she wasquite sure. 

The good widow was, however, very careful not in the least to betray toher young lady that she had been a witness of their parting; for, afteran expression of pleasure at seeing her there, an exclamation ofsurprise and regret at her pale cheeks, she at once branched off into avariety of indifferent subjects concerning the village, topics in whichshe knew Emmeline was interested, and concluded with--

"And so our young curate is, indeed, going to start for Exeter to-night, in the Totness mail. I am so very sorry, though I do not dare say so toany of my uncharitable neighbours. I did not think he would go so soon, poor dear Mr. Myrvin. "

"It is not too soon, nurse, when every tongue has learned to speakagainst him, " replied Emmeline, calmly, though a sudden flush rose toher cheek. "He must be glad to feel Mr. Howard no longer requires hisservices. "

"But dear Miss Emmeline, you surely do not believe one word of all thescandalous reports about him?" said the widow, earnestly. 

"I do not wish to do so, nor will I, without more convincing proofs, "replied Emmeline, steadily. "My father, I fear, is deeply prejudiced, and that, in one of his charitable and kindly feelings, would tellagainst him. "

"My master has been imposed on by false tales, my dear young lady; donot let them do so on you, " said the good woman, with an eagerness whichalmost surprised her young companion. "I am quite convinced he has somesecret enemy in the parish, I am pretty certain who it is; and I do notdespair one day of exposing all his schemes, and proving Mr. Myrvin isas well disposed and excellent a young man as any in the parish. I knowwho the villain is in this case, and my master shall know it too, oneday. " Emmeline struggled to subdue the entreaty that was bursting fromher lips, but entirely she could not, and seizing the widow's hand, sheexclaimed, in a low agitated voice--

"Do so; oh, proclaim the falsehood, the cruelty of these reports, andI--I mean Arthur--Mr. Myrvin will bless you. It is so cruel, in suchearly youth, to have one's character defamed, and he has only that onwhich to rest; tell me, promise me you will not forget thisdetermination. "

"To the very best of my ability, Miss Emmeline, I promise you, " repliedMrs. Langford, more and more confirmed in her suspicions. "But do notexcite yourself so much, dear heart. Mr. Maitland said you were to bekept quite quiet, you know, and you have fatigued yourself so much, youare trembling like an aspen. "

"My weakness must plead my excuse for my folly, dear nurse, " answeredEmmeline, striving by a smile to control two or three tears, which, spite of all resistance, would chase one another down her pale cheek. "Do not mind me, I shall get well very soon. And how long do you thinkit will be before you succeed in your wish?"

"Not for some time, my dear young lady, at present. I have only mysuspicions; I must watch cautiously, ere they can be confirmed. I assureyou, I am as anxious that poor young man's character should be clearedas you can be. "

A faint smile for a moment played round Emmeline's lips, as she pressedthe good woman's hand, and said she was satisfied. A little while longershe lingered, then rousing herself with a strong effort, she visited, asshe had intended, two or three poor cottages, and forced herself tolisten to and enter with apparent interest on those subjects mostinteresting to their inmates. In her solitary walk thence to Moorlandsshe strenuously combated with herself, lest her thoughts should adhereto their loved object, and lifting up her young enthusiastic soul infervent faith and love to its Creator, she succeeded at length inobtaining the composure she desired, and in meeting her mother, atMoorlands, with a smile and assumed playfulness, which did not fail, even at Mrs. Hamilton's gentle reproof for her lengthened absence andover fatigue, to which she attributed the paleness resting on her cheek, and which even the return of Edward and Ellen to Oakwood, and the manylittle pleasures incidental to a reunion, could not chase away. 

Three weeks passed quietly on; Oakwood was once more the seat ofdomestic enjoyment. The Earl and Countess St. Eval spent the week ofChristmas with them, which greatly heightened every pleasure, and Mr. And Mrs. Hamilton, instead of seeking in vain for one dear face in thehappy group around them on the eve of Christmas and the New Year, beheldbeside their peaceful hearth another son, beneath whose fond and gentleinfluence the character of Caroline, already chastened, was merging intobeautiful maturity, and often as Mrs. Hamilton gazed on that child ofcare and sorrow, yet of deep unfailing love, she felt, indeed, in her amother's recompense was already given. 

Edward's leave of absence was extended to a longer period than usual. His ship had been dismantled, and now lay untenanted with the otherfloating castles of the deep. Her officers and men had been dispersed, and other stations had not yet been assigned to them. Nor did youngFortescue intend joining a ship again as midshipman; his buoyanthopes--the expectations of a busy fancy--told him that perhaps theepaulette of a lieutenant would glitter on his shoulder. On his firstreturn home he had talked continually of his examination and hispromotion, but as the time neared for him to accompany his uncle toLondon for the purpose, his volubility was checked. 

Caroline and her husband returned to Castle Terryn, and scarcely fourweeks after Myrvin's departure, Emmeline received from the hands of Mrs. Langford an unexpected and most agitating letter. It was from Arthur;intense mental suffering, in the eyes of her it addressed, breathedthrough every line; but that subject, that dear yet forbidden subject, their avowed and mutual love, was painfully avoided; it had evidentlybeen a struggle to write thus calmly, impassionately, and Emmelineblessed him for his care: it merely implored her to use her influencewith St. Eval to obtain his interference with his father on his(Arthur's) behalf. Lord Malvern he had heard was seeking for a gentlemanto accompany his son Louis as tutor and companion to Germany; there, forthe two following years, to improve his education, and enable him toobtain a thorough knowledge of the language and literature of thecountry. Arthur had applied for the situation, and recognised by theMarquis as the young clergyman he had so often seen at Oakwood, hereceived him with the utmost cordiality and kindness. On beingquestioned as to his reasons for resigning his curacy, he frankly ownedthat so quiet a life was irksome to him, and a desire to travel hadoccasioned the wish to become tutor to any nobleman or gentleman's sonabout to do so. He alluded himself to the reports to his prejudice, avowed with sorrow that neglect of parochial duties was indeed a justaccusation, but from every other, he solemnly assured the Marquis, hisconscience was free. Not one proof of vice or even irregularity ofconduct had been or could be brought against him. He farther informedEmmeline, that not only the Marquis but the Marchioness and the wholefamily appeared much disposed in his favour, particularly Lord Louis, who declared that if he might not have him for a tutor, he would have noone else, and not go to Germany or to any school at all. The Marquis hadpromised to give him a decided answer as soon as he had consulted LordSt. Eval on the subject. He knew, Myrvin concluded, that her influencewas great with the Earl, and it was for that reason and that alone hehad ventured to address her. 

Emmeline reflected long and deeply on this letter. Had she listened tothe powerful pleadings of her deep affection, she would have shrunk fromthus using her influence, however small, to send him from England, --yetcould she hesitate? had she indeed forgotten herself to follow that onlypath of duty she had pointed out to him? Brief indeed were her momentsof indecision. She wrote instantly to St. Eval in Arthur's favour, butso guardedly and calmly worded her letter, that no suspicion of anykinder or more interested feeling than that of her peculiarly generousand warm-hearted nature could have been suspected, either by St. Eval orher sister. She excused her boldness in writing thus unadvisedly andsecretly, by admitting that she could not bear that an unjust andunfounded prejudice should so cruelly mar the prospects of so young and, she believed, injured a fellow-creature. She was well aware that herfather shared this prejudice, and therefore she entreated St. Eval notto mention her share in the transaction. 

Lord St. Eval willingly complied with her wishes. She had been, as weknow, ever his favourite. He loved her perfect artlessness andplayfulness, her very enthusiasm rendered her an object of his regard;besides which, on this point, his opinion coincided with hers. He feltassured young Myrvin was unhappy--on what account he knew not--but hewas convinced he did not deserve the aspersions cast upon him; and, directly after the receipt of Emmeline's earnest letter, he cameunexpectedly to the parish, made inquiries, with the assistance of Mrs. Langford, and returned to Castle Terryn, perfectly satisfied that itwould certainly be no disadvantage to his brother to be placed under thecare and companionship of Arthur Myrvin. He lost no time in impartingthis opinion to his father; and Emmeline very quickly learned that thewhole affair was arranged. Lord Louis was wild with joy that ArthurMyrvin, whom he had liked at Oakwood, was to be his tutor, instead ofsome prim formidable, dominie, and to this news was superadded theintelligence that, the second week in February, the Rev. Arthur Myrvinand his noble pupil quitted England for Hanover, where they intended tomake some stay. 

Emmeline heard, and the words "will he not write me one line in farewellere he leaves England?" were murmured internally, but were instantlysuppressed, for she knew the very wish was a departure from that line ofstern control she had laid down for herself and him; and that letter, that dear, that precious letter--precious, for it came from him, thoughnot one word of love was breathed, --ought not that to be destroyed? Hadshe any right now to cherish it, when the aid she sought had been given, its object gained? Did her parents know she possessed that letter, thatit was dear to her, what would be their verdict? And was she notdeceiving them in thus retaining, thus cherishing a remembrance of himshe had resolved to forget? Emmeline drew forth the precious letter; shegazed on it long, wistfully, as if in parting from it the pang ofseparation with the beloved writer was recalled. She pressed her lipsupon it, and then with stern resolution dropped it into the fire thatblazed upon the hearth; and, with cheek pallid and breath withheld, shemarked the utter annihilation of the first and last memento shepossessed of him she loved. 

Mrs. Hamilton's anxiety on Emmeline's account did not decrease. Shestill remained pale and thin, and her spirits more uneven, and thatenergy which had formerly been such a marked feature in her characterappeared at times entirely to desert her; and Mr. Maitland, discoveringthat the extreme quiet and regularity of life which he had formerlyrecommended was not quite so beneficial as he had hoped, changed in adegree his plan, and advised diversity of recreation, and amusements ofrather more exertion than he had at first permitted. Poor Emmelinestruggled to banish thought, that she might repay by cheerfulness thetenderness of her parents and cousins, but she was new to sorrow; herfirst was indeed a bitter trial, the more so because even from hermother it was as yet concealed. She succeeded for a time in her wishes, so far as to gratify her mother by an appearance of her usualenthusiastic pleasure in the anticipation of a grand ball, given byAdmiral Lord N----, at Plymouth, which it was expected the Duke andDuchess of Clarence would honour with their presence. Ellen anxiouslyhoped her brother would return to Oakwood in time to accompany them. Hehad passed his examination with the best success, but on the advice ofSir Edward Manly, they both lingered in town, in the hope that being onthe spot the young officer would not be forgotten in the list ofpromotions. He might, Edward gaily wrote, chance to return to Oakwood agrade higher than he left it. 

CHAPTER IV. 

"Ellen, I give you joy!" exclaimed Emmeline, entering the room where hermother and cousin were sitting one afternoon, and speaking with some ofher former cheerfulness. "There is a carriage coming down the avenue, and though I cannot quite distinguish it, I have second sight sufficientto fancy it is papa's. Edward declared he would not tell us when he wascoming home, and therefore there is nothing at all improbable in theidea, that he will fire a broadside on us, as he calls it, unexpectedly. "

"I would willingly stand fire, to see him safe anchored off thiscoast, " replied Ellen, smiling. "Lord N----'s ball will lose half itscharms if he be not there. "

"What! with all your enthusiastic admiration of her Royal Highness, whomyou will have the honour of seeing? For shame, Ellen. "

"My enthusiastic admiration; rather yours, my dear Emmeline. Mine is soquiet that it does not deserve the name of enthusiasm, " replied Ellen, laughing. "Nor could I have imagined you would have honoured me so faras to give me an attribute in your eyes so precious. "

"I am getting old and learning wisdom, " answered Emmeline, making aneffort to continue her playfulness, "and therefore admire quietness morethan formerly. "

"And therefore you are sometimes so silent and sad, to atone for thepast, my Emmeline, " remarked her mother, somewhat sorrowfully. 

"Sad, nay, dearest mother, do me not injustice; I cannot be sad, when somany, many blessings are around me, " replied the affectionate girl. "Silent I may be sometimes, but that is only because I do not feel quiteso strong perhaps as I once did, and it appears an exertion to rattle onas I used upon trifling subjects. "

"I shall not be contented, then, my own Emmeline, till that strengthreturns, and I hear you delighted, even as of old, with little thingsagain. "

"And yet you have sometimes smiled at my romance, and bade me think ofself-control, dearest mother. Must I be saucy enough to call youchangeable?" answered Emmeline, smiling, as she looked in her mother'sface. 

Mrs. Hamilton was prevented replying by Ellen's delighted exclamationthat it was her uncle's carriage, and Edward was waving a whitehandkerchief, as if impatient to reach them, an impatience which wasspeedily satisfied by his arrival, bounding into the room, but suddenlypausing at the door to permit his uncle and another gentleman'sentrance, to which latter he respectfully raised his cap, and thensprung forward to clasp the extended hands of his cousin and sister. 

"Allow me to congratulate you, madam, " said Sir Edward Manly, afterreturning with easy politeness the courteous greeting of Mrs. Hamilton, "on the promotion of one of the bravest officers and most noble-mindedyouths of the British navy, and introduce all here present to LieutenantFortescue, of his Majesty's frigate the Royal Neptune, whose unconqueredand acknowledged dominion over the seas I have not the very slightestdoubt he will be one of the most eager to preserve. "

"Nor can I doubt it, Sir Edward, " replied Mrs. Hamilton, smiling, as sheglanced on the flushing cheek of her gallant nephew, adding, as she heldout her hand to him, "God bless you, my dear boy! I do indeed rejoice inyour promotion, for I believe it well deserved. "

"You are right, madam, it is well deserved, " replied Sir Edward, with anaccent so marked on the last sentence that the attention of all wasarrested. "Hamilton, I have been silent to you on the subject, for Iwished to speak it first before all those who are so deeply interestedin this young man's fate. The lad, " he added, striking his hand franklyon Edward's shoulder, "the lad whose conscience shrunk from receivingpublic testimonials of his worth as a sailor, while his privatecharacter was stained, while there was that upon it which, if known, hebelieved would effectually prevent his promotion; who, at the risk ofdisappointment to his dearest wishes, of disgrace, want of honour, possessed sufficient courage to confess to his captain that hislog-book, the first years of his seamanship, told a false tale--the lad, I say, who can so nobly command himself, is well worthy to governothers. He who has known so well the evil of disobedience will be firmin the discipline of his men, while he who is so stern to his own faultswill, I doubt not, be charitable to those of others. The sword presentedto him for his brave preservation of the crew of the Syren will never bestained by dishonour, while he looks upon it and remembers the past, andeven as in those of my own son, shall I henceforward rejoice in using mybest endeavours to promote the fortunes of Edward Fortescue. "

The return of Edward, the honours he had received, the perfect happinessbeaming on his bright face, all caused Ellen to look forward to the ballwith greater pleasure than she had ever regarded gaiety of that sortbefore; and Mrs. Hamilton would sometimes playfully declare that she andEmmeline had for a time exchanged characters, although Edward'snever-failing liveliness, his odd tales and joyous laugh, had appearedpartly to rouse the latter's usual spirits, and dissipate slightly hermother's anxiety. 

The festive night arrived, and anticipation itself was not disappointedin the pleasure it bestowed. All the nobility of the country, for milesround, had assembled in respect to the royal guests who had honouredthe distinguished commander with their august presence; and Mrs. Hamilton's natural feelings of pride were indeed gratified that night, as she glanced on her Caroline, who now appeared in public for the firsttime since her marriage, attired in simple elegance, yet with a richnessappropriate to her rank, attracting every eye, even that of their RoyalHighnesses themselves, by the graceful dignity of her tall andcommanding figure, by the quiet repose and polished ease whichcharacterised her every movement. If Lord St. Eval looked proud of hisyoung wife, there were few there who would have blamed him. The LadyFlorence Lyle was with her brother, enjoying with unfeigned pleasure, asdid Ellen, and to all appearance Emmeline, the scene before them. 

The brilliant uniforms of the army, and the handsome but less strikingones of the navy, imparted additional gaiety and splendour to the rooms, forming picturesque groups, when contrasting with the chaste and elegantcostumes of the fairer sex. But on the fascinating scene we may notlinger, nor attempt to describe the happiness which the festivitiesoccasioned the entire party, nor on the gratification of LieutenantFortescue, when Sir Edward Manly begged the honour of an introductionfor his young friend to his Royal Highness the Duke of Clarence, who, with his amiable consort, the Princess Adelaide, had honoured LordN----with their august presence. Upon one incident alone we must bepermitted to dwell, as affording a great and unexpected pleasure to ourfriend Ellen. 

Edward and Ellen were for some time perfectly unconscious that they wereobjects of the most earnest, penetrating scrutiny of a lady, leaning onthe arm of a young and handsome man in regimentals, near them. 

"It must be them; that likeness cannot be that of a stranger, " were thewords, uttered in an earnest, persuading tone, addressed by the youngofficer to the lady, who might be his mother, which were the first toattract the attention of the little group, though the speaker appearedquite unconscious he was overheard. "Let me speak to him, and at leastask the question. "

"No, no, Walter, " the lady replied, in a low tone. "Changed as are oursituations now, I could not wish, even if it be them, to intrude upontheir remembrance. "

An exclamation of suppressed impatience escaped from the lips of theyoung man, but instantly checking it, he said, respectfully andtenderly--

"Dearest mother, do not say so, if" (the name was lost) "grew up as shewas a child, she would be glad to welcome the friend of her father, thecompanion of her childhood. "

"But it cannot be, Walter; that beautiful girl is not like my poorchild, though her brother may strangely resemble those we have known. "

"Have you not often told me, mother, we never change so much as fromchildhood into youth? Ellen was always ill, now she may be well, andthat makes all the difference in the world. I am much mistaken if thoselarge, mournful eyes can belong to any but"--

He paused abruptly; for convinced that they must be the subject ofconversation, and feeling they were listening to language not meant fortheir ears, Edward and Ellen turned towards the speakers, who to theformer appeared perfect strangers, not so to the latter. Feelings, thoughts of her earliest infancy and childhood, came thronging over heras a spell, as she gazed on the lady's countenance, which, by itsexpression, denoted that sorrow had been her portion; it was changed, much changed from that which it had been; but the rush of memory onEllen's young soul told her that face had been seen before. A night ofhorror and subsequent suffering flashed before her eyes, in which thatface had beamed in fondness and in soothing kindness over her; thatvoice had spoken accents of love in times when even a mother's wordswere harsh and cold. 

"Forgive me, sir, but is not your name Fortescue?" inquired the youngman, somewhat hesitatingly, yet frankly, as he met Edward's glance. 

"You have the advantage of me, sir, " he replied, with equal frankness;"such is my name, but yours I cannot guess. "

"I beg your pardon, but am I speaking to the son of Colonel Fortescue, who fell in India during a skirmish against the natives, nearly tenyears ago?"

"The same, sir. "

"Then it is--it is Mrs. Cameron; I am not, I knew I could not bemistaken, " exclaimed Ellen, in an accent of delight, and boundingforward, she clasped the lady's eagerly-extended hand in both hers, andgazing in her face with eyes glistening with starting tears. "And wouldyou, could you have passed me, without one word to say my friend, thewife of my father's dearest friend, was so near to me? you who in mychildhood so often soothed and tended my sufferings, dearest Mrs. Cameron?" and tears of memory and of feeling fell upon the hand sheheld, while young Cameron gazed on her with an admiration which utterlyprevented his replying coherently to the questions, the reminiscences offormer years, when they were playmates together in India, which Edward, discovering by his sister's exclamation who he was, was now pouring inhis ear. 

"I did not, could not think I should have been thus affectionately, thusfaithfully remembered, my dear Ellen, after a lapse of so many years, "replied Mrs. Cameron, visibly affected at her young companion's warmth. "I could not imagine the memory of a young child, such as you were whenwe parted, would have been so acute. "

"Then my niece must have been all these years mistaken, and you too didnot understand her, though she fancied you did, " said Mrs. Hamilton, with a smile, advancing to relieve Ellen's agitation, which theassociation of her long-lamented father with Mrs. Cameron renderedalmost painful. "I could have told you, from the moment she was placedunder my care, that she never would forget those who had once been kindto her. I have known you so long, from Ellen's report, that glad am Iindeed to make your acquaintance; you to whom my lamented sister was somuch indebted. "

Gratified and soothed by this address, for the sight of Ellen hadawakened many sad associations, she too being now a widow, Mrs. Cameronrallied her energies, and replied to Mrs. Hamilton, in her naturallyeasy and friendly manner. Ellen looked on the black dress she wore, andturned inquiringly to young Cameron, who answered hurriedly, for heguessed her thoughts. 

"Ask not of my father, he is beside Colonel Fortescue; he shared hislaurels and his grave. "

An expression of deep sympathy passed over Ellen's countenance, rendering her features, to the eager glance of the young man, yet moreattractive. 

"You have, I see, much to say and inquire, my dear Ellen, " said heraunt, kindly, as she marked her flushed cheek and eager eye. "PerhapsMrs. Cameron will indulge you by retiring with you into one of thosequiet, little refreshment-rooms, where you can talk as much as youplease without remark. "

"Can I ask my dear young friend to resign the pleasures of the dance, and agreeable companionship of the friends I see thronging round her, tolisten to an old woman's tale?" said Mrs. Cameron, smiling. 

"I think you are answered, " replied Mrs. Hamilton, playfully, as Ellenpassed her arm through that of Mrs. Cameron and looked caressingly andpersuadingly in her face. 

Mrs. Cameron's tale was soon told. She had returned to England, forIndia had become painful to her, from the many bereavements which hadthere unhappily darkened her lot. Captain Cameron had fallen in anengagement, two or three years after Mrs. Fortescue's departure; and outof seven apparently healthy children, which had been hers when Ellenknew her, only three now remained. It was after the death of her eldestdaughter, a promising girl of eighteen, her own health having sufferedso exceedingly from the shock, that her son Walter, fearing for herlife, effected an exchange, and being ordered to return with hisregiment to England--for he now held his father's rank of captain--hesucceeded in persuading his mother to accompany him with his sisters. Hewas quartered at Devonport, where it appeared they had been residingthe last eight months, visited, even courted, by most of the militaryand naval officers who had known and respected his father; amongst whomwas Lord N--, who had persuaded Mrs. Cameron to so far honour his ballas there to introduce her daughter Flora, using arguments she could notresist, and consequently delighting her affectionate children, by oncemore appearing in public. 

"And this is Walter, the kind Walter, who used ever to take my part, though he did scold me for always looking so sad, " exclaimed Ellen, after hearing her friend's tale, and answering all her questionsconcerning herself, looking up as she spoke on the young man, who hadagain joined them, and blushing with timidity at her boldness in thusspeaking to one who had grown into a stranger. 

The young man's heart throbbed as he heard himself addressed as Walterby the beautiful girl beside him; and he found it difficult to summonsufficient courage to ask her to dance with him; frankly, however, sheconsented. 

Ellen found pleasure, also, in renewing acquaintance with the timidFlora, whom she had left a playful child of seven, and who was nowmerging into bright and beautiful girlhood; eager to return her kindlywarmth in the delight of finding one of her own age among thatglittering crowd of strangers. 

But few more incidents of note occurred that night; dancing continuedwith unabated spirit, even after the departure of the royal guests, andpleasure was the prevailing feeling to the last. The notice of the Duke, and the benignant spirit of the Duchess, her gentle and kindly manners, had penetrated many a young and ardent soul, and fixed at once andunwaveringly the stamp of future loyalty within. 

Once introduced to Mrs. Cameron, and aware that she resided so nearthem, Mr. And Mrs. Hamilton cultivated her acquaintance; speedily theybecame intimate. In Mrs. Fortescue's broken and dying narrative, she hadmore than once mentioned them as the friends of her husband, and havingbeen most kind to herself. Edward had alluded to Captain Cameron's careof him, and parting advice, when about to embark for England; and Ellenhad frequently spoken of Mrs. Cameron's kindness to her when a child. All those who had shown kindness to her sister were objects ofattraction to Mrs. Hamilton, and the widow speedily became so attachedto her and her amiable family, that, on Walter being suddenly orderedout to Ireland (which commands, by the way, the young man obeyed withvery evident reluctance), she gladly consented to rent a smallpicturesque cottage between Moorlands and Oakwood, an arrangement whichadded much to the young people's enjoyment; while the quiet repose ofher present life, the society of Mrs. Hamilton and her worthy husband, as also that of Mr. Howard, restored the widow to happiness, which hadnot been her portion since her husband's death; and now, for the firsttime, Mrs. Hamilton became acquainted with those minute particularswhich she had for the last nine years desired to know, concerning theearly childhood of those orphans then committed to her care. That hersister had been partial, it was very easy to discover; but the extent ofthe evil, and the many little trials Ellen's very infancy had toencounter, were only subjects of conjecture, for she could not bear tolead them to speak on any topic that might in the least have reflectedon the memory of their mother. 

The intelligence therefore which she now obtained explained all that hadbeen a matter of mystery and surprise in Ellen's character, and renderedclearer than ever to Mrs. Hamilton the painful feelings which had inopening youth actuated her niece's conduct; and often, as she listenedto Mrs. Cameron's account of her infant sufferings and her mother'sharshness and neglect, did Mrs. Hamilton wish such facts had from thefirst been known to her; much sorrow, she felt assured, might have beenspared to all. She would perchance have been enabled to have so trainedher and soothed her early-wounded sensibility, that all the wretchednessof her previous years might have been avoided, but she would not longallow her mind to dwell on such things. She looked on her niece asdearer than ever, from the narrative she had heard, and she was thankfulto behold her thus in radiant health and beauty, and, she hoped, inhappiness, although at times there was still a deeper shade ofseriousness than she loved to see imprinted on her brow, and dimming thelustre of her eye, but it caused her no anxiety. Ellen's character hadnever been one of light-hearted glee; it would have been unnatural tosee it now, and she believed that appearance of melancholy to be hernatural disposition, and so too, perhaps, the orphan regarded itherself. 

A very few weeks after Lord N----'s ball, Edward again departed fromOakwood to join his ship. He parted gaily with his friends, for he knewhis voyage was to be but a short one; and that now the first and mosttoilsome step to promotion had been gained, he should have very manymore opportunities of taking a run home and catching a glimpse, he said, joyously, of the whole crew who were so dear to him, on board that toughold ship Oakwood; and Ellen, too, could share his gaiety even the nightprevious to his departure, for this was not like either their first orsecond parting. She had all to hope and but little to fear; for hertrust was too firmly fixed on Him who had guarded that beloved brotherthrough so many previous dangers and temptations to bid her waver now. Even Mrs. Hamilton's anxious bosom trembled not as she parted from theson of her affections, the preserver of her husband; and though Oakwoodfelt dull and gloomy on the first departure of the mischief-loving, mirthful sailor, it was not the gloom of sorrow. February passed, andMrs. Hamilton's solicitude with regard to Emmeline still continued. There were times when, deceived by her daughter's manner, lively andplayful apparently as usual, she permitted herself to feel less anxious;but the pale cheek, the dulled eye, the air of languor, and sometimes, though not often, of depression, which pervaded every movement, veryquickly recalled anxiety and apprehension. Mr. Maitland could notunderstand her. If for a moment he imagined it was mental suffering, hermanner was such the next time he saw her as entirely to baffle thatfancy, and convince him that the symptoms which caused Mrs. Hamilton'salarm were, in reality, of no consequence. Determined to use everyeffort to deceive him, lest he should betray to her parents the realcause of her sufferings, Emmeline generally rallied every effort andrattled on with him, as from a child she had been accustomed, thereforeit was no wonder the worthy surgeon was deceived; and often, veryoften, did the poor girl wish she could deceive herself as easily. Itwas now nearly three months since she and young Myrvin had so painfullyparted, and her feelings, instead of diminishing in their intensity, appeared to become more powerful. She had hoped, by studiously employingherself, by never indulging in one idle hour, to partially efface hisremembrance, but the effort was fruitless. The letters from LadyFlorence and Lady Emily Lyle became subjects of feverish interest, forin them alone she heard unprejudiced accounts of Arthur, of whosepraises, they declared, the epistles of their brother Louis were alwaysfull; so much so, Lady Emily said, that she certainly should fall inlove with him, for the purpose of making a romantic story. Sadly didpoor Emmeline feel there was but little romance in her feelings; coldclinging despair had overcome her. She longed for the comfort of hermother's sympathy, but his character was not yet cleared. Mr. Hamiltonevidently mistrusted the praises so lavishly bestowed on the young manby Lord Malvern's family; and how could she defend him, if accused ofpresumption towards herself? Presumption there had not been; indeed, hisconduct throughout had done him honour. She fancied her mother would bedispleased, might imagine she had encouraged the feeling of romanticadmiration till it became an ideal passion, and made herself miserable. Perhaps an unknown yet ever-lingering hope existed within, spite ofdespair; perhaps aerial visions would mingle in the darkness, andEmmeline shrunk, unconsciously, from their utter annihilation by thestern prohibition of her parents. Such was the constant tenour of herthoughts; but one moment of excited feeling betrayed that which she haddeemed would never pass her lips. 

But a very few days had elapsed since Edward's departure from Oakwoodwhen, one afternoon, Mr. Hamilton entered the usual sitting-room of thefamily, apparently much disturbed. Mrs. Hamilton and Ellen were engagedin work, and Emmeline sat at a small table in the embrasure of one ofthe deep gothic windows, silently yet busily employed it seemed indrawing. She knew her father had gone that morning to the village, andas usual felt uneasy and feverish, fearing, reasonably or unreasonably, that on his return she would hear something unpleasant concerningArthur; as she this day marked the countenance of her father, her heartthrobbed, and her cheek, which had been flushed by the action ofstooping, paled even unto death. 

"What mishap has chanced in the village, that you look so grave, my dearlove?" demanded his wife, playfully. 

"I am perplexed in what matter to act, and grieved, deeply grieved, atthe intelligence I have learned; not only that my prejudice isconfirmed, but that the knowledge I have acquired concerning thatunhappy young man places me in a most awkward situation. "

"You are not speaking very intelligibly, my dear husband, and thereforeI must guess what you mean; I fear it is young Myrvin of whom youspeak, " said Mrs. Hamilton, her playfulness gone. 

"They surely have not been again bringing him forward to his discredit?"observed Ellen, earnestly. "The poor young man is far away; why willthey still endeavour to prejudice you and Mr. Howard against him?"

"I admire your charity, my dear girl, but, I am sorry to say, in thiscase it is unworthily bestowed. There are facts now come to light which, I fear, unpleasant as will be the task, render it my duty to write toLord Malvern. Arthur Myrvin is no fit companion for his son. "

"His poor, poor father!" murmured Ellen, dropping her work, and lookingsorrowfully, yet inquiringly, in her uncle's face. 

"But are they facts, Arthur--are they proved? for that there is unjustprejudice against him in the village, I am pretty certain. "

"They are so far proved, that, by applying them to him, a mystery in thevillage is cleared up, and also his violent haste to quit ourneighbourhood. You remember Mary Brookes?"

"That poor girl who died, it was said, of such a rapid decline?Perfectly well. "

"It was not a decline, my dear Emmeline; would that it had been. She wasbeautiful, innocent, in conversation and manner far above her station. There are many to say she loved, and believed, in the fond trust ofdevotion, all that the tempter said. She was worthy to be his wife, andshe became his victim. His visits to her old grandmother's cottage Imyself know were frequent. He deserted her, and that wild agony brokethe strings of life which remorse had already loosened; ten days afterMyrvin quitted the village she died, giving birth to an unhappy child ofsin and sorrow. Her grandmother, ever dull in observation and sense, hasbeen silent, apparently stupefied by the sudden death of her Mary, andcherishes the poor helpless infant left her by her darling. Suddenly shehas appeared awakened to indignation, and a desire of vengeance on thedestroyer of her child, which I could wish less violent. She imploredme, with almost frantic wildness, to obtain justice from the cruelvillain--accusing him by name, and bringing forward so many proofs, which the lethargy of grief had before concealed, that I cannot doubtfor one moment who is the father of that poor babe--the cruel, theheartless destroyer of innocence and life. "

"But is there no evidence but hers? I wish there were, for Dame Williamsis so weak and dull, she may easily be imposed upon, " observed Mrs. Hamilton, thoughtfully. "It is indeed a tale of sorrow; one that I couldwish, if it indeed be true, might not be published, for did it reach hisfather's ears"--

"It will break his heart, I know it will, " interrupted Ellen, with anuncontrolled burst of feeling. "Oh, do not condemn him without furtherproofs, " she added, appealingly. 

"Every inquiry I have made confirms the old dame's story, " replied Mr. Hamilton, sadly. "We know Myrvin's life in college, before his change ofrank, was one of reckless gaiety. All say he was more often at DameWilliams's cottage than at any other. Had he been more attentive to hisduties, we might have believed he sought to soothe by religion poorMary's sufferings, but we know such was not his wont. Jefferiescorroborates the old dame's tale, bringing forward circumstances he hadwitnessed, too forcibly to doubt. And does not his hasty resignation ofa comfortable home, a promising living, evince his guilt more stronglythan every other proof? Why did he refuse to defend his conduct? Was itnot likely such a crime as this upon his conscience would occasion thatrestlessness we all perceived, that extreme haste to depart? he wouldnot stay to see his victim die, or be charged with a child of sin. Therewas a mystery in his sudden departure, but there is none now; it is alltoo clear. "

"_It is false!_" burst with startling almost overwhelming power from thelips of Emmeline, as she sprung with the strength of agony from herseat, and stood with the suddenness of a vision, before her parents, abright hectic spot burning on either cheek, rendering her usually mildeyes painfully brilliant. She had sat as if spell-bound, drinking inevery word. She _knew_ the tale was false, but yet each word had fallenlike brands of heated iron on her already scorching brain; that theyshould dare to breathe such a tale against him, whose fair fame she knewwas unstained, link his pure name with infamy; and her father, too, believed it. She did not scream, though there was that within whichlonged for such relief. She did not faint, though every limb had lostits power. A moment's strength and energy alike returned, and shebounded forward. "It is false!" she again exclaimed, and her parentsstarted in alarm at her agonized tone; "false as the false villain thatdared stain the fair fame of another with his own base crime. ArthurMyrvin is not the father of that child; Arthur Myrvin was not thedestroyer of Mary Brookes. Go and ask Nurse Langford: she who hung overpoor Mary's dying bed; who received from her own cold lips the name ofthe father of her child; she who was alone near her when she died. Askher, and she will tell you the wretch, who has prejudiced all mindsagainst the good, the pure, the noble; the villain, the crueldespicable villain, who rested not till his base arts had ruinedthe--the--virtuous; that Jefferies, the canting hypocrite, the wretchedmiscreant, who has won all hearts because he speaks so fair, he, healone is guilty. Put the question to him; let Nurse Langford ask him ifthe dying spoke falsely when she named him, and his guilt will bewritten on his brow. Arthur Myrvin did visit that cottage; Mary hadconfessed a crime, she said not what, and implored his prayers; hesoothed her bodily and mental sufferings, he robbed death of itsterrors, and his only grief at leaving the village was, that she wouldmiss his aid, for that crime could not be confessed to another; and theydare to accuse him of sin, he who is as good, as pure, as--" For onesecond she paused, choked by inward agony, but ere either her father ormother could address her, she continued, in an even wilder tone, --"Whydid Arthur Myrvin leave this neighbourhood? why did he go hence sosuddenly--so painfully? because, because he loved me--because he knewthat I returned his love, and he saw the utter hopelessness thatsurrounded us, and he went forth to do his duty; he left me to forgethim, to obtain peace in forgetfulness of one I may never seeagain--forgetfulness! oh, not till my brain ceases to throb will that bemine. He thought to leave me with his love unspoken, but the words came, and that very hour we parted. He loved me, he knew I could not be his, and it was for this his living was resigned, for this he departed; andhad he cause to blush for this? pure, honourable, as was his love, toonoble, too unselfish to urge aught that could bid Emmeline forget herduty to her parents for love of him; bearing every calumny, even theprejudice, the harshness of my father, rather than confess he loved me. He is innocent of every charge that is brought against him--all, all, save the purest, the most honourable love for me; and, oh, is thatindeed, indeed a crime?"

She had struggled to the very last to speak calmly, but now sobs, themore convulsive because the more suppressed, rose choking in her throat, and rendered the last words almost inaudible. She pressed both handsagainst her heart and then her temples, as if to still their painfulthrobbings, and speak yet more, but the effort was fruitless, and shedarted wildly, and fled as an arrow from the room. 

Mr. And Mrs. Hamilton looked on each other in painful and alarmedastonishment, and Ellen, deeply affected, rose hastily, as if with theintention of following her agitated cousin, but her aunt and uncleentreated her not, alleging Emmeline would sooner recover alone, askingher at the same time if she had known anything relative to theconfession they had just heard. She answered truly in the negative. Emmeline had scarcely ever spoken of young Myrvin in her hearing; but asthe truth was now discovered, many little instances rose to therecollection of both parents to confirm the avowal of their child, andincrease their now painfully awakened solicitude. Her agitation thenight of Edward's return, when Lord St. Eval laughingly threatened herwith marriage, rose to the recollection of both parents; her extremeexcitement and subsequent depression; her visibly failing health sinceArthur's departure, all, all, too sadly confirmed her words, andbitterly Mrs. Hamilton reproached herself for never having suspectedthe truth before, for permitting the young man to be thus intimate ather house, heedless of what might ensue, forgetful that Emmeline wasindeed no longer a child, that her temperament was one peculiarly liableto be thus strongly excited. 

For a few minutes Mr. Hamilton felt pride and anger struggling fiercelyin his bosom against Arthur, for having dared to love one so far abovehim as his child, but very quickly his natural kindliness and charityresumed their sway. Could he wonder at that, love for one so fond, sogentle, so clinging, as his Emmeline? Would he not have deemed Arthurcold and strange, had her charms indeed passed him unnoticed and unfelt;he remembered the forbearance, the extreme temper the unhappy young manhad ever displayed towards him, and suddenly and unconsciously he felthe must have done him wrong; he had been prejudiced, misguided. If NurseLangford's tale was right, and Jefferies had dared to accuse another ofthe crime he had himself committed, might he not in the like manner haveprejudiced the whole neighbourhood against Arthur by false reports? Butwhile from the words of his child every kindly feeling rose up in theyoung man's favour, Mr. And Mrs. Hamilton did not feel the lesspainfully that Emmeline had indeed spoken rightly: hopelessness was herlot. It seemed to both impossible that they could ever consent to beholdher the wife of Myrvin, even if his character were cleared of thestigmas which had been cast upon it. Could they consent to expose theirfragile child, nursed as she had been in the lap of luxury and comfort, to all the evils and annoyances of poverty? They had naturallyaccustomed themselves to anticipate Emmeline's marrying happily intheir own sphere, and they could not thus suddenly consent to theannihilation of hopes, which had been fondly cherished in the mind ofeach. 

Some little time they remained in conversation, and then Mrs. Hamiltonrose to seek the chamber of her suffering child, taking with her indeedbut little comfort, save her husband's earnest assurance that he wouldleave no means untried to discover Jefferies' true character, and ifindeed Arthur had been accused unjustly. 

It was with a trembling hand Mrs. Hamilton softly opened Emmeline'sdoor, and with a heart bleeding at the anguish she beheld, and which shefelt too truly she could not mitigate, she entered, and stood forseveral minutes by her side unnoticed and unseen. 

There are some dispositions in which it is acutely painful to witnesssorrow. Those whom we have ever seen radiant in health, in liveliness, in joy--so full of buoyancy and hope, they seem as if formed forsunshine alone, as if they could not live in the darkening clouds of woeor care; whose pleasures have been pure and innocent as their own brightbeauty; who are as yet unknown to the whispering of inwardly workingsin; full of love and gentleness, and sympathy, ever ready to weep forothers, though for themselves tears are unknown; creatures, whose warmenthusiastic feelings bind them to every heart capable of generousemotions; those in whom we see life most beautified, most glad. Oh, itis so sad to see them weep; to feel that even on them sorrow hath castits blight, and paled the cheek, and dimmed the laughing eye, thespeaking smile, and the first grief in such as these is agony indeed:it is the breaking asunder of every former joy. They shrink fromretrospection, for they cannot bear to feel they are not now as then, and the future shares to them the blackened shadows of the hopelesspresent. As susceptible as they are to pleasure so are they to pain; andraised far above others in the enjoyment of the one, so is their griefdoubled in comparison with those of more happy, because more eventemperaments. So it was with Emmeline; and her mother felt all this asshe stood beside her, watching with tearful sympathy the first realgrief of her darling child. Emmeline had cast herself on her kneesbeside her couch; she had buried her face in her hands, while the sobsthat burst incessantly from her swelling bosom shook her frail figureconvulsively; the blue veins in her throat had swelled as if insuffocation, and her fair hair, loosened from its confinement by heragitation, hung wildly around her. 

"Emmeline, " Mrs. Hamilton said, gently and falteringly, but her childheard her not, and she twined her arm around her, and tried to draw hertowards her. 

"My own darling Emmeline, speak to me; I cannot bear to see you thus. Look up, love; for my sake calm this excited feeling. "

"May I not even weep? Would you deny me that poor comfort?" burst almostpassionately from the lips of Emmeline, for every faculty was bewilderedin that suddenly-excited woe. She looked up; her eyes were bloodshot andhaggard, her cheek flushed, and the veins drawn like cords across herbrow. 

"Weep: would your mother forbid you that blessed comfort and relief, myEmmeline? Could you indeed accuse me of such cruelty?" replied Mrs. Hamilton, bending over her as she spoke, and removing from those flushedtemples the hair which hung heavy with moisture upon them, and as shedid so Emmeline felt the tears of her mother fall thick and fast on herown scorching brow. She started from her knees, gazed wildly anddoubtingly upon her, and tottering from exhaustion, would have fallen, had not Mrs. Hamilton, with a sudden movement, received her in her arms. For a moment Emmeline struggled as if to break from her embrace, butthen, with a sudden transition of feeling, clasped her arms convulsivelyabout her mother's neck, and burst into a long and violent but relievingflood of tears. 

"I meant never, never to have revealed my secret, " she exclaimed, in avoice almost inaudible, as her mother, seating her on a couch near them, pressed her to her heart, and permitted some minutes to pass away inthat silence of sympathy which to the afflicted is so dear. "And nowthat it has been wrung from me, I know not what I do or say. Oh, if Ihave spoken aught disrespectfully to you or papa just now, I meant itnot, indeed I did not; but they dared to speak false tales, and I couldnot sit calmly to hear them, " she added, shuddering. 

"There was nothing in your words, my own love, to give us pain withregard to ourselves, " said Mrs. Hamilton, in her most soothing tone, asagain and again she pressed her quivering lips to that flushed cheek, and tried to kiss away the now streaming tears. "Do not let that thoughtadd to your uneasiness, my own darling. "

"And can you forgive me, mother?" and Emmeline buried her face yet moreclosely in her mother's bosom. 

"Forgive you, Emmeline! is there indeed aught in your acquaintance withArthur Myrvin which demands my forgiveness?" replied her mother, in atone of anxiety and almost alarm. 

"Oh, no, no! but you may believe I have encouraged these weak emotions;that I have wilfully thought on them till I have made myself thusmiserable; that I have called for his love--given him encouragement:indeed, indeed I have not. I have struggled hard to obtainforgetfulness--to think of him no more, to regain happiness, but itwould not come. I feel--I know I can never, never be again the joyouslight-hearted girl that I was once; all feels so changed. "

"Do not say so, my own love; this it but the language of despondency, now too naturally your own; but permit it not to gain too muchascendency, dearest. Where is my Emmeline's firm, devoted faith in thatmerciful Father, who for so many years has gilded her lot with suchunchecked happiness. Darker clouds are now indeed for a time around you, but His blessing will remove them, love; trust still in Him. "

Emmeline's convulsive sobs were somewhat checked; the fond and gentletones of sympathy had their effect on one to whom affection neverpleaded in vain. 

"And why have you so carefully concealed the cause of the sufferingsthat were so clearly visible, my Emmeline?" continued her mother, tenderly. "Could that fear which you once avowed in a letter to Mary, have mingled in your affection for me? Could fear, indeed, have kept yousilent? Can your too vivid fancy have bid you imagine I should reproachyou, or refuse my sympathy in this sad trial? Your perseverance inactive employments, your strivings for cheerfulness, all must, indeed, confirm your assertion, that you have not encouraged weakening emotions. I believe you, my own, and I believe, too, my Emmeline did not giveyoung Myrvin encouragement. Look up, love, and tell me that you do notfear your mother--that you do not deem her harsh. "

"Harsh? oh, no, no!" murmured the poor girl, still clinging to her neck, as if she feared something would part them. "It is I who am capricious, fanciful, miserable: oh, do not heed my incoherent words. Mother, dearest mother, oh, let me but feel that you still love me, and I willteach my heart to be satisfied with that. "

"But if indeed I am not harsh, tell me all, my Emmeline--tell me whenyou were first aware you loved Arthur Myrvin; all that has passedbetween you. I promise you I will not add to your suffering on hisaccount by reproaches. Confide in the affection of your mother, and thistrial will not be so hard to bear. "

Struggling to obtain composure and voice, Emmeline obeyed, andfaithfully repeated every circumstance connected with her and Arthur, with which our readers are well acquainted; touching lightly, indeed, ontheir parting interview, which Mrs. Hamilton easily perceived could notbe recalled even now, though some months had passed, without a renewalof the distress it had caused. Her recital almost unconsciously exaltedthe character of Arthur in the mind of Mrs. Hamilton, which was toogenerous and kind to remain untouched by conduct so honourable, forbearing, and praiseworthy. 

"Do not weep any more for the cruel charges against him, my love, " shesaid, with soothing tenderness, as Emmeline's half-checked tears burstforth again as she spoke of the agony she in secret endured, when in herpresence his character was traduced. "Your father will now leave nomeans untried to discover whether indeed they are true or false. Insinuations and reports have prejudiced his judgment more than is hiswont. He has gone now to Widow Langford, to hear her tale againstJefferies, and if this last base charge he has brought against Arthur beindeed proved against himself, it will be easy to convict him of othercalumnies; for the truth of this once made evident, it is clear that hisbase machinations have been the secret engines of the prejudice againstMyrvin, for which no clear foundation has ever yet been discovered. Youwill not doubt your father's earnestness in this proceeding, myEmmeline, and you know him too well to believe he would for one momentrefrain from acknowledging to Mr. Myrvin the injustice he has done him, if indeed it prove unfounded. "

"And if his character be cleared from all stain--if not a whisper tainthis name, and his true excellence be known to all--oh, may we not hope?mother, mother, you will not be inexorable; you will not, oh, you willnot condemn your child to misery!" exclaimed Emmeline, in a tone ofexcitement, strongly contrasting with the hopelessness which hadbreathed in every word before; and, bursting from her mother's detaininghold, she suddenly knelt before her, and clasped her robe in thewildness of her entreaty. "You will not refuse to make us happy; youwill not withhold your consent, on which alone depends the futurehappiness of your Emmeline. You, who have been so good, so kind, sofond, --oh, you will not sentence me to woe. Mother, oh, speak to me. Icare not how many years I wait: say, only say that, if his character becleared of all they have dared to cast upon it, I shall one day he his. Do not turn from me, mother. Oh, bid me not despond; and yet and yet, because he is poor, oh, would you, can you condemn me to despair?"

"Emmeline, Emmeline, do not wring my heart by these cruel words, "replied Mrs. Hamilton, in a tone of such deep distress, that Emmeline'simploring glance sunk before it, and feeling there was indeed no hope, her weakened frame shook with the effort to restrain the bursting tears. "Do not ask me to promise this; do not give me the bitter pain ofspeaking that which you feel at this moment will only add to yourunhappiness. You yourself, by the words you have repeated, behold theutter impossibility of such an union. Why, why then will you impose onme the painful task of repeating it? Could I consent to part with you toone who has not even a settled home to give you, whose labours scarcelyearn sufficient to maintain himself? You know not all the evils of suchan union, my sweet girl. You are not fitted to cope with poverty orcare, to bear with that passionate irritability and restlessness whichcharacterise young Myrvin, even when weightier charges are removed. Andcould we feel ourselves justified in exposing you to privations andsorrows, which our cooler judgment may perceive, though naturallyconcealed from the eye of affection? Seldom, very seldom, are thosemarriages happy in which such an extreme disparity exists, moreparticularly when, as in this case, the superiority is on the side ofthe wife. I know this sounds like cold and worldly reasoning, myEmmeline; I know that this warm, fond heart revolts in agony from everyword, but do not, do not think me cruel, love, and shrink from myembrace. How can I implore you, for my sake, still to struggle withthese sad feelings, to put every effort into force to conquer thisunhappy love? and yet my duty bids me do so; for, oh, I cannot part withyou for certain poverty and endless care. Speak to me, my own; promiseme that you will try and be contented with your father's exertions toclear Arthur's character from all aspersions. You will not ask formore?"

There was a moment's pause. Mrs. Hamilton had betrayed in every word thereal distress she suffered in thus speaking, when the gentle pleading ofher woman's heart would have bade her soothe by any and every means herafflicted child; Emmeline knew this, and even in that moment she couldnot bear to feel her mother grieved, and she had been the cause. Filialdevotion, filial duty, for a few minutes struggled painfully with thefervid passion which shook her inmost soul; but they conquered, and whenshe looked up, her tears were checked, and only the deadly paleness ofthe cheek, the quivering of the lip and eye, betrayed the deep emotionthat still prevailed within. 

"Be not thus distressed for me, my dear, my too indulgent mother, "replied Emmeline, in a voice that struggled to be composed and firm, though bodily weakness defied her efforts. "I meant not to have grievedyou, and yet I have done so. Oh, let not my foolish words give you pain, you whose love would, I know, seek to spare me every suffering. My brainfeels confused and burning now, and I know not what I say; but it willpass away soon, and then I will try to be all you can wish. You willnot, I know you will not be so cruel as to bid me wed another, and thatknowledge is enough. Let but his character be cleared, and I promise youI will use every effort to be content. I knew that it was hopeless. Why, oh, why did I bid your lips confirm it!" and again were those achingeyes and brow concealed on Mrs. Hamilton's shoulder, while thedespairing calmness of her voice sounded even more acutely painful toher mother than the extreme suffering it had expressed before. 

"May God in His mercy bless you for this, my darling girl!" escapedalmost involuntarily from Mrs. Hamilton's lips, as the sweet dispositionof her child appeared to shine forth brighter than ever in this completesurrender of her dearest hopes to the will of her parents. "And oh, thatHe may soothe and comfort you will mingle in your mother's prayers. Tellme but one thing more, my own. Have you never heard from this young mansince you parted?"

"He wrote to me, imploring me to use my influence with St. Eval, to aidhis obtaining the situation of tutor to Lord Louis, " answered Emmeline. "He did not allude to what had passed between us; his letter merelycontained this entreaty, as if he would thus prove to me that hisintention to quit England, and seek for calmness in the steadyperformance of active duties, was not mere profession. "

"Then your representations were the origin of Eugene's interest inArthur?" said Mrs. Hamilton, inquiringly. 

Emmeline answered in the affirmative. 

"And did you answer his letter?"

"No, mamma; it was enough for me and for him, too, his wishes weregranted. I would not indulge my secret wish to do so. Neither you norpapa, nor indeed any of my family, knew what had passed between us. Determined as I was to struggle for the conquest of myself, I did notimagine in keeping that secret I was acting undutifully; but had Iwritten to him, or cherished, as my weak fondness bade me do, his--his--why should I hide it--his precious letter, my conscience wouldhave added its pangs to the sufferings already mine. While that was freeand light, I could still meet your look and smile, and return your kiss, however I might feel my heart was breaking; but if I had so deceivedyou, so disregarded my duty, as to enter into a correspondence with him, unknown to you, oh, the comfort of your love would have flown from mefor ever. "

"And had my Emmeline indeed sufficient resolution to destroy thatletter?" demanded Mrs. Hamilton, surprise mingling with the admirationand esteem which, though felt by a mother for a child, might well bepardoned. 

"It was my duty, mother, and I did it, " replied Emmeline, with asimplicity that filled the eyes of her mother with tears. "Could Iindeed forget those principles of integrity which, from my earliestinfancy, you have so carefully instilled?"

Mrs. Hamilton clasped her to her bosom, and imprinted kisses of thefondest affection on her colourless and burning forehead. 

"Well, indeed, are my cares repaid, " she exclaimed. "Oh, that myaffection could soothe your sorrows as sweetly as your gentle yetunwavering adherence to filial love and duty have comforted me. Willyou, for my sake, my own love, continue these painful yet virtuousefforts at self-conquest, which you commenced merely from a sense ofduty? Will you not glad your mother's heart and let me have the comfortof beholding you once more my own cheerful, happy Emmeline?"

"I will try, " murmured Emmeline, struggling to smile; but oh, it was sounlike herself, so lustreless and faint, that Mrs. Hamilton hastilyturned away to hide emotion. The dressing-bell at that instant sounded, and Emmeline looked an entreaty to which her lips appeared unwilling togive words. Her mother understood it. 

"I will not ask you to join us at dinner, love. Do not look sobeseechingly, you will recover this agitation sooner and better alone;and so much confidence have you compelled me to feel in you, " she added, trying to smile and speak playfully, "that I will not ask you to make anexertion to which you do not feel equal, even if you wish to be alonethe whole evening. I know my Emmeline's solitary moments will not bespent in vain repinings. "

"You taught me whom to seek for comfort and relief in my childishsorrows, and I will not, I do not forget that lesson now, mother, "answered Emmeline, faintly yet expressively. "Let me be alone, indeed, afew hours, and if I can but conquer this feeling of exhaustion, I willjoin you at tea. "

Mrs. Hamilton silently embraced and left her, with a heart swelling withfond emotion, as she thought on the gentle yet decided character of herchild, who from her infancy had scarcely ever caused her pain, stillless anxiety. Now indeed solicitude was hers, for it was evident, alas!too evident, that Emmeline's affections were unalterably engaged; thatthis was not the mere fervour of the moment, a passion that would passaway with the object, but one that Mrs. Hamilton felt forebodingly wouldstill continue to exist. Emmeline's was not a disposition to throw offfeelings such as these lightly and easily. Often had her mother inwardlytrembled when she thought of such a sentiment influencing her Emmeline, and now the dreaded moment had come. How was she to act? She could notconsent to an union such as this would be. Few mothers possessed lessambition than Mrs. Hamilton, few were so indulgent, so devoted to herchildren, but to comply with the poor girl's feverish wishes would beindeed but folly. Arthur had engaged himself to remain with Lord LouisLyle during the period of his residence in Germany, which was at thattime arranged to be three years. The future to young Myrvin must, sheknew, be a blank; years would in all probability elapse ere he couldobtain an advantageous living and means adequate to support a wife andfamily; and would it not be greater cruelty to bid Emmeline live on inlingering and sickening hope, than at once to appeal to her reason, andentreat her, by the affection she bore her parents, to achieve thispainful conquest of herself, as their consent could not be given. Theyfelt sad, indeed, thus to add to the suffering of their afflicted child, yet it was the better way, for had they promised to consent that when hecould support her she should be his own, it might indeed bring relieffor the moment, but it would be but the commencement of a life ofmisery; her youth would fade away in that sickening anguish of hopedeferred, more bitter because more lingering than the absoluteinfliction of brief though certain suffering. The hearts of both parentsgrieved as they thought on all she had endured, and for a brief periodmust still endure, but their path of duty once made clear, they swervednot from it, however it might pain themselves. 

Mrs. Hamilton was right. Emmeline's solitary moments were not spent invain repinings; she struggled to compose her thoughts, to cast theburden of her sorrows upon Him, who in love and mercy had ordained them;and she did so with that pure, that simple, beautiful faith sopeculiarly her own, and a calm at length stole over her wearied spiritand exhausted frame, soothing her, even to sleep, with the words ofprayer yet lingering on her lips. She awoke, after above an hour'sslumber, composed in mind, but still feverish in body. Prayer hadbrought its blessed influence, but that calm was more the quiescenceproceeding from over-excitement than natural feeling; she felt it so, and dreaded the return of mental agony, as bodily sufferers await theperiodical paroxysms of pain. She resolved not to give way to theexhaustion she still felt. She rejoined the family at tea, pale indeed, but perfectly composed, and even faintly smiling on her father, who, hastily rising as she languidly and unexpectedly entered the room, carried her tenderly in his arms to a couch, compelled her to lie down, and bending over her with that soothing fondness which she so muchloved, retained his seat by her side all the evening, thoughparticipating and frequently inducing her to join in the conversation onvarious topics, which Mrs. Hamilton and Ellen seemed determined tomaintain. Once during that evening Emmeline had looked up beseechinglyin her father's face, and that touching, silent eloquence told all shewould have said, far more expressively than words. 

"Justice shall be done, my Emmeline, " he replied, gently drawing her tohim, and speaking in a tone that was heard by her alone. "I have beenharsh, prejudiced, as cruelly unjust as blindly imposed on by acomparative stranger; but I promise you, all shall be impartiallyconsidered. I have done this unfortunate young man much wrong, for Ishould have recollected his father has many enemies, and this may be oneof them, seeking from revenge to injure him. I am grateful to ArthurMyrvin for his forbearance towards myself, for his truly noble conducttowards you--right principles alone could have dictated both. Mrs. Langford has confirmed all you said, and informed me of many littlecircumstances which if, on a strict examination, I find are founded ontruth, Jefferies' character and base designs will not be difficult tofathom. Myrvin's character shall be cleared from suspicion, if it be inmy power, my dear girl; rest as confident on my promise to that effect, as I do on yours, that, this accomplished, _you will ask no more_. "

Emmeline's head rested on his shoulder; he had marked the relief, thegratitude her sweet face expressed during his first words, but as heceased, her eyes were hid upon his bosom, and he could read no more. Itwas well for the steadiness of his determination that it was so, for thewretchedness imprinted on every feature, every line of her countenance, at his concluding sentence, would have wrung his soul. 

Though persuaded by her parents to retire early, Emmeline did not do sotill the usual hour of separation after prayers. To Ellen'ssilently-observing eye she appeared to shrink from being alone, and thisthought haunted her so incessantly, that, instead of composing herselfto rest, she softly traversed the short distance which separated theirapartments, and entered her cousin's room. 

Emmeline was alone, undressed, a large wrapping robe flung carelesslyover her night attire, but instead of reading, which at that hour, andin that guise, she generally did, that the word of God might be the lastbook on which she looked ere she sought her rest, she was leaningabstractedly over the fire, seated on a low stool, her hands pressed onher temples, while the flickering flame cast a red and unnatural glareon those pale cheeks. Ellen advanced, but her cousin moved not at herentrance, nor even when she knelt by her side, and twined her armsaround her. 

"Will you not go to bed, dearest Emmeline? it is so late, and you havebeen so fearfully agitated to-day. Look up and speak to me, my own dearcousin, or I shall fancy you are hurt with me for permitting so manyhours to pass without coming near you, when I knew you were insuffering. Oh, you know not how I longed to come, but my aunt said youhad entreated to be left alone. I stood for some minutes by your door, but all was so still, I thought I should disturb you did I enter. You donot accuse me of unkindness, Emmeline?"

Housed by her cousin's affectionate words and imploring voice, Emmelineresisted not her embrace, but clung to her in silence. 

"You are ill, you are very ill, dearest, dearest Emmeline; do not sit upthus; for my sake, for your mother's sake, try if sleep will not easethis aching head, " exclaimed Ellen, much alarmed at the burning heat andquick throbbing of Emmeline's forehead, as it rested on her shoulder. 

"I cannot sleep, Ellen, it is useless to attempt it; I feel as if myeyes would never close again; as if years had passed over my head sincelast night. I thought I could not be more miserable than I waswhen--when we parted, and as I have been since; but that wasnothing--nothing to this. I thought I had not indulged in hope, for Iknew that it was vain, but now, now I feel I must have done so, and itis its utter, utter annihilation that bows me to the earth. Oh, why am Iso changed, I who was once so glad, so free, so full of hope andhappiness, looking forward to days as bright as those that fled; and nowwhat am I, and what is life? a thing from which all happiness has flown, but clothed in darker shadows, from its contrast with the past. "

"Oh, do not say so, dearest, " replied Ellen, affected almost to tears bythe despairing tone in which these words were said. "The blessing, thecomfort of your parents, your brothers, of all who know you as you are, do not say your life will be without joy; its most cherished flower, itsmost precious gem may have passed away, but others will spring up intime, to fill that yearning void. You, whose presence ever brings withit such enjoyment to others, oh, you too will be blessed. You cannotlong continue miserable, when you feel the power you have of making somany of your fellow-creatures happy. You are ill, exhausted now, andtherefore all around you looks so full of gloom and pain, yet when thisshall have passed, you will not reject the comfort that remains. Haveyou not an approving conscience to support you, the consciousness thatyou have proved your love and gratitude to the parents you so fondlylove? and think you He, who looks with an eye of favour on the faintesteffort of His creatures, made for His sake, and in His spirit, willpermit this strength to pass unaided? No, dearest, He will assist andstrengthen you; He can take even from this bitter trial its sting. "

"I know it, I feel it, " murmured Emmeline, still clinging to her cousin, as if she found comfort in her presence and her words. "I know well thatthis trial in itself is as nothing compared with those endured at thisvery hour by thousands of my fellow-creatures, and knowing this makes methe more wretched, for if I am thus repining and miserable, how dare Ihope my prayers will be heard?"

"Yet doubt it not, my own Emmeline; our Father in heaven judgeth not asman judgeth. Man might condemn this appearance of weakness in you now, but God will not, for he knows the individual strength of His creatures, and in love and mercy chasteneth accordingly. He knoweth this is asevere trial for one, young and gentle as you are; and with your heartlifted up to Him, as I know it is, doubt not that your prayers will beheard and this pang softened in His own time. I fear my words soundcold; but oh, would that I could comfort you, dearest, " and tears stoodtrembling in Ellen's eyes. 

"And you do comfort me, Ellen; oh, I do not feel so very wretched withyou near me as I do alone, though even you cannot guess this extent ofsuffering; you know not what it is to love, and yet to feel there is nohope; no--none, " she repeated, in a low murmuring tone, as if toconvince herself that there was indeed none, as she had said; and it wasnot strange that thus engrossed, she marked not that a slight shudderpassed through her cousin's frame at her last words; that Ellen's cheeksuddenly vied in its deadly paleness with her own; that the tears driedup, as if frozen in those large, dark eyes, which were fixed upon herwith an expression she would, had she seen it, have found difficult tounderstand; that the pale lip quivered for a few minutes, so as entirelyto prevent her speaking as she had intended. 

"Go to bed, dearest Emmeline, indeed you must not sit up longer, " Ellensaid at length, as she folded her arms fondly round her and kissed hercheek. "When I was ill, you ever wished to dictate to me, " shecontinued, playfully, "and I was always good and obedient; will you notact up to your own principle and obey me now? think of your mother, dearest, how anxious she will be if you are ill. I will not leave youtill you are asleep. "

"No, no, dear Ellen, I will not so abuse your kindness; I will go tobed. I have been wrong to sit up thus, when I promised mamma to do all Icould to--but, indeed, you must not stay with me, Ellen. I feel soexhausted, I may perhaps sleep sooner than I expect; but even if I donot, you must not sit up. "

"Never mind, my love, let me see you obedient, and I will perhaps learnthe same lesson, " replied Ellen, playfully, though her cheek retainedits suddenly-acquired paleness. Emmeline no longer resisted, and Ellenquickly had the relief of seeing her in bed, and her eyes closed, as ifin the hope of obtaining sleep; but after a few minutes they againopened, and seeing Ellen watching her, she said--

"You had better leave me, Ellen, I shall not be able to sleep if I thinkyou are watching me, and losing your own night's rest. I am not ill, mydear cousin, I am only miserable, and that will pass away perhaps for ashort time again, as it did this afternoon. "

Ellen again kissed her and closed the curtains, obeying her so far as toretire to her room, but not to bed; she was much too uneasy to do so. Emmeline had been in very delicate health for some months, and itappeared to her observant eyes and mind, that now the cause for herexertion was removed, by the discovery of her long-treasured secret, that health had really given way, and she was actually ill in body aswell as mind. The burning heat of her forehead and hand, the quickpulsation of her temples, had alarmed her as predicting fever; andEllen, with that quiet resolution and prompt decision, which nowappeared to form such prominent traits in her character, determined onreturning to her cousin's room as soon as she thought she had fallenasleep, and remain there during the night; that if she were restless, uneasy, or wakeful, she might, by her presence, be some comfort, and ifthese feverish symptoms continued, be in readiness to send for Mr. Maitland at the first dawn of morning, without alarming her aunt. 

"You are not formed for sorrow, my poor Emmeline, " she said internally, as she prepared herself for her night's visit by assuming warmerclothing. "Oh, that your grief may speedily pass away; I cannot bear tosee one so formed for joy as you are grieved. My own sorrows I can bearwithout shrinking, without disclosing by one sign what I am internallysuffering. I have been nerved from my earliest years to trial, and itwould be strange indeed did I not seem as you believe me. _I_ know notwhat it is to love. _I_ know not the pang of that utter hopelessnesswhich bows my poor cousin to the earth. Ah, Emmeline, you know not such_hopelessness_ as mine, gloomy as are your prospects; you can claim thesympathy, the affection, the consolation, of all those who are dear toyou; there is no need to hide your love, ill-fated as it is, for it is_returned_--you are beloved; and I, my heart must bleed in secret, forno such mitigation attends its loss of peace. I dare not seek forsympathy, or say I love; but why--why am I encouraging these thoughts?"and she started as if some one could have heard her scarcely-audiblesoliloquy. "It is woman's lot to suffer--man's is to _act_, woman's to_bear_; and such must be mine, and in silence, for even the sympathy ofmy dearest relative I dare not ask. Oh, wherefore do I feel it shame tolove one so good, so superior, so holy? because, because he does notlove me, save with a brother's love; and I know he loves another. "

The slight frame of the orphan shook beneath that inward struggle; therewere times, in her hours of solitude, when such thoughts would come, spite of every effort to expel them, and there was only one way toobtain that self-control she so much needed, so continually exercised, till it became a second nature. She became aware her feelings hadobtained undue ascendency, and, sinking on her knees, remained absorbedin prayer, fervent and heartfelt, truly the outpourings of a contriteand trusting spirit, confident in the power and mercy to which sheappealed. That anguish passed ere she arose, and every sign of agitationhad left her countenance and voice as she put her resolution intoaction, and returned to her cousin. 

Emmeline had awoke from her brief and troubled slumbers, more restlessand feverish than when she had first sought her couch; and, suffering asshe was from that nervous and anxious state peculiar to approachingfever, the poor girl no longer resisted Ellen's evident determination, and clasping her hand between her own, now burning with fever, continually thanked her, in broken and feeble accents, for remainingwith her, assuring her she did not feel so ill or as unhappy as sheshould have done had she been alone. Anxious as she was, Ellen would notarouse her aunt, but at the first break of day she softly entered thehousekeeper's room, and succeeded in arousing without alarming her, informed her of Emmeline's restless state, and implored her to send atonce for Mr. Maitland. Hastily rising, Ellis accompanied Ellen to hercousin's room, and instantly decided on complying with her request. Thehousehold were already on the alert, and a servant was speedilydespatched; but, relieved as she was on this point, Ellen would notcomply with the good housekeeper's request to repose herself for a fewhours; she had resolved not to relinquish her post by the bedside of theyoung sufferer to any save her aunt herself. Ellis desisted, for a wordfrom her favourite, almost her darling, as Ellen from many circumstanceshad become, was to her always sufficient. 

Mrs. Hamilton and Mr. Maitland met at Emmeline's door, to theastonishment and at first alarm of the former--an alarm which subsidedinto comparative relief, as she listened to Ellen's hurried tale, although anxiety to a very high degree remained, and with some reason, for Ellen's fears were not unfounded. Emmeline's fever rapidly andpainfully increased, and for a week her parents hung over her couchalmost despairing of her recovery; their fond hearts almost breaking, asthey heard her sweet voice, in the wild accent of delirious intervals, calling aloud on Arthur, and beseeching their consent and blessing torestore her to health; and scarcely less painful was it in her lucidhours to see her clasp her mother's hands repeatedly, and murmur, in avoice almost inarticulate from weakness--

"Do not be anxious or grieved for me, my own dear mamma, I shall soonget well, and be your happy Emmeline again. I cannot be miserable, whenI have you and papa and Ellen to love me so tenderly, " and then, shewould cling to her mother's neck, and kiss her till she would sink tosleep upon her bosom, as in infancy and childhood she had so often done;and dearer than ever did that gentle girl become, in these hours ofsuffering, to all who had loved her so fondly before; they had deemed italmost impossible that affection could in any way be increased, and yetit was so. Strange must be that heart which can behold a being such asEmmeline cling to it, as if its protection and its love were now allthat bound her to earth, and still remain unmoved and cold. Affection isever strengthened by dependence--dependence at least like this; andthere was something peculiarly touching in Emmeline's present state ofmental weakness. Her parents felt, as they gazed on her, that they hadoccasioned the anguish which had prostrated her on a bed of sickness;and yet their child clung to them as if, in the intensity of heraffection for them, and theirs for her, she would strive to forget herunhappy love, and be once more happy. 

Time rolled heavily by, and some few weeks passed, ere Emmeline wassufficiently convalescent to leave her room, and then her pallidfeatures and attenuated form were such constant and evident proofs ofthat mental as well as bodily fever, that Mrs. Hamilton could not lookon her without pain. She was still inwardly restless and uneasy, thoughevidently struggling for cheerfulness, and Mr. Maitland, to whom somenecessary particulars of her tale had been told, gave as his opinion, that some secret anxiety still rested on her mind, which would be muchbetter removed; the real cause of that solicitude her parents veryeasily penetrated. Mr. Hamilton, fearing the effects of excitement inher still very delicate state, had refrained from telling her all he hadaccomplished in young Myrvin's favour during her sickness, but onhearing Mr. Maitland's report, her parents both felt assured it was forthat information she pined, and therefore determined on instantly givingher relief. 

It was with the utmost tenderness and caution Mr. Hamilton alluded tothe subject, and seating himself by her couch, playfully asked her ifshe would promise him to get well the sooner, if he gratified her by thepleasing intelligence that Arthur Myrvin's character was cleared, thathis enemy had been discovered, his designs exposed, and himself obligedto leave the village, and the whole population were now as violentlyprejudiced in Arthur's favour, as they had formerly been against him;provoked also with themselves for their blind folly in receiving andencouraging the idle reports propagated against him, not one of whichthey now perceived were sufficiently well founded to stand before animpartial statement and accurate examination. 

Had her parents doubted what had weighed on Emmeline's mind, the suddenlight beaming in those saddened eyes, the flush kindling on those palecheeks, the rapid movement with which she caught her father's hand, andlooked in his face, as if fearful he would deceive her, all these minutebut striking circumstances must have betrayed the truth. In a voicealmost inarticulate from powerful emotion, she implored him to tell herevery particular, and tenderly he complied. 

He had followed, he said, her advice, and confronted Nurse Langford withthe unprincipled man who had dared accuse a fellow-creature of a crimein reality committed by himself, and reckless as he was, he had shrunkin guilt and shame before her accusation, which was indeed theaccusation of the dying, and avowing himself the real perpetrator of thesin, offered her a large bribe for secrecy, which, as might be expected, the widow indignantly refused. It was easy to perceive, his arts hadworked on the old woman, Mary's grandmother, to believe him her friendand Arthur her foe; the poor old creature's failing intellect assistedhis plans, while the reports he had insidiously circulated against theunfortunate young man also confirmed his tale. Little aware that theWidow Langford had been almost a mother to the poor girl his villainyhad ruined, and that she was likely to have heard the truth, being quiteunconscious she had attended her dying moments, he published thisfalsehood, without any feeling of remorse or shame, hoping by so doing, effectually to serve his employers, effect the disgrace of Myrvin, andcompletely screen himself. Mrs. Langford now found it was time indeedfor her to come forward and perform her promise to Emmeline by provingyoung Myrvin's innocence, but hesitated how to commence. She wastherefore both relieved and pleased at the entrance and inquiries of Mr. Hamilton, and promised to obey his directions faithfully, only imploringhim to clear Mr. Myrvin's character, and expel Farmer Jefferies from thevillage, which, from the time of his settling there, she said, had beenone scene of anarchy and confusion; frankly avowing, in answer to aquestion of Mr. Hamilton, that it was for Miss Emmeline's sake she wasso anxious; she was sure she was interested in Mr. Myrvin's fate, andtherefore she had mentioned the unhappy fate of poor Mary Brookes, toprove to her the young man had attended to his duty. Many otherstartling proofs of Jefferies' evil conduct had the good widow, bysilent but watchful attention, been enabled to discover, as alsoconvincing evidence that the young curate had not been so neglectful orfaulty as he had been reported. All her valuable information she nowimparted to her master, to be used by him in any way his discretionmight point out, promising to be ever ready at the slightest notice toprove all she had alleged. Mr. Hamilton carefully examined everycircumstance, reflected for a brief period on his mode of action, andfinally, assembling all the principal inhabitants around him, in thepublic school-room of the village, laid before them all the importantfacts he had collected, and besought their impartial judgment. He owned, he said, that he too had been prejudiced against Mr. Myrvin, whoselife, while among them, many circumstances had combined to renderunhappy, but that now, he heartily repented his injustice, for he feltconvinced the greater part of what had been alleged against him wasfalse. Those evil reports he proved had all originated from themachinations of Jefferies, and he implored them to consider whether theycould still regard the words of one, against whom so much evil had nowbeen proved, as they had formerly done, or could they really prove thattheir young curate had in truth been guilty of the misdemeanours withwhich he had been charged. 

Mr. Howard, who was present, seconded his words, acknowledging that hetoo had been prejudiced, and adding, that he could not feel satisfiedtill he had avowed this truth, and asked his young friend's pardon forthe injury he had done him. 

Nothing is more sudden and complete than changes in popular feeling. Theshameful act of Jefferies, in casting on the innocent the stigma ofshame and crime which was his own, was quite enough for the honest andsimple villagers. At once they condemned themselves (which perhaps theymight not have been quite so ready to do, had not Mr. Hamilton and theirrector shown them the example), and not only defended and completelyexculpated Myrvin, but in an incredibly short space of time, so manyanecdotes of the young man's performance of his duty were collected, that had not Mr. Hamilton been aware of the violent nature of popularfeeling, those defects which still remained, though excused by therecollection of the mental tortures Myrvin had been enduring, wouldundoubtedly have departed, as entirely as every darker shade on hischaracter had done. 

Convinced that Arthur's attention to parochial affairs, as well as hisconduct in other matters, had been very opposite to that which had beenreported, neither Mr. Howard nor Mr. Hamilton could feel satisfied tillthey had written to him, frankly avowing their injustice, and asking hispardon and forgetfulness of the past, and assuring him that, if hisconduct continued equally worthy of approbation as it was at the presenttime, he should ever find in them sincere and active friends. 

Mr. Hamilton felt he had much, very much to say to the young man; but inwhat manner to word it he was somewhat perplexed. He could not speak ofhis daughter, and yet Myrvin's conduct towards her had created a feelingof gratitude and admiration which he could not suppress. Many fatherswould have felt indignation only at the young man's presumption, but Mr. Hamilton was neither so unreasonable nor so completely devoid ofsympathy. It was he himself, he thought, who had acted imprudently inallowing him to associate so intimately with his daughters, not thefault of the sufferer. Myrvin had done but his duty indeed, but Mr. Hamilton knew well there were very few young men who would have acted ashe had done, when conscious that his affection was returned with all theenthusiasm and devotedness of a disposition such as Emmeline's. How fewbut would have played with those feelings, tortured her by persuasionsto forget duty for the sake of love; but Arthur had not done this, andthe father's heart swelled towards him in gratitude and esteem; evenwhile he knew the hopelessness of his love, he felt for the anguishwhich his sympathy told him Arthur must endure. After more deliberationand thought than he could have believed necessary for such a simplething as to write a letter, Mr. Hamilton did achieve his object, retaining a copy of his epistle, to prove to his child he had beenearnest in his assurances that Arthur's character should be cleared. Painfully agitated by the tale she had heard, and this unexpectedconfidence of her father, Emmeline glanced her eye over the paper, andread as follows:--

"_To the Rev. Arthur Myrvin, Hanover_. 

"MY DEAR MYRVIN. --You will be no doubt astonished at receiving thisletter, brief as I intend it to be, from one with whom you parted in novery friendly terms, and who has, I grieve to own, given you but littlereason to believe me your friend. When a man has been unjust andprejudiced, it becomes his peremptory duty, however pride may rebel, todo all in his power to atone for it by an honourable reparation, both inword and deed, towards him he may have injured. Such, my young friend, is at present our relative position, and I am at a loss to know how bestto express my sense of your honourable conduct and my own injustice, which occasioned a degree of harshness in my manner towards you when weseparated, which, believe me, I now recall both with regret and pain. Circumstances have transpired in the parish once under your care, whichhave convinced not only me, but all those still more violentlyprejudiced against you, that your fair fame was tarnished by the secretmachinations and insidious representations of an enemy, and not by thefaulty nature of your conduct; and knowing this, we most earnestlyappeal to the nobleness of your nature for forgetfulness of the past, and beg you will endeavour henceforward to regard those as your sincerefriends whom you have unhappily had too much reason to believeotherwise. 

"For myself, my dear Myrvin, I do not doubt that you will do this, forcandidly I own, that only now I have learned the true nature of yourcharacter. When I first knew you, I was interested in your welfare, asthe chosen friend of my son, and also for your father's sake, now it isfor your own. The different positions we occupy in life, the widedistance which circumstances place between us, will, I feel sure, prevent all misconception on your part as to my meaning, and preventyour drawing from my friendly words conclusions opposite to what Iintend, therefore I do not hesitate to avow that I not only esteem, butfrom my heart I thank you, Myrvin, for your indulgence of thosehonourable feelings, that perfect integrity which bade you resign yourcuracy and depart from Oakwood. I did you wrong, great wrong; words canbut faintly compensate injury, though words have been the weapon bywhich that injury has been inflicted, yet I feel confident you will notretain displeasure, natural as it was; you will consent once more tolook on and appeal, if you should ever require it, to the father ofHerbert as your willing friend. Believe me, that if it be in my power toassist you, you will never appeal in vain. Lord Malvern, I rejoice tofind, is your staunch friend, and nothing shall be wanting on my part torender that friendship as permanent as advantageous. Mrs. Hamilton begsme to inform you, that in this communication of my feelings, I havetranscribed her own. Injustice indeed she never did you; butadmiration, esteem, and gratitude are inmates of her bosom as sincerelyas they are of my own. Continue, my young friend, this unwavering regardto the high principles of your nature, this steady adherence to duty, spite of prejudice and wrong, if indeed they should ever again assailyou, and the respecs of your fellow-creatures will be yours as warmly, as unfeignedly, as is that of

"Your sincere friend, "ARTHUR HAMILTON. "

No word, no sound broke from the parched lips of Emmeline as she ceasedto read. She returned the paper to her father in that same silence, andturning from his glance, buried her face in her hands. Mr. Hamiltonguessed at once all that was passing in that young and tortured heart;he drew her to him, and whispered fondly--

"Speak to me, my Emmeline. You do not think he can mistake my feelings. He will not doubt all prejudice is removed. "

"Oh, no, no, " she replied, after a severe struggle for composure; "youhave said enough, dear, dear papa. I could not have expected more. "

For a moment she clung to his neck, and covered his cheek with kisses, then gently withdrawing herself from his arms, quietly but hastily leftthe room. For about an hour she might have remained absent, and Mrs. Hamilton would not disturb her; and when she returned there was no traceof agitation, pale she was indeed, and her eye had lost its brightness, but that was too customary now to be deemed the effect of excitedemotion, and no further notice was taken, save that perhaps the mannerof her parents and Ellen towards her that night was even fonder thanusual. 

Once again Mr. Hamilton mentioned Arthur Myrvin; to speak of thepleasing and satisfactory letters both he and Mr. Howard had receivedfrom him. He addressed himself to Ellen, telling her, Arthur had writtenin a manner tending to satisfy even her friendly feelings towards him. Emmeline joined not in the conversation. Her father did not offer toshow her the letter, and she stilled the yearnings of her young andloving heart. From that hour the name of Arthur Myrvin was never heardin the halls of Oakwood. There was no appearance of effort in theavoidance, but still it was not spoken; not even by Percy and Herbert, nor by Caroline or her husband. Even the letters of Lady Florence andLady Emily Lyle ceased to make him their principal object. Emmeline knewthe volatile nature of the latter, and therefore was not surprised thatshe had grown tired of the theme; that Lady Florence should socompletely cease all mention of the tutor of her favourite brother wasrather more strange, but she did so perhaps in her letters to Ellen, andof that Emmeline had not courage to ask. St. Eval would speak of LordLouis, expressing hopes that he was becoming more steady; but it sochanced that, although at such times Emmeline, spite of herself, everlonged for somewhat more, the magic name that would have bidden everypulse throb never reached her ears, and her excited spirit would sinkback in despondency and gloom, increased from the momentary excitementwhich expectation had vainly called forth. 

Astonished indeed had Arthur Myrvin been at the receipt of his lettersfrom Oakwood and the Rectory. Mr. Howard's was productive ofgratification alone; that of Mr. Hamilton afforded even greaterpleasure, combined with a more than equal measure of pain. He had hopedEmmeline would have answered his letter. She did not, but he knew herinfluence had been exercised in his favour; and agony as it was, heacknowledged she had acted wisely. There was too much devotedness inEmmeline's character for Myrvin to encourage one lingering doubt thathis affections were returned; and as he thought on her steady dischargeof filial duty, as he recalled their parting interview, and felt she hadnot wavered from the path she had pointed out, his own energies, notwithstanding that still lingering, still acute suffering, were rousedwithin him, and he resolved he would obey her. She should see her appealhad not been made in vain; she should never blush for the man she hadhonoured with her love; he would endeavour to deserve her esteem, thoughthey might never meet again. He felt he had been too much the victim ofan ill-fated passion; he had by neglect in trifles encouraged theprejudice against him, lost himself active and willing friends; thisshould no longer be, and Myrvin devoted himself so perseveringly, soassiduously to his pupil, allowing himself scarcely any time forsolitary thought, that not the keenest observer would have suspectedthere was that upon the young man's heart which was poisoning thebuoyancy of youth, robbing life of its joy, and rendering him old beforehis time. 

That Mr. Hamilton, the father of his Emmeline, that his feelings shouldhave thus changed towards him, that he should admire and esteem insteadof condemn, was a matter of truly heartfelt pleasure. Hope would haveshook aloft her elastic wings, and carried him beyond himself, had notthat letter in the same hour dashed to the earth his soaring fancy, andplaced the seal upon his doom. He could not be mistaken; Mr. Hamiltonknew all that had passed between him and Emmeline, and while heexpressed his gratitude for the integrity and forbearance he (Myrvin)had displayed, he as clearly said their love was hopeless, their unionnever could take place. 

Myrvin had known this before, then why did his heart sink in evendeeper, darker despondency as he read? why were his efforts atcheerfulness so painful, so unavailing? He knew not and yet struggledon, but weeks, ay, months rolled by, and yet that pang remainedunconquered still. 

And did Emmeline become again in looks and glee as we have known her?Was she even to her mother's eye again a child? Strangers, even some ofher father's friends, might still have deemed her so; but alas! amother's love strove vainly thus to be deceived. Health returned, andwith it appeared to come her wonted enthusiasm, her animated spirits. Not once did she give way to depression; hers was not that piningsubmission which is more pain to behold than decided opposition, thatresignation which has its foundation in pride, not in humility, as itspossessors suppose. Emmeline's submission was none of these. Her dutiesas daughter and sister and friend, as well as those to the neighbouringpoor, were, if possible, more actively and perseveringly performed thanthey had even been before. Not one of her former favourite employmentswas thrown aside. The complete unselfishness of her nature was moreclearly visible than ever, and was it strange that she became dearerthan ever to those with whom she lived? Her parents felt she was twiningherself more and more around their hearts, and beheld, withinexpressible anguish, that though her young mind was so strong, herfragile frame was too weak to support the constant struggle. She nevercomplained; there was no outward failing of health, but there was anameless something hovering round her, which even her doting parentscould not define, but which they felt too forcibly to shake off; andnotwithstanding every effort to expel the idea, that nameless somethingbrought with it alarm--alarm defined indeed too clearly; but of whicheven to each other they could not speak. 

Time passed, and Herbert Hamilton, as the period of his ordination wasrapidly approaching, lost many of those painfully foreboding feelingswhich for the last three years had so constantly and painfully assailedhim. He felt stronger in health than he had ever remembered to havedone, and the spirit of cheerfulness, and hope, and joy breathing in theletters of his Mary affected him with the same unalloyed feelings ofanticipated happiness; sensations of holiness, of chastened thanksgivingpervaded his every thought, the inward struggle appeared passed. Therewas a calm upon his young spirit, so soothing and so blessed, that thefuture rose before him unsullied by a cloud; anticipation was so bright, it seemed a foretaste of that glorious heaven, the goal to which he andhis Mary looked--the home they sought together. 

Percy had also obtained honourable distinction at Oxford; his activespirit would not have permitted him to remain quiet in college so long, had he not determined to see his brother ordained ere he commenced thegrand tour, to which he looked with much zest, as the completion to hiseducation, and render him, if he turned it to advantage, in all respectsfitted to serve his country nobly in her senate, the point to which hehad looked, from the first hour he was capable of thought, with anardour which increased as that long-desired time approached. 

The disgraceful expulsion of Cecil Grahame from Cambridge opened afreshthat wound in his father's heart which Annie had first inflicted, butwhich the conduct of Lilla had succeeded in soothing sufficiently to bidher hope it would in time be healed. The ill-directed young man hadsquandered away the whole of his mother's fortune, and behaved in amanner that rendered expulsion inevitable. He chose to join the army, and, with a painfully foreboding heart, his father procured him acommission in a regiment bound for Ireland, hoping he would be exposedto fewer temptations there than did he remain in England. 

Lady Helen, as her health continued to decline, felt conscience becomingmore and more upbraiding, its voice would not be stilled. She had knownher duty as a mother; she had seen it beautifully portrayed before herin Mrs. Hamilton, but she had neglected its performance, and herchastisement she felt had come. Annie's conduct she had borne, she hadforgiven her, scarcely appearing conscious of the danger her daughterhad escaped; but Cecil was her darling, and his disgrace came upon heras a thunderbolt, drawing the veil from her eyes, with startling andbewildering light. She had concealed his childish faults, she had pettedhim in every whim, encouraged him in every folly in his youth; to hidehis faults from a severe but not too harsh a judge, she had loweredherself in the eyes of her husband, and achieved no good. Cecil wasexpelled, disgracefully expelled, and the wretched mother, as shecontrasted his college life with that of the young Hamiltons, felt shehad been the cause; she had led him on by the flowery paths ofindulgence to shame and ruin. He came not near her; he joined hisregiment, and left England, without bidding her farewell, and she feltshe should never see him more. From that hour she sunk; diseaseincreased, and though she still lingered, and months passed, and therewas no change for the worse, yet still both Mr. And Mrs. Hamilton feltthat death was written on her brow, that, however he might loiter on hisway, his destined victim would never again feel the blessedness ofhealth; and all their efforts were now directed in soothing theaffliction of Grahame, and lead him to console by tenderness theremaining period of his unhappy wife's existence. They imparted not tohim their fears, but they rested not till their desire was obtained, andLady Helen could feel she was not only forgiven but still beloved, andwould be sincerely mourned, both by her husband and Lilla, in whom shehad allowed herself at one time to be so deceived. 

Having now brought the affairs of Oakwood, and all intimately connectedwith it, to a point, from which no subject of interest took place forabove a year, at that period we resume our narrative. 

CHAPTER V. 

It was a fine summer morning. The windows of a pretty littlesitting-room were thrown wide open, and the light breeze, loaded withthe perfume of a thousand flowers, played refreshingly on the pale cheekof our young friend Emmeline, who, reclining on a sofa, looked forth onbeautiful nature with mingled sadness and delight. More than a year hadelapsed since we last beheld her, and she was changed, painfullychanged. She still retained her childish expression of countenance, which ever made her appear younger than in reality she was, but itsever-varying light, its beautiful glow were gone; yet she complainednot. The smile ever rested on her lips in the presence of her parents;her voice was ever joyous, and no sigh, no repining word, betrayed thebreaking heart within. She recognised with a full and grateful heart theblessings still surrounding her, and struggled long and painfully to becontent; but that fond yearning would not be stilled, that deep love noeffort could dispel. Still there were times when those who had neverknown her in former years would have pronounced her well, quite well inhealth; and Emmeline would smile when such remarks reached her, andwonder if her parents were so deceived. Sometimes she thought they were, for the name of Arthur Myrvin was no longer suppressed before her. Sheheard of him, of his devotion to his pupil, of the undeviating integrityand steadiness which characterised him, and promised fair to lead LordLouis in the same bright paths; she had heard of Arthur's devoted careof his pupil during a long and dangerous illness, that he, under Divinegoodness, had been the instrument of saving the youth's life, andrestoring him to health; and if she permitted no sign to betray thedeep, absorbing interest she felt, if her parents imagined he wasforgotten, they knew not the throbbings of her heart. 

She was conversing this morning with Mrs. Cameron, who had learned tolove Emmeline dearly; from being very often at Oakwood, she and herdaughters were looked on by all Mr. Hamilton's children as part of thefamily. 

"Is not Flora delighted at the idea of again seeing her brother?"Emmeline asked, in answer to Mrs. Cameron's information that Walter wasreturning with his regiment to England, and in a very few weeks would beonce more an inmate of her home. She answered cheerfully in theaffirmative, and Emmeline again inquired--"Was Captain Cameron at allacquainted with Cecil Grahame? Did he know the cause of his having beenso disgracefully cashiered?"

"Their regiments were quartered in such different parts of Ireland, "replied Mrs. Cameron, "that I believe they only met on one occasion, andthen Walter was glad to withdraw from the society of the dissolute youngmen by whom Lieutenant Grahame was always surrounded. The cause of hisdisgrace appears enveloped in mystery. Walter certainly alluded to it, but so vaguely, that I did not like to ask further particulars. Idreaded the effect it would have on Mr. Grahame, but little imaginedpoor Lady Helen would have sunk beneath it. "

"I believe few know how she doted on that boy. It was misguided, butstill it was love that caused her to ruin him as she did in hischildhood. From the hour he was expelled from Cambridge, she never heldup her head; it was so cruelly ungrateful of him to set off for Irelandwithout once seeking her; and this last stroke was too much for her tobear. She still hoped, despite her better judgment, that he would in theend distinguish himself, and she could not meet the disappointment. "

"Did she long survive the intelligence?"

"Scarcely four-and-twenty hours. Mr. Grahame, feeling unable to commandhimself, requested mamma and Lilla to impart to her the distressinginformation, which they did most tenderly; but their caution wasentirely fruitless. Her constant inquiry was relative to his presentsituation, and when she heard that he had not been seen since he wascashiered, she sunk into a state of insensibility from which she neverrecovered. "

"And Mr. Grahame?"

"The shock rendered him almost distracted, for it was so sudden. LadyHelen had become so altered lately, that she was devotedly loved both byher husband and child; she had been so long ailing, that both Lilla andher father fondly hoped and believed she would be spared to them stillsome years longer, though she might never entirely recover her health. Mr. Grahame's feelings are stronger than most people imagine, but hismisfortunes have bowed him down even more than I could have believedpossible. "

"They appeared so united and happy, that I do not wonder at it, "observed Mrs. Cameron. "I have seldom seen such devotedness as LadyHelen received from both her husband and child; she always welcomedtheir affectionate attentions as if she felt herself undeserving ofthem. I was interested in her, she bore her sufferings so meekly. "

"And poor Lilla, how is she?"

"She suffers much, but behaves admirably. Ellen says her self-control isextraordinary, when we remember she was one of those beings who couldnever conceal a single feeling. Her poor father seems to look to her nowas his sole blessing and support; she soothes his sorrow so quietly, sotenderly, and ever tries to prevent his thoughts dwelling on the stigmawhich Cecil's disgraceful conduct has cast upon his name. I trust timewill restore that calm tranquillity which he has enjoyed the last year, but I must own I fear it. If this moody irritability continue, Lillawill have much to bear, but she will do her duty, and that will bringits own reward. "

A faint and scarcely audible sigh escaped from Emmeline as she spoke. Mrs. Cameron, without noticing, asked when she expected her brothers toreturn home from London. 

"Herbert takes orders next week, and they return together very soonafterwards. He is, as you will believe, delighted at the near approachof an event which has been his guiding star since his boyhood. I neversaw him looking so well or so happy, and Percy shares his joy, and weshall have him near us, I am happy to say, for he will be the ministerof our own dear parish, which, by Mr. Howard's promotion, will be vacantabout the time he will require it. Mr. Howard says he thinks he shouldhave turned rebel, and refused the presentation of a valuable living, with the title of archdeacon attached to his name, if any one butHerbert were to succeed him here; but as he leaves his flock under hiscare, he will not refuse the blessings offered him. He does not go veryfar from us, if he had I should have been so very sorry, that even mybrother's succeeding him would not have satisfied me. "

There was a short pause, which was broken by Emmeline saying--

"Speaking about Mr. Howard and Herbert has made me forget Percy, dearfellow. You know how he has raved about the grand tour he is going tomake, all the curiosities he is to see and bring home for me, even tothe dome of St. Peter's or the crater of Vesuvius, if I wish to seethem. He has taken my provoking remarks in good part, and sets off withCaroline and her husband in July. My sister's health has been sodelicate the last three months, that she is advised to go to Geneva. Herlittle boy grows such a darling, I shall miss him almost as much as hismother. "

"Do you stay with them at Castle Terryn before they go?"

"I do not think I shall, for at present I seem to dislike the idea ofleaving home. They come to us, I believe, a few weeks hence, in orderthat we may be all together, which we could not very well be at St. Eval's. "

"Has Lord St. Eval quite lost all anxiety on his brother's account? Thephysicians said they could never have brought him through it, had it notbeen for Mr. Myrvin's prudent and unceasing care. "

"Yes; every letter from Castle Malvern confirms the report, all anxietyhas been over some weeks now; indeed, before the Marquis reachedHanover, where he received from his son's own lips an affecting andanimated account of his own imprudence, and Mr. Myrvin's heroic as wellas prudent conduct. "

"Was there an accident, then? I thought it was from the fever thenraging in the town. "

"Lord Louis had determined, against his tutor's consent, to join a partyof very gay young men, who wished to leave Hanover for a time and makean excursion to the sea-shore. Mr. Myrvin, who did not quite approve ofsome of the young gentlemen who were to join the party, remonstrated, but in vain. Lord Louis was obstinate, and Mr. Myrvin, finding all hisefforts fruitless, accompanied his pupil, very much to the annoyance ofthe whole party, who determined to render his sojourn with them sodistasteful, that he would quickly withdraw himself. Lord Louis, led onby evil companions, turned against his tutor, who, however, adhered tohis duty unshrinkingly. A sailing match was resolved on, and, notwithstanding the predictions of Mr. Myrvin, that a violent storm wascoming on and likely to burst over them before half their day's sportwas completed, they set off, taunting him with being afraid of thewater. They declared there was no room for him in their boats, andpushed off without him. He followed them closely, and fortunate was itthat he did so. The storm burst with fury; the little vessels were mostof them shattered to pieces, and many of the misguided and unfortunateyoung men fell victims to their wilful folly. Some, who were goodswimmers, escaped, but Lord Louis had struck his head against aprojecting rock, and, stunned and senseless, must have sunk, had not Mr. Myrvin been mercifully permitted to bear him to the shore in safety. Hewas extremely ill, but in a few weeks recovered sufficiently to returnto Hanover, unconscious, as was Mr. Myrvin, of the virulent fever thenraging there. Already in delicate health, he was almost instantlyattacked by the disease, in its most alarming and contagious form; theservants fled in terror from the house, only one, his own valet, anEnglishman, remained near him. But Mr. Myrvin never left him; day andnight he attended, soothed, and relieved him. His efforts were, happily, rewarded: Lord Louis lived and his preceptor escaped all infection. TheMarquis and his son have both written of Mr. Myrvin in the mostgratifying terms; and the Marchioness told mamma she could never in anyway repay the debt of gratitude she owed him. "

Mrs. Cameron was much interested in Emmeline's narrative, and asked ifthey were not soon to return to England. 

"They may have already arrived, " replied Emmeline. "Florence wrote me afortnight ago she was counting the days till their return. I sent aletter, apparently from her, this morning to Moorlands for Ellen, as Iam not quite sure whether she will return home this evening or not, andperhaps that contains the intelligence. His mother and sisters will beoverjoyed to have him once more with them, after the dangers he haspassed. "

"Has Mr. Myrvin any family?"

"Only his father, a truly good, kind, old man, the rector ofLlangwillan. "

"And are you not desirous to see this admirable young man, this devotedpreceptor, my dear Emmeline?" said Mrs. Cameron, smiling. "Will he notbe an excellent hero of romance?"

Emmeline answered, that as she already knew him, she could not throwaround him the halo of imagination; she was content to admire hischaracter as it was, without decking him in other charms. Their furtherconversation turned upon other and indifferent subjects till Mrs. Cameron departed. 

The death of Lady Helen and the misconduct of her son had cast such deepgloom over Moorlands, that not only Emmeline, but both Mr. And Mrs. Hamilton feared Grahame would never arouse himself from the moody apathyinto which he had fallen. He felt disgrace had fallen on his name, astain never to be erased; that all men would shun the father of one sopublicly dishonoured. The extent of Cecil's conduct was scarcely knowneven to his father; but that he had used dishonest measures at thegambling table to discharge enormous debts; that he had behavedinsolently to his superior officers; that it required great interest toprevent a much harsher sentence than had been his punishment--thesefacts were known all over England. The previously unsullied name ofGrahame was now synonymous with infamy; and it was even supposed Cecilwould never show his face in England again. Mr. Grahame shrunk in miseryfrom encountering the glance even of his friends; he felt as if he tooshared the disgrace of his son, he and his young, his beautiful Lilla;she whom he had anticipated, with so much pleasure, introducing amonghis friends, she was doomed to share with him the solitude, which hedeclared was the only fit abode of ignominy; and even to her his mannerwas wayward and uncertain--at times almost painfully fond, at othersequally stern and harsh. Lilla's character was changed; she struggled tobear with him, unrepiningly, dutifully, conscious that the eye of herGod was upon her, however her father might appear insensible to heraffection. 

Even the society of Mr. Howard and Mr. Hamilton was irksome; theirefforts to rouse and cheer him were unavailing, and they could only hopetime would achieve that for which friendship was inadequate. 

Herbert's engagement with Mary Greville still remained untold, but helooked forward to discovering his long-treasured secret, when he beheldhimself indeed an ordained minister of God; Percy perhaps was in hisconfidence, but neither his sisters nor Ellen. Mary's letters were fullof comfort to him; such pure and beautiful affection breathed in everyline, that even the sadness which the few last unconsciously betrayeddid not alarm him. He accounted for it by her reluctance to quit herbeautiful retreat in the Swiss mountains for the confusion and heat ofParis, where she now resided. A few months previously they had beenvisited in their retreat by her father; scarcely more surprised werethey at his appearance than at his manner, which was kinder and moreindulgent than Mary had ever remembered it. For a short time Mrs. Greville indulged hopes, that their long separation had effected achange in her husband, and that they should at length be happy together. 

He did not know much about Alfred, he said, except that he was well, andtravelling with some friends in different parts of the Continent. 

Mrs. Greville tried to be satisfied, and her cheering hopes did notdesert her even when her husband expressed a wish that she would residewith him at Paris. The wish rather confirmed them, as it evinced that hewas no longer indifferent to her own and his child's society. Withjoyful alacrity she consented, but in vain endeavoured to banish fromMary's mind the foreboding fears that appeared to have filled it, fromthe hour it was settled they were to leave Monte Rosa. In vain hermother affectionately represented how much nearer she would be toHerbert; nothing could remove, though she strove to conquer, thisseemingly uncalled-for and indefinable despondency. 

"I confess my weakness, " she wrote to her betrothed, "but I had so oftenpictured remaining at Monte Rosa till you came for me, as you hadpromised, so often pictured to myself the delight of showing to you myfavourite haunts, ere we left them together for still dearer England, that I cannot bear to find these visions dispelled without pain. I knowyou will tell me I ought to be thankful for this great and happy changein my father, and bear every privation for the chance of binding him tous for ever. Do not reprove me, dear Herbert, but there is that about myfather that bids me tremble still, and whispers the calm is not lasting;in vain I strive against it, but a voice tells me, in thus leaving MonteRosa, peace lingers in its beautiful shades, and woe's dark shadowstands threatening before me. "

Herbert longed to go to her, and thus disperse all these forebodingfears, but that pleasure the near approach of his ordination prevented;but fondly he looked forward with unalloyed hope in a few months to seekhis Mary, and at once banish all indefinable sorrow by making her hisown. Not a doubt entered his mind of Mr. Greville's consent, when heshould in person demand it, and he was eager to do so while thisstrangely indulgent humour continued. 

The first few months of her residence in Paris were fraught withhappiness for Mrs. Greville. Her husband's manner did not change. Theymingled in society, and the admiration Mary's quiet beauty excitedafforded the greatest pleasure to her mother, and even appeared toinspire her father with some pride. To the poor girl herself it wasirksome and painful; but she tried to convince herself these feelingswere wrong, and checked them even in her letters to Herbert. 

Ellen returned from Moorlands, where she had been staying with Lilla, whose affection for her continued unabated; for she found in her societyand sympathy much comfort since her mother's death. There was littlechange visible in Ellen. Her health was established, her pensive beautyunimpaired. Still was she the meek, unassuming, gentle girl she had longbeen; still to the eye of strangers somewhat cold and indifferent. Herinward self was becoming every year more strengthened; she was resolvedto use every effort to _suffer_, without the slightest portion ofbitterness impregnating her sentiments towards her fellow-creatures, orthe world in general. Her lot she _knew_ was to _bear_; her duty she_felt_ was to _conceal_. 

Ellen, on her return home, gave her cousin the letter which Emmeline hadmentioned as having forwarded to her that morning. It was fraught withinterest, and the anxious eye of Mrs. Hamilton moved not from herdaughter's countenance as she read. Still was it so calm that even shewas puzzled; and again the thought, "Is it for him" she is thusdrooping, fading like a flower before me? is it, indeed, the strugglebetween love and duty which has made her thus? crossed her mind, as ithad often, very often done before, and brought with it renewedperplexity. 

Lady Florence had written in the highest spirits, announcing the returnof her father, Lord Louis, and his tutor; that her brother was lookingquite well and strong, and was the same dear, merry, mischievous boy asever; delighted to be in England, abusing all the Germans, andprofessing and displaying the most extreme fondness for Mr. Myrvin. 

"He speaks of Mr. Myrvin in terms that bring tears to my eyes, tears ofwhich, my dear Ellen, I am not at all ashamed. The only drawback to thelife of a soldier, which my brother has now positively resolved on, inspite of all our persuasions, exists, he says, in the consequentseparation from Mr. Myrvin, and he almost wishes to go to Cambridge, tochain him to his side; but for Mr. Myrvin's sake, I am glad this willnot be. He is looking ill, very ill, quite different to the ArthurMyrvin we knew at Oakwood; a change has come over him which I cannotdescribe, and even to myself can scarcely define. He is much morepolished in his manner, but it is tinged with such deep melancholy, orintense thought, I really do not know which it is, that he appears manyyears older than when he left England. My father has at length prevailedon him to resign all idea of again seeking the arduous charge of tutor, but, with that honest pride which I so much admire and esteem, he hasrefused all papa's offers of advancement, only consenting to accept theliving on Eugene's estate, when Louis shall require his services nolonger. I trust the healthy air of Cornwall and the quiet of his parishwill restore him to health, for the care which preserved that of Louishas, I fear, ruined his own. He goes to London to-morrow to seeHerbert; the society of your cousins cannot fail to do him good. Louisjoins the army in a few months, and then Mr. Myrvin will take possessionof his living; but you will in all probability see them before, as Lordand Lady St. Eval have sent a pressing invitation for them to come downto Castle Terryn, and as soon as Mr. Myrvin returns from London, Louisintends doing so. I want to hear Herbert's opinion of his friend, as mydismal fancies concerning him may, after all, be only a woman's fancy, yet looking ill he decidedly is. "

So wrote Lady Florence, and very soon Herbert and Percy's letters homeconfirmed all she had said. Either the air of Germany had not beencongenial, or some other cause had so changed his outward appearance andtinged his manner, that Herbert could not look on him without pain; butthe restless irritation, the haughty indifference which had been hisbefore he left Oakwood, no longer existed. There was a quiet dignityabout him that prevented all intrusive sympathy, a mild, steady lustrein his dark grey eye, which so clearly said conscience was at peace, that Herbert instinctively felt the bonds of friendship stronger thanthey had ever been before; he was no longer anxious, for he felt assuredthe errors of Arthur's former life were conquered, and he wrote to hisfather concerning his friend with all his native eloquence. 

Emmeline made no observation; her young soul was absorbed in an intensefeeling of thanksgiving, that her prayers had been heard. Strength hadbeen granted him, and he had done his duty; he was esteemed, beloved;his character was pure and bright; and if the gulf between themremained impassable, should she murmur, when _all_ for which she hadprayed had been vouchsafed her? But a sterner call of obedience appearedabout to hover over her, from which her young spirit shrunk backappalled. 

Herbert's anxious wishes were accomplished; there was no longer anybarrier to his earnest prayers to become a servant of his God, and ofservice to his fellow-creatures. The six years in which he had labouredunceasingly, untiringly, to prepare himself for the life which from hisboyhood he had chosen, now appeared but as a passing dream, and as heknelt before the venerable bishop, his feelings became almostoverpowering. Tears rose in his eyes, and he drooped his head upon hishands to conceal them. He felt this was no common life on which heentered, no mere profession, in which he would be at liberty to thinkand act as he pleased. Herbert felt that he had vowed himself to do thework of God; that in it was comprised the good of his fellow-creatures. The stern conquest of his own rebellious will; that his _actions_, nothis language only, should uphold the glory of his Maker. 

The return of Percy and Herbert brought pleasure to Oakwood, and a weekor two afterwards Lord and Lady St. Eval, with their little boy, arrived, imparting additional happiness. Emmeline was surprised atseeing them, for she thought Lord Louis and his preceptor were expectedat Castle Terryn. Lord St. Eval often spoke of his brother, and alludedto Myrvin, and even hinted his thanks to Emmeline for her exertions inthe latter's favour, when the Marquis was hesitating whether or not tointrust him with the charge of his son; but on such matters he neverspoke openly, yet not so guardedly as to betray to Emmeline he wasacquainted with her secret. 

Mr. Hamilton had many private conversations both with the young Earl andhis son Herbert, but what the subject was which so engrossed him onlyMrs. Hamilton knew. 

The return of Edward, too, from a short cruise gave additional spirit toOakwood. The young sailor had rapidly run through the grades oflieutenant, and now stood the first on the line; his character both as asailor and a man was confirmed. He was as deservedly respected by hismessmates as beloved by his family, and to Ellen he was indeed dear. Themost perfect confidence existed between this affectionate brother andsister, except on one point, and on that even to Edward she could notspeak; but he had not one thought, one feeling which he concealed fromher, he sought no other friend. Scarcely could Mrs. Cameron and her sonWalter recognise in this amiable young man the headstrong, fiery, overbearing lad they had known in India. 

The little party at Oakwood had all either walked or ridden out, andMrs. Hamilton alone remained at home. She stood by the side of Emmeline, who was asleep, peacefully and sweetly; a smile bright and beautiful asof other days, played round her lips. The mother reflected on the wordsof Mr. Maitland, who had assured her, the remedy he proposed would besuccessful. "Make her happy, remove this weighty load which weighs uponher heart, and she will live to be the blessing she has ever been to allwho love her. "

Tears of mingled feeling rose to the eyes of Mrs. Hamilton as shewatched her child. Emmeline's lips moved. "Arthur, dear Arthur, " shemurmured, a faint flush rising to her cheek, and the smile heightened inits brilliancy; a few minutes, and her eyes unclosed; a shade ofdisappointment passed over her features, a faint sigh struggled toescape, but it was checked, for she met her mother's fond glance, andsmiled. 

"Why are you not gone out, dearest mother, this lovely evening? why staywith such a dull companion as I am? Percy and Edward could offer so manymore attractions, and I am sure it is not with their good-will you arehere. "

"Would my Emmeline refuse me the sweet pleasure of watching her, tendingher? believe me, dearest, without you at my side, the park and thislovely evening would lose half their attractions. "

"Do not say so, my own mother. I am not ill, only lazy, and that youwere not wont to encourage; my eyes would close, spite of all myefforts. But why should you have the uninteresting task of watching myslumbers?"

"Because, dearest, I will not abandon my office, till it is claimed asthe right of another. It will soon be, my Emmeline; but do not send mefrom your side, till then. "

"The right of another, dearest mother? whose right will it ever be butyours? who can ever be to me the tender nurse that you have been?"

"One who will vow to love, protect, and cherish you; one who loves you, my own Emmeline, and longs to claim you as his own, and restore, by hisaffection, the health and spirits you have lost; one who has the consentand blessing of your father and myself, and waits but for yours. "

Emmeline started from her recumbent posture. 

"Oh, send me not from you, mother, my own mother! Do not, oh, do notcompel me to marry!" she exclaimed, in a tone of agony. "The affectionof a husband restore my health! oh, no, no, it would break my heart atonce, and you would send me from you but to die. Mother, oh, let me staywith you. Do not let my father command my obedience; in everything elseI will obey but in this. " She hid her face in Mrs. Hamilton's bosom, andwept bitterly. 

"We will command nothing that can make you miserable, my own, " repliedher mother, soothingly. "But you will love him, my Emmeline, you willlove him as he loves you; his fond affection cannot fail to make youhappy. You will learn to know him--to value his noble virtues, hishonourable principles. As his wife, new pleasures, new duties will bearound you. Health will return, and I shall see my Emmeline once more asshe was--my own happy child. "

"And has it indeed gone so far that both you and my father haveconsented, and I must disobey and displease my parents, or be miserablefor life?"

"My child, " said Mrs. Hamilton, so solemnly, that Emmeline involuntarilychecked her tears, "my child, you shall never marry the husband we havechosen for you, unless you can love and be happy with him: sacredly andirrevocably I promise this. You shall not sacrifice yourself for adoubtful duty. If, when you have seen and known him, your wishes stillare contrary to ours, we will not demand your obedience. If you stillprefer your mother's home, never, never shall you go from me. Becomforted, my Emmeline, --do not weep thus. Will you not trust me? Ifyou cannot love, you shall not marry. "

"But, my father--oh, mamma, will he too promise me this?"

"Yes, love; doubt him not, " and a smile so cheering, so happy, was roundMrs. Hamilton's lips as she spoke, that Emmeline unconsciously feltrelieved. "We only wish our Emmeline's consent to an introduction tothis estimable young man, who has so long and so faithfully loved her, and if still she is inexorable we must submit. Could I send you from mewithout your free consent? Could I part from you except for happiness?"

Emmeline threw her arms round her mother's neck. In vain she struggledto ask who was the young man of whom her mother spoke. Why should sheinquire, when she felt that he never, never could be anything to her?Bitterly, painfully she struggled to dismiss the thought hastily fromher mind, and gladly hailed the entrance of the nurse with her littlenephew as a relief. Her mother joined her in caressing and playing withhim, and ere he was dismissed the scattered parties had returned, andthere was no opportunity for farther confidential converse. 

It was a happy, merry party at Oakwood, but the presence of LillaGrahame was wanting to make it complete. Ellen was constantly with her, for she would not permit the lively proceedings of home to interferewith the call of friendship; and in this task of kindness she wasconstantly joined by Edward, who would frequently leave gayer amusementsto offer Lilla his company on her walk, and his intelligentconversation, his many amusing anecdotes, frequently drew a smile fromhis young listener, and, combined with Ellen's presence and more quietsympathy, raised her spirits, and encouraged her in her painful task ofbearing with, if she could not soothe, her father's still irritabletemperament. Moorlands was to be sold; for Mr. Grahame had resolved onburying himself and his child in some retired cottage, where his veryexistence might be forgotten. In vain Mr. And Mrs. Hamilton combatedthis resolution, and entreated him at least to settle near them; gloomy, almost morose, he still spoke of Wales as the only place where he wasnot known, where his name might not be associated with disgrace. Lillawas just of an age to feel the parting with the kind friends of herchildhood as a most painful trial, but she determined to reconcileherself to her father's will whatever it might be. 

Captain Cameron too was an agreeable addition to the society of Oakwood;high-spirited, and naturally joyous, Percy liked him as a kindredspirit; and reserved, though intelligent, Herbert found many points ofhis character assimilate with his. Mrs. Cameron's station in life hadbeen somewhat raised since her return to England. Sir Hector Cameron, her husband's elder brother, childless and widowed, found his morose andsomewhat miserly disposition softened, and his wish to know hisbrother's family became too powerful to be resisted. He had seen Walterin Ireland, and admired the young man ere he knew who he was; a fartheracquaintance, ere he discovered himself as his uncle, heightened thesegood impressions, and Walter, to his utter astonishment, found himselfsuddenly the heir to a rich baronetcy, and his mother and sisterscomfortably provided for. He rejoiced at his good fortune, but not atthe baronetcy itself; not for the many pleasures which, as Sir Hector'sheir, now stood temptingly before him, but because he might now indeedencourage an affection, which he had once believed was as hopeless as itwas intense. 

There is but one person whom we knew in a former page whose fate we haveomitted to mention; it may be well to do so here, ere we proceedregularly with our narrative. The high-minded, unselfish, truth-lovingLady Gertrude Lyle had at length, to the great joy of her parents, consented to reward long years of silent devotion, by bestowing her handon the Marquis of Alford. They were married, and need we say that theywere happy? Lady Gertrude's love to her husband increased with eachpassing year, and he, as time passed on, missed nothing of that brightexample of goodness, of piety, and virtue, which had led him to deserveher love. 

"Emmeline, dearest, put on your prettiest dress to-night, and confinethose flowing curls with some tasteful wreath, " said Mr. Hamilton, playfully addressing his daughter, about a week after the conversationwith her mother. The dressing-bell had sounded, and the various inmatesof Oakwood were obeying its summons as he spoke, and Caroline laughinglyasked her father how long he had taken such an interest in dress. "Doesyour ladyship think I never do?" he replied, with mock gravity. 

"Do you remember when my dear father's own hand wreathed a sprig ofscarlet geranium in my hair, some ten years ago, when I was a vain andwilful girl?" replied the young Countess, without heeding his question, and looking up with fond affection in his face. "Ah, papa, no flower, even when formed of gems, ever gave me so much pleasure as that. "

"Not even when placed within these glossy curls by St. Eval's hand? Areyou not jealous, Eugene?"

"Not in the least, my dear sir, " replied the Earl, laughing. "I haveheard of that flower, and the good effects it produced. "

"You have heard of it, have you? I should have fancied my Caroline hadlong ere this forgotten it. "

Lady St. Eval smiled reproachfully as she quitted the room, and Mr. Hamilton, turning to Emmeline, took her hand fondly, and said, "Why doesmy Emmeline look so grave? Does she not approve of her father taking aninterest in her dress? But it is not for me I wish you to look prettyto-night, I will confess; for another, Emmeline, one whom I expect youwill, for my sake, do all in your power to please, and--and love. Do notstart, my child, the task will not be very difficult. " He kissed hercheek with a cheerful smile, and left her, motionless and pale, everyfeature expressive of passive endurance, her hands clasped tightly onher heart. Emmeline sat before her mirror, and permitted Fanny toarrange her beautiful hair as she would; to her it mattered not. Thewords of her father alone rung in her ears. That night sealed her fate. Fanny spoke, for she was alarmed at her young lady's manner, butEmmeline answered as if she had heard her not, and the business of thetoilette passed in silence. Yet so well had it been performed, so fairand lovely did that gentle girl look, as she entered the drawing-room, that every eye was fixed on her in admiration. The graceful folds of anIndian muslin dress enveloped her slight form, and a wreath of liliesof the valley, twined with the smallest pink rose-buds, confined herluxuriant hair; a scarcely perceptible blush was on her cheeks, and hereyes, continually wandering round the room, as if in search for someunseen object, shone with unusual brilliancy. Her father whispered, ashe found himself near her--

"I do not expect my friend will arrive till late, my little Emmy, butlook as pretty then as you do now, and I shall be satisfied. "

She was relieved, but intelligence met her ear, ere dinner wasconcluded, that rendered it a fearful struggle to retain her composure. Mrs. Cameron's family, Mr. Howard, and one or two others, she knew werecoming in the evening, but that Lord St. Eval expected his brother Louisto arrive at Oakwood by eight or nine o'clock that same evening, wasindeed information startling in the extreme. Would he not be accompaniedby his preceptor? Would she not see him, from whom she had so long beenparted? see him, to whom her heart was given, and in his presence beintroduced to the husband of her parents' choice?

Mrs. Hamilton watched her with extreme uneasiness, and when dinner wasover, whispered, as it seemed, an earnest entreaty in her husband's ear. He shook his head in sportive refusal; she still appeared anxious, butacquiesced. The hours passed on. Emmeline for a few minutes had retired, for the happiness, the gaiety around her, pressed with over-poweringheaviness on her heart; she had turned from it almost unconsciously. "Why, oh, why did I not confess to mamma that I could not wed another, because I still loved Arthur? why was I so foolish as to fear to confessthe truth, we should not then have met? Why have I been so weak to hidethese miserable feelings even from my mother? how can I expect hersympathy, when she knows them not?"

So she thought, but it was now too late. The affectionate caresses, thekind voice of her cousin Ellen roused her; controlling herself, she tookEllen's arm, and together they entered the drawing-room. She saw nostrangers, all were familiar to her eye, and rallying her spirits, sheentered into conversation with St. Eval, who hastened up to her as sheentered. Ellen joined the dancers. 

"I wonder why we all seem so gay and happy to-night, " said St. Eval. "Look at Captain Cameron and our pretty demure cousin Ellen, Emmeline; Inever saw such devotion in my life. Take my word for it, that will be amatch one of these days, and a very pretty one. Cameron is a goodfellow, and if ever any one were smitten, he is. "

"But Ellen's admiration of his character is rather too open and freelyexpressed for him to hope his affection, if he do love, is returned. No, Eugene, Captain Cameron may be attracted, I grant you, but I do notfancy he will be Ellen's choice. "

"Do you know any whom you think will?"

"What a question, " she said, smiling, "to tempt me to betray my cousin'ssecrets, if she had any, but candidly I must admit that as yet I knownone. It is a strange fancy, but I often think Ellen will be an oldmaid. "

"Why, is she so precise, so prim, so opinionated, so crabbed? For shame, Emmeline, even to hint such a thing. "

"Nay, St. Eval, the shame is rather yours, for daring to associate suchterms with a single woman. To go through life alone, without sympathy, without any call for natural affections, always appears at first sightrather melancholy than otherwise; but why should dislike and prejudicebe added to them? I cannot think that a woman's remaining unmarried isany proof of her being unamiable. "

"Indeed, I am not so unjust, " said the Earl, smiling; "when old maidsconduct themselves properly, I esteem them quite as much and more thansome married women. But still Ellen shall not be an old maid; she is toopretty and too good, and would bless any man who may be happy enough togain her affections and esteem. But you, Emmeline, you, surely, will notbe an old maid, though you are so warm in their defence. "

"My lot is not in my own hands--do not speak of that, Eugene, " she said, with a quivering lip; and hastily turning from his gaze, she added, "asyou seem to know everybody's concerns in the room, what are Mrs. Cameronand Florence talking so intently about?"

"On the old subject: my madcap brother Louis and his sage tutor. By thebye, Emmy, I have never asked what you think of Myrvin's conduct in thisaffair; did he not behave admirably?"

"He did but his duty, " replied Emmeline, firmly. "He acted but as everyman of generous feelings would have done; it was his duty, for he hadpledged himself to the care of his pupil, and could he have left him inhis sickness? The dictates of common humanity, the social duties of lifewould have prevented him. "

"What a pity Florence does not hear you, such calm reasoning woulddestroy all the glow of romance which she has thrown around theseincidents. But indeed you do not give Myrvin his due, every man does notperform his duty. "

"Every man _ought_, and when he does not, he is wrong; as when he does, he is right. "

"But this is contrary to your own principle, Emmeline. What has becomeof the enthusiasm which once bade you condemn all such cold judgments, such scanty praise? Once upon a time, you would have looked on suchconduct very differently. "

Emmeline turned away, but St. Eval saw her eyes were swimming in tears. He continued, sportively--

"Be assured, I will tell Myrvin as soon as I see him. "

"I beg you will not, my lord, " Emmeline said, struggling to retain hercalmness; but failing, she added, entreatingly, "dearest Eugene, if youhave any regard for me, do not repeat my words; let them pass with thesubject, it has engrossed us quite enough. "

St. Eval shook his head in playful reproof. They sat apart from thedancers, and feeling neither her words nor any subsequent agitationcould be remarked, she placed her trembling hand in St. Eval's, andsaid, almost inarticulately--

"Eugene, tell me, does Arthur--Mr. Myrvin accompany Lord Louis to-night?Do not deceive me. "

"He does, " he replied instantly, "and what detains them I cannotunderstand. But fear nothing, dearest Emmeline, I know all; you maytrust me, fear nothing. And now your promise--the quadrille is formed, they only wait for us. "

"I know all, fear nothing, " Emmeline internally repeated, her wholeframe trembling with agitation, as kindly and encouragingly St. Evalled her to the place assigned them. She forced herself to think only onthe dance, on the amusing anecdotes he was telling her, on the lightlaugh, the ready jest that were sparkling around her. Her natural gracein dancing forsook her not, nor did she refuse her sister's request, when the quadrille was finished, that she would take out her harp. Sheseated herself at the instrument and commenced. 

Music had not lost its charm, rapt in the exquisite air she was playing, it seemed to soothe her agitated feelings, and bid her forget her usualtimidity. All were silent, for the air was so sweet, so plaintive, not avoice could have disturbed it; it changed to a quicker, more animatedstrain, and at that instant Emmeline beheld Edward and Ellen hastilyrise to greet a young man, who noiselessly yet eagerly came forward tomeet them: it was Lord Louis. Emmeline started, a strong effort aloneenabled her to command herself sufficiently to continue playing, but herfingers now moved mechanically; every pulse throbbed so violently, andto her ear so loudly, that she no longer heard the notes she played. Allwas a mist before her eyes, and the animated plaudits that greeted heras she ceased, rung in her ears as unmeaning, unintelligible sounds. Lord Louis hastily advanced to lead her from the harp, and to tell herhow very glad he was to see her again, though even his usually carelesseye lost its mirthful expression, as he marked the alteration in hisfavourite companion. Emmeline tried to smile and answer him in his ownstrain, but her smile was sickly and faint, and her voice trembledaudibly as she spoke. She looked round, fearing, yet longing to seeanother, but Lord Louis was alone. His preceptor was not near him, butMr. And Mrs. Hamilton, St. Eval and Herbert had also left the room. Somelittle time passed in animated conversation, still Myrvin did notappear. 

"You are wanted in the library, dearest Emmeline, " said the youngCountess St. Eval. 

"Come with me, Emmeline: foolish girl, 'fear nothing, '" said the Earl, joyously. 

"Smile, gentle one, " he whispered, as she turned her beseeching glancetowards him, "do not greet the husband your parents have selected foryou with a countenance such as this; nay, fear nothing, " he repeated, asher steps faltered, and every limb trembled at his words. Again hesmiled as he had once before during that evening, and for the first timea gleam of sudden light darted across the bewildered mind of theagitated girl, but so dazzling were the rays, so overpowering thebrilliancy, from the contrast with the deep gloom which had been therebefore, that she could not believe it real; she deemed it some wildfreak of fancy, that sportive fancy which had so long deserted her. St. Eval hurried on, supporting rather than leading his companion. Theyreached the library, and Emmeline's agitation increased almost tofainting; she leaned more heavily on St. Eval's arm; though her heartbeat almost audibly, and her cheek vied in its paleness with a marblestatue near her, not a word betrayed her emotion. There were many lightswithin the library, a group was gathered round the centre table, but toEmmeline all was indistinct, not one amongst them could she recognise. Her father hastened towards her, he took her trembling hand in his, andled her gently forward. 

"Look up, my beloved, " he said, tenderly, "we have sent for you toratify the consent your mother and I have given, given on condition, that if yours be withheld, ours also is void. But will the long years ofsilent love and uncomplaining suffering for your sake, plead in vain toone so gentle as yourself? Look up, my Emmeline, and tell me, if thefond affection, the tender cares of him whom we have chosen, will notindeed prove the best restorative we can bestow?"

She did look up, and the quick gushing flow of blood dyed her pallidcheek with crimson, and lit up her soft eyes with their wonted lustre. There was one tall, manly form beside her, gazing on her with suchdevoted love, that she saw not how pale were those expressive features, what a deep impress of long suffering was on that high and noble brow. She heard naught but that deep rich voice pronounce her name, and callher "his own, own Emmeline, " for she had sunk in his extended arms, shehad hidden her face upon his shoulder and wept. 

"Are we forgiven, Emmeline, dearest?" said Mrs. Hamilton, fondly, aftera long pause, which many mingled feelings had occasioned. Her childwithdrew for a moment from the arms of her betrothed, and flung herselfupon her neck. "Your father bound me by a promise not to reveal hissecret, and I kept it well till this evening; for did you not deservesome punishment, my child, for believing even for a single moment yourparents would have rewarded your unwavering discharge of a most painfulduty, your unhesitating submission to our will, by forcing you to bestowyour hand upon another, when your heart was already engaged? No, my ownEmmeline, we could not have been so cruel. Take her, my dear Arthur;freely, fearlessly I consign her happiness to your charge, for indeedyou have well deserved her. "

We need not lift the veil from the brief interview which theconsideration of Mr. And Mrs. Hamilton afforded to the lovers, it isenough that they were happy, happy in the consciousness not of presentjoy alone, but of duty unshrinkingly performed, of pain endured withunrepining fortitude; unalloyed in its purity indeed was theirhappiness, for it was the recompense of virtue. 

When the tidings of what had passed were made known, there were few whodid not feel as if some individual joy had been imparted. The universalsympathy occasioned by the happiness of a being so generally beloved asEmmeline shed new animation over the little party. And Ellen, the gentleaffectionate Ellen, did not she rejoice? She did, unfeignedly, sincerely, but there was a pang of bitterness mingled with it which shevainly struggled to subdue. 

"Can you consent to live in the humble vicarage of my estate, Emmeline?"whispered the young Earl in her ear, as she relinquished the arm ofArthur, whom Edward, Percy, and Ellen were eagerly surrounding. "Youhave often admired it. Will it serve you for a home, think you? if not, name what alterations you will like, and they shall be done, even as ifAladdin's wonderful genii had performed it. "

"Dearest Eugene, " said Emmeline, "I feel it is to you, to your generouspleadings in Arthur's favour, I greatly owe this happiness. Will you notlet me thank you for that, instead of asking more?"

"No, little fairy, I will do no such thing, for I only spoke the truth, and that, Emmeline, 'was but my _duty_, ' and demands no thanks or praisewhatever; and as I have selected my friend Myrvin to supply the place ofmy late vicar, who was promoted last week to a better living, to seeeverything prepared for his comfort, and that of his wife, is alsomine. "

"Nay, spare me, dear St. Eval; I will plead guilty of not giving Arthurhis due, if you will promise me not always to torment me with duty. Iwas unjust and unkind. "

"No, dearest Emmy, you were neither unjust nor unkind; you only said onething and meant another, and as _I_ know _why_ you did so, I forgiveyou. "

Mrs. Cameron's family and the other guests having departed, and only Mr. Hamilton's own circle lingering in the drawing-room, some surprise wasoccasioned to all except Mrs. Hamilton and Percy, by Mr. Hamiltonsuddenly laying his hand gently on Herbert's shoulder, and sayingearnestly, though somewhat playfully--

"One surprise and one cause for congratulation we might, I think, deemsufficient for _one_ evening, but I intend being the happy messenger ofanother event, which may chance to be even more surprising, andcertainly not less joyful. I beg you will all offer Mrs. Hamilton andmyself your warmest congratulations, for the same day that gives us anew son will, I trust, bestow on us an other daughter. This quiet youngman intends taking unto himself a wife; and as it may be some littletime ere we can bring her home from France, the best thing we can do isto anticipate two marriages in one day. "

"Herbert, my true English bred and English feeling cousin, marry aFrench woman, by my good sword, you shall not, " said Edward, laughing, when the universal surprise and joy which this information had excitedhad somewhat subsided. The eager question who was Herbert's choice, wasasked by Caroline and Emmeline together. 

"Fear nothing, Master Lieutenant, " St. Eval said, ere Herbert couldreply; "my wits, though a landsman, are not quite so blunt as yours, andI guess better than you do. Is it possible no one here can tell? has mydemure brother Herbert's secret never been suspected? Caroline, what hasbecome of your penetration; and Emmeline, your romance? Ellen, cannotyou guess?"

"Yes, " she replied, instantly, though as she spoke a sudden crimson roseto her cheek, which, though unnoticed, had been, while Mr. Hamiltonspoke, pale as death. 

"May you, may you be happy, dearest Herbert, " she added, calmly, as sheextended her hand to him; "few are so fitted to make you so, few can sotruly sympathise in your feelings as Mary Greville. "

"You are right, you are right, Ellen, " said Lady Emily Lyle, as Herbertwarmly pressed his cousin's hand, and thanked her in that low thrillingvoice so peculiarly his own; and then, with a countenance radiant withanimated joy, turned towards the little group, and thanking them for thejoy with which his Mary's name was universally greeted, turned to Edwardand asked, with a smile, if Mary were not sufficiently English tocontent him. 

"Quite, quite; I would even go over to France for the sake of bringingher to England in my gallant Gem, " replied the young sailor. "She isthe best wife you could have chosen, Herbert, for you were everalongside, even in your boyish days; and it would have been a sin andshame for you to have married any one else. Percy, why do not you followsuch an excellent example?"

"I--because a bachelor's life has not yet lost its charms for me, Edward! I like my own ease, my own pleasure best, and wish to be free ashort time longer, " replied the young man, stretching himself on a sofa, with a comic air of _nonchalance_ and affectation; then starting up, headded, theatrically, "I am going to be a senator, a senator; and how inthe world can I think of matrimony but as a state of felicity unsuitedto such a hard-working fellow as I am, or rather mean to be. "

"I commend you for the correction in your speech, Percy, " said hismother, smiling. "_Mean to be_ and _am_, are two very different things. "

"But in me may chance so to amalgamate as to become the same. Mother, who would believe you could be so severe? But I forgive you; one ofthese days you will regret your injustice: that smile says I wish I may. Well, we shall see. And now, lords and ladies, to bed, to bed. I haveswallowed such large draughts of surprise to-night, I can bear no more. A kind good night to all. Myrvin, " he called out from the hall, "if youare as early to-morrow as you were at Oxford, we will be off toTrevilion and inspect your new vicarage before breakfast, and back bynight. "

"Not to-morrow, Arthur, " entreated Emmeline, in a low voice, as hefollowed her from the room. 

"Not to-morrow, dearest, " he replied, tenderly, as he drew her to hisbosom, and bade God bless her. 

The other members of the family also separated, Ellen one of the last, for Lady Emily at first detained her in some trifling converse, and Mrs. Hamilton was telling her of something she wished her niece to do for herthe next morning. Ellen was standing in the shade as her aunt spoke; allhad left the room except Edward and themselves, and humming a livelyair, the former was departing, when, turning round to wish his sistergood night, the light flashed full upon her face, and there wassomething in its expression, in its almost unearthly paleness, that madehim suddenly start and cease his song. 

"Merciful heaven! Ellen, what is the matter? You look like a ghost. "

"Do not be silly, Edward, there is nothing the matter. I am quite well, only warm, " she replied, struggling to smile, but her voice was sochoked, her smile so unnatural, that not only her brother but her auntwas alarmed. 

"You are deceiving us, my dear girl, you are not well. Are you in pain, dearest?" she said, hastening towards her. 

Ellen had borne up well when unnoticed; but the voice of kindness, thefond caress her aunt bestowed completely overpowered her, and, sinkingon a chair, she burst into tears. 

"It is nothing, indeed it is nothing, my dear aunt, " she said, with astrong effort checking the bursting sob. "I have felt the heat veryoppressive all the evening, it is only that which makes me so foolish. "

"I hope it is only the heat, my Ellen, " replied Mrs. Hamilton, fondly, suspicion flashing across her mind, not indeed of the truth, butsomething near akin to it. For a few minutes Ellen leaned her headsilently against her aunt, who continued bending over her, thenreturning her affectionate kiss, shook hands with her brother, assuredhim she was quite well, and quietly left the room. 

"Now, then, I know indeed my fate, " Ellen murmured internally, as heraching head rested on a sleepless pillow, and her clasped hands werepressed against her heart to stop its suffocating throbs. "Why am I thusoverwhelmed, as if I had ever hoped, as if this were unexpected? Have Inot known it, have I not felt that she would ever be his choice? that Iwas mad enough to love one, who from his boyhood loved another. Why hasit fallen on me as a shock for which I was utterly unprepared? What hasbecome of my many resolutions? Why should the task be more difficult nowthan it has been? I feel as if life were irksome to me, as if all Iloved were turned to that bitterness of spirit against which I havestriven, as if I could dash from my poor cousin's lips the cup ofunexpected happiness she has only this evening tasted. Oh, mercifulFather! forsake me not now, let me not feel thus, only fill my heartwith love and charity, take from me this bitterness and envy. It is Thouthat dispenseth this bitter cup. Father, I recognise Thy hand, and wouldindeed resign myself to Thee. Oh, enable me to do so; teach me to loveThee alone, to do Thy work, to subdue myself, and in thankfulnessreceive the many blessings still around me; let me but see _them_ happy. Oh, my Father, let Thy choicest blessings be his lot, and for me" it wasa bitter struggle, but ere the night had passed that young spirit hadconquered, had uttered fervently, trustingly, heartfully, --"for me, oh, my Father, let Thy will be done. " And Ellen joined the breakfast-tablethe following morning calm and cheerful; there was no trace of internalsuffering, no sign to betray even to her aunt all that she endured. Sheentered cheerfully into all Emmeline's happiness, accompanied her andArthur, with Lord and Lady St. Eval, to Trevilion, and entered intoevery suggested plan, as if indeed no other thoughts engrossed her. Arthur and Emmeline found in her an active and affectionate friend, andthe respect and love with which she felt herself regarded seemed tosoothe, while it urged her on to increased exertion. Mrs. Hamiltonwatched her anxiously; she had at first fancied Arthur was the object ofher niece's regard, but this idea was not strengthened, and though shefelt assured such was not the real cause of Ellen's agitation thateventful evening, she could not, and did not guess the truth. 

The revealing a long-treasured secret, the laying bare feelings of theheart, which have so long been concealed, even to our dearest friends, does not always produce happiness; there is a blank within us, ayearning after something we know not what, and the spirit loses for atime its elasticity. It may be that the treasured secret has been solong enshrined in our innermost souls, we have felt it so long as onlyour own, that when we betray it to others, it is as if we parted from afriend; it is no longer our own, we can no longer hold sweet communionwith it, for the voice of the world hath also reached it, and though atfirst its revealing is joy, it is followed by a sorrow. So Herbert felt, when the excitement of congratulation, of the warm sympathy of hisfriends had given place to solicitude and thought. Mary had been solong the shrine of his secret, fondest thoughts, he had so long indulgedin delicious fancies, known to few others save himself, that now theyhad been intruded on even by the voice of gratulation, they would nolonger throng around. It was strange that on this night, when his choicehad been so warmly approved of by all his friends, when words of suchheartfelt kindness had been lavished in his ear, that the same dullforeboding of future evil, of suffering, of death, pressed heavily onhim, as in earlier years it had been so wont to do. He struggled againstit; he would not listen to its voice, but it would have sway. Donned itwas not indeed, but from its mystery more saddening. Herbert wrestledwith himself in fervent prayer; that night was to him almost assleepless as it was to his cousin Ellen, but the cause of her wearywatching was, alas! too well defined. The bright sun, the joyous voicesof his brother and cousin beneath his window, roused Herbert from thesethoughts, and ere the day had passed, he had partly recovered the usualtenor of his mind, though its buoyancy was still subdued, and its secrettemperament somewhat sad, but to his family he seemed as usual. 

CHAPTER VI. 

Some weeks passed, and Emmeline's health was rapidly returning; herspirits were more like those of her girlhood, subdued indeed by pastsuffering, but only so far subdued as to render her, if possible, stilldearer to all those who loved her; and she, too, beheld with delight thecolour returning to her Arthur's cheek, his step regaining itselasticity; and there was a manly dignity about him now which, when shefirst loved, she had not seen, but which she felt rendered him stilldearer, for she could look up to him for support, she could feeldependence on his stronger and more decisive character. 

Each week confirmed Mr. And Mrs. Hamilton in the wisdom of theirdecision, by revealing more clearly Myrvin's character. He was moredevoted to the duties of his clerical profession; pride, haughtiness, that dislike to mingle with his parishioners, had all departed, and asthey observed how warmly and delightedly their Emmeline entered into hismany plans for doing good, for increasing the happiness of the villagersunder his spiritual charge, they felt that her domestic virtues, hergentle disposition, were far more suited to the wife of a clergyman, than to that life of bustling gaiety which might perhaps, under othercircumstances, have been her portion. 

"Are there not responsibilities attached to a clergyman's wife?" sheonce asked her mother. "I feel as if so much depended upon _me_ torender him respected and beloved, that I sometimes fear I may fail in myduty, and, through ignorance, not intentional, perhaps bring discrediton his name. Dearest mother, how can I prevent this?"

"These fears are natural to one of your character, my Emmeline, but theywill quickly pass away. You would be more likely to fail in the dutiesof fashionable life, than in those which you will soon have to fulfil. Occupation which, had you been more fashionably educated, must have beenirksome, will to you remain the pleasures they have ever been, heightened and encouraged by the sympathy of your husband. A wife to betruly happy and virtuous, must entirely forget _self_; a truth which thepartner of a country clergyman should ever remember, as his family islarger, more constant in their calls upon her attention and sympathy, and sometimes her exertions are less productive of satisfaction andpleasure, than those of many other stations in life. Her own demeanourshould be alike gentle, unassuming, persuasive, yet dignified, so thather actions may assist and uphold her husband's doctrines more than herlanguage. You have but to follow the principles of Christianity and thedictates of your own heart, my Emmeline, and your duty will be done, almost unconsciously to yourself. "

The only drawback to Emmeline's happiness was, that Lord and Lady St. Eval were obliged to leave England ere her marriage could be solemnized, the health of the latter prohibiting further delay. They did not expectto be absent much more than a twelvemonth, and the Earl, laughingly, told Emmeline, if she would defer her wedding till then, he wouldpromise to be present; to that, however, none of the parties concernedseemed inclined to consent, and St. Eval owned he would much rather, onhis return, see her comfortably settled at the Vicarage, wherepreparations were rapidly advancing. Percy, however, promised to deferhis intended tour till his favourite sister should be Myrvin's bride, and Edward, on leaving to join his ship, declared, if wind and tide werenot very contrary, he, too, would take a run down and dance at herwedding. 

A short time after the departure of the Earl and Countess, and Edward, Ellen received from the hand of her cousin Herbert a letter, which forthe moment caused her some emotion. She felt his eyes were fixed uponher with a peculiar expression, and shrinking from them, she washastening to her own room to answer the letter there, when Herbertcalled after her--

"Do not run away from me, Nelly; whatever be your answer, I am to be thebearer. "

Returning instantly, she asked, with cheek suddenly paled and lipcompressed, "Are you then aware of the contents of this letter, Herbert;are you in Captain Cameron's confidence?"

"To both demands I am happy enough to answer, yes, Ellen, " he replied, smiling archly. "Captain Cameron has made me his father confessor, andin return, I have promised to use all my influence in his favour, totell you what his letter may perhaps have but incoherently expressed:that he loves you, Ellen, devotedly, faithfully; that he feels lifewithout you, however brilliant in appearance, will be a blank. Ipromised him I would play the lover well, and indeed, my dear cousin, his affection and esteem for you do not admit a single doubt. "

"I am sorry for it, " said Ellen, calmly, "very sorry, as it is not in mypower to return those feelings, and consequently I am compelled to givehim pain. I am grateful, very grateful for the high opinion, the kindfeelings, his letter expresses towards me. I shall never cease torespect and value him as a friend, but more I cannot give. "

"Nay, Ellen, take time to consider of his offer; do not refuse him atonce thus decidedly. You say you respect him. I know you admire hisconduct, both as a son and brother, and as a man. What objections arethere so great as to call for this decided and instant refusal?"

"Simply because, as a husband, I can never love him. "

"Never is a long day, Ellen. You surely have not so much romance in yourcomposition as to refuse a young man possessing every virtue which canmake a woman happy, merely because he does not excite any very violentpassion? Do you not know there are some dispositions which never love tothe full extent of the word, and yet are perhaps happier in the marriagestate than those who do? Now you may be one of these, Ellen. "

"It may be so, " she said, still calmly, though a deep flush stained hercheek. Herbert had spoken playfully, but there was that in his wordswhich, to a heart seared as was hers, was productive of intensesuffering. 

"It may be so perhaps; I shall never meet one to love, as I believe ahusband ought to be loved, yet that would not satisfy my conscience foraccepting Walter. I trust I am not romantic, Herbert, but I will say, that the vow to love, honour, and obey, to think only of him, demandssomething more than the mere cold esteem which some may deem sufficientfor happiness. Walter _is_ an estimable young man, one who will make anywoman happy, and deeply indeed I regret that he has chosen one who canonly return his warm devoted affection with the comparatively chillingsentiments of friendship and esteem. I would not do his kind heart somuch wrong as to accept him. "

"But take time, Ellen, give him some hope. You can urge no objectionsagainst him, and his family are dear to you. He has told me that fromhis childhood he loved you, that your remembrance never left him, andwhen again he met you, his fanciful visions became a beautiful andpalpable reality; give him, at least, some time for hope. It isimpossible, with a heart disengaged as yours, to associate intimatelywith him and not love him. "

"A heart disengaged as mine! how know you that, Herbert?" said hiscousin, with a smile, which would have deceived the most penetratingeye. "Are you not presuming too far in your inspection of my heart, seeking in rather a roundabout way, to obtain my entire confidence?"

"No, dearest Ellen, I speak and feel in this business but as Edwardwould, were he in my place; your happiness is as dear to me as it is tohim. We have for very many years been to each other as a brother andsister, and, believe me, in urging your acceptance of this good youngman, I seek but your welfare alone. "

"I believe you, my dear cousin, " replied Ellen, frankly holding out herhand, which Herbert warmly pressed. "But indeed, in this instance, youare deceived. An union with Walter Cameron would not form my happiness, worthy as he is, --suitable as the world would deem such a match in allrespects; and sorry as I am to inflict pain and disappointment on thecompanion of my childhood, as also, I fear, on his kind mother, I cannotbe his wife. "

"And if your affections be already engaged, far be it from me to urgeyou farther; but"--

"I said not that they were, Herbert, " interrupted Ellen, steadilyfixing, as she spoke, her large eyes unshrinkingly on her cousin's face. Herbert felt fairly puzzled, he could not read her heart; he would haveasked her confidence, he would have promised to do all in his power toforward her happiness, but there was something around her that, while itcalled forth his almost unconscious respect, entirely checked allfarther question. He did not fancy that she loved another, and yet whythis determined rejection of a young man whom he knew she esteemed. 

"I am only grieving you by continuing the subject, " he said; "andtherefore grant me your forgiveness, dearest Ellen, and your finalanswer to Cameron, and it shall be resumed no more. "

"I have nothing to forgive, Herbert, " replied Ellen, somewhatmournfully. 

She sat a few minutes longer, in saddened thought, gazing on the openletter, and then quitted the room and sought her own. She softly closedthe door, secured it, and then sinking on a low seat beside her couch, buried her pale face in her hands, and for a few minutes remainedoverwhelmed by that intensity of secret and tearless suffering. It wascalled forth afresh by this interview with her cousin: to hear his lipsplead thus eloquently the cause of another; to hear him say that perhapsshe was one of those who would never love to its full extent. When heryoung heart felt bursting beneath the load of deep affection pressingthere, one sweet alone mingled in that cup of bitterness, Herbertguessed not, suspected not the truth. She had succeeded well inconcealing the anguish called forth by unrequited love, and she wouldstruggle on. 

"Never, never shall it be known that I have given this rebellious heartto one who seeks it not. No, no, that tale shall live and die with me;no one shall know how low I have fallen. Poor Walter! he will think Icannot feel for his unreturned affection, when I know too well its pang;and why should I not be happy with him, why live on in lingeringwretchedness, when, perhaps as a wife, new duties might rouse me fromthis lethargy? Away from Herbert I might forget--be reconciled; butswear to love Walter when I have no love to give--return his affectionby indifference--oh, no, no, I will not be so guilty. "

Ellen again hid her eyes in her hands, and thought long and painfully. Pride urged her to accept young Cameron, but every better feelingrevolted from it. She started from that posture of despondency, and, with a bursting heart, answered Walter's eloquent appeal. Kindnessbreathed in every line she wrote--regard for his welfare--esteem for hischaracter; but she calmly yet decidedly rejected his addresses. She wasgrieved, she said, most deeply grieved that anything in her mannertowards him had encouraged his hopes. She had acted but as she felt, looking on the companion of her early childhood, the son of her father'sand her own kind friend, as a brother and a friend, in which light shehoped he would ever permit her to regard him. Hope found noresting-place in her letter, but it breathed such true and gentlesympathy and kindness, that Walter could not but feel soothed, even inthe midst of disappointment. Ellen paused ere she sealed her letter; shecould not bear to act, even in this matter, without confiding in heraunt; that Captain Cameron had proposed and been rejected, she feltassured, report would soon convey to her ears. Why not then seek herherself? The task of writing had calmed her heart. Taking, therefore, Walter's letter and her own, she repaired to her aunt's dressing-room, and fortunately found her alone. Mrs. Hamilton looked earnestly at heras she entered, but she made no observation till, in compliance withEllen's request, she perused the letters offered to her. 

"Have you reflected sufficiently on your decision, my Ellen?" she said, after thanking her for the confidence she reposed in her. "Have youthought well on the estimable character of this young man? Far be itfrom me to urge or persuade you in such an important matter as marriage, but you have not, I trust, answered this letter on the impulse of themoment?"

"No, aunt, I have not indeed. Herbert has been most earnestly pleadingCaptain Cameron's cause, and I have thought on all he has said, and thelittle I can bring forward to combat it, but still I have refused him, because as a husband I can never love him. I honour all his goodqualities. I cannot remember one fault or failing in his character, which might render a wife unhappy. I grieve for his disappointment, butI should not think I was doing either him or myself justice, to accepthim merely on these considerations. Herbert, I know, considers meromantic, and perhaps unkind towards his friend; but painful as such anidea is, I cannot act otherwise than I have done. "

"Do not let that idea, then, continue to give you pain, my dear girl;your manner towards Walter has never expressed more than kindness andfriendly regard. If I had seen anything like encouragement to him onyour part, do you not think I should have called you to account longago?" she added, with a smile, as Ellen, much relieved, kissed her insilence. "Our young folks have, I know sometimes in sport, allied yourname with his, but I have generally checked them. Walter I certainly didfancy admired you, but I did not imagine the feeling so decided as ithas proved. I will not blame your decision, though perhaps it may not bea very wise one. Marriage is too serious a thing to be entered uponlightly, and if you cannot love Walter as a husband, why you are quiteright not to accept him. I am not so eager to part with my Ellen as toadvise her marrying, whether she likes it or not. I shall soon have onlyyou to cheer my old age, you know. Do not look so pained and sad, love;it is not thus young ladies in general refuse an offer. Go and give yourletter to Herbert, tell him it has my unqualified approval, and thenreturn to me. I marked some beautiful passages in one of our favouriteauthors the other day and you shall read them to me. Now run away, andcome back quickly. "

Ellen obeyed gladly and gratefully, and was enabled playfully to returnthe smile with which Herbert received her letter and his mother'smessage. Mrs. Hamilton felt more and more convinced that her suspicionswere correct, and that her niece's affections were unhappily engaged. She thought again and again who could be their object, and still shefancied it was Arthur Myrvin. She scarcely knew why herself, except fromEllen's agitation the night of his arrival at Oakwood, and engagementwith Emmeline. That Herbert was the object was to her so improbable, that the idea never crossed her mind. They had lived so long as brotherand sister, they had from their earliest childhood so intimatelyassociated with each other, Ellen and Edward were to her so like her ownchildren, that not once did she imagine Ellen loved her cousin. Shewatched her closely, and she was more and more convinced that she hadsomething to conceal. She was certain her decided rejection of Walterproceeded from her affections being already engaged, which had alsoblinded her to his attentions; and she was convinced also that Ellenloved in vain, and therefore, though she longed to console and sootheher, she resolved not to speak to her on the subject, and wring from hera secret which, when once betrayed, though revealed to her alone, mightbe still more painful to endure. Mrs. Hamilton's manner was so kind, sosoothing, so calculated to support and strengthen, that Ellen more thanonce wondered whether her aunt had indeed discovered her secret; but shecould not speak of it. She could not even to the being she loved best onearth, with the exception of one, thus lay bare her aching heart. Oftenand often she longed to throw herself in the arms of her aunt and weep, but she controlled the impulse, and bore on in silence and outwardcheerfulness; strengthened in her efforts by the conviction that Herbertknew not, imagined not the truth. 

Young Cameron was grieved and disappointed, for his love for Ellen wasindeed sincere, but he could not mistake her letter; he saw there was nohope, her expressions of friendship and kindness were soothing andgratifying, they prevented all bitterness of feeling, and he determinedto preserve the friendship and brotherly regard which she so franklyproffered. 

Mrs. Cameron was at first somewhat hurt at Ellen's decided rejection ofher son, but she could not long retain any emotion of coolness towardsher, she could not resist the affectionate manner of Ellen, and all wassoon as usual between them. A visit with Percy to Castle Malvern, atLord Louis's earnest entreaty, to Walter was an agreeable change, thoughit had at first been a struggle to rouse himself sufficiently. There thecharacter and conversation of Lady Florence Lyle, to his excited fancy, so much resembled Ellen's, that unconsciously he felt soothed and happy. From Castle Malvern, he joined his regiment with Lord Louis, who hadreceived a commission in the same troop, and by the time Captain Cameronreturned to Oakwood, he could associate with Ellen as a friend and abrother. Above a year, it is true, elapsed before that time, and in thatperiod events had occurred at Oakwood, as unexpected as they weremournful--but we will not anticipate. 

Soon after Lord and Lady St. Eval's departure for Italy, Mr. Grahame, despite the entreaties of his friends, even the silent eloquence ofLilla's appealing eyes, put his resolution into force, and retired toWales. He had paid to the last farthing all his misguided son'shonourable and dishonourable debts; and this proceeding, as might beexpected, left him so reduced in fortune as to demand the greatesteconomy to live with any comfort. To such an evil Grahame seemedinsensible; his only wish was to escape from the eye and tongue of theworld. A mistaken view with regard to his child also urged him on. Whyshould he expose her to the attentions of the young noblemen soconstantly visiting at Mr. Hamilton's house, when, he felt assured, however eagerly his alliance would once have been courted, now not onewould unite himself to the sister of a publicly disgraced and privatelydishonoured man? No, it was better for her to be far away; and thoughher mild submission to his wishes, notwithstanding the pain he knew itwas to part from her friends at Oakwood, rendered her dearer to him thanever, still he wavered not in his resolution. The entreaties of ArthurMyrvin, Emmeline, and Ellen did, however, succeed in persuading him tofix his place of retirement at Llangwillan, so that all connection wouldnot be so completely broken between them, as were he to seek some moredistant part of the country. Llangwillan, Arthur urged, was scarcelyknown to the world at large, but it was to them, and they might hopesometimes, to see them; for he, Emmeline, and Ellen would often visithis father. Grahame consented, to the great joy of his child, who feltmore than himself the force of Myrvin's arguments. 

"Mr. Myrvin is such a dear, good, old man, you cannot fail to love him, Lilla, " Ellen said, soothingly, as the day of parting neared. "You mustask him to show you the little cottage where the first eight weeks of myresidence in England were passed, and make friends with the old widowand her daughter for my sake; you will find them willing enough to talkabout us and my poor mother, if you once speak on the subject. And mymother's grave, dear Lilla, you will visit that sometimes, will you not?and not permit a weed to mingle with the flowers Arthur planted aroundit after we left, to distinguish it, he said, from every other grave. Itshall be your charge, dearest Lilla, and Edward and I will thank you forit; he never goes to Llangwillan without passing an hour of each day bythat little humble mound. "

"Edward, does he ever come to Llangwillan?" Lilla suddenly asked, hertears checked, and every feature expressive of such animated hope, thatEllen looked at her for a moment in astonishment, and then smilinglyanswered in the affirmative. Lilla clasped her hands in sudden joy, andthen, as if ashamed, hid her face, burning with blushes, on Ellen'shand. Her companion stooped down to kiss her brow, and continued talkingof her brother for some time longer. 

From that day Ellen observed Lilla regained her usual animation, her eyesparkled, and her cheek often flushed, as if from some secret thought;her spirits only fell at the hour of parting, and Ellen felt assuredthey would quickly rise again, and the first packet she received fromLlangwillan confirmed the supposition. Mrs. Hamilton was surprised, butEllen was not. 

Preparations were now actively making for Herbert's visit to France, thence to bring home his betrothed. His father and Percy had bothresolved on accompanying him, and Mrs. Hamilton and Emmeline and Arthuranxiously anticipated the return of their long-absent friends. 

A longer time than usual had elapsed between Mary's letters, andHerbert's anxiety was becoming more and more intense. Two or three ofhis letters had remained unanswered; there were no tidings of eitherherself or her mother. St. Eval had determined on not visiting Paristill his return from Switzerland, as his solicitude to arrive at hisjourney's end, and commence the prescribed remedies for Caroline would, he was quite sure, destroy all his pleasure. In vain his wife laughed athis hurry and his fears; much as he wished to see Mary, he wasdetermined, and Caroline no farther opposed him. Through them, then, Herbert could receive no tidings; he had not heard since that event, which he believed would have been as much joy to Mary as tohimself--his ordination. He struggled with his own anxiety that theintervening obstacles to his journey should not deprive him of serenityand trust, but the inward fever was ravaging within. Only one shortweek, and then he departed; ere, however, that time came, he received aletter, and with a sickening feeling of indefinable dread recognised thehandwriting of his Mary. He left the breakfast-parlour to peruse italone, and it was long before he returned to his family. They feltanxious, they knew not why; even Arthur and Emmeline were silent, andthe ever-restless Percy remained leaning over a newspaper, as ifdetermined not to move till his brother returned. A similar feelingappeared to detain his father, who did not seek the library as usual. Ellen appeared earnestly engaged in some communications from LadyFlorence Lyle, and Mrs. Hamilton was perusing a letter from Caroline, which the same post had brought. 

With a sudden spring Percy started from his seat, exclaiming, in a tonethat betrayed unconsciously much internal anxiety--

"What in the world is Herbert about? He cannot have gone out withoutbringing us some intelligence. Robert, has Mr. Herbert gone out?" hecalled loudly to the servant, who was passing the open window. 

"No, sir, " was the reply; "he is still in his room. "

"Then there will I seek him, " he added, impetuously; but he wasprevented by the entrance of Herbert himself, and Percy started from himin astonishment and alarm. 

There was not a particle of colour on his cheek or lips; his eyesburned as with fever, and his lips quivered as in some unutterableanguish. 

"Read, " he said, in a voice so hoarse and unnatural, it startled evenmore than his appearance, and he placed the letter in his father's hand. "Father, read, and tell them all--I cannot. It is over!" he continued, sinking on a stool at his mother's feet, and laying his aching head onher lap. "My beautiful dream is over, and what is the waking?wretchedness, unutterable wretchedness! My God, my God, Thy hand isheavy upon me, yet I would submit. " He clasped his mother's handsconvulsively in his, he drooped his head upon them, and his slight frameshook beneath the agony, which for hours he had been struggling tosubdue. Mrs. Hamilton clasped him to her bosom; she endeavoured to speakwords of hope and comfort. 

Silence deep and solemn fell over that little party; it was so fearfulto see Herbert thus--the gentle, the self-controlled, the exaltedHerbert thus bowed down even to the earth; he, whose mind ever seemedraised above this world; he, who to his family was ever a being of abrighter, holier sphere. If he bent thus beneath the pressure of earthlysorrow, what must that sorrow be? His family knew the depth of feelingexisting in his breast, which the world around them never could suspect, and they looked on him and trembled. Myrvin raised him from the arms ofhis mother, and bore him to the nearest couch, and Mrs. Hamilton wipedfrom his damp brow the starting dew. Tears of alarm and sympathy werestreaming from the eyes of Emmeline, and Myrvin resigned his post toPercy, to comfort her. But Ellen wept not; pale as Herbert, her featuresexpressed suffering almost as keen as his, and yet she dared not do asher heart desired, fly to his side and speak the words that lovedictated. What was her voice to him? _she_ had no power to soothe. 

Deep and varied emotions passed rapidly over Mr. Hamilton's countenanceas he read the letter which had caused this misery. Percy could traceupon his features pity, sorrow, scorn, indignation, almost loathing, follow one another rapidly and powerfully, and even more violently didthose emotions agitate him when the truth was known. 

"It was an old tale, and often told, but that took not from itsbitterness, " Mary wrote, from a bed of suffering such as she had neverbefore endured; for weeks she had been insensible to thought or action, but she had resolved no one but herself should inform her Herbert of allthat had transpired, no hand but her own should trace her despairingwords. They had lived, as we know, calmly at Paris, so peaceably, thatMrs. Greville had indulged in brighter hopes for the future than hadever before engrossed her. Mr. Greville spent much of his time fromhome, accompanying, however, his wife and daughter to their eveningamusements, and always remained present when they received company inreturn. They lived in a style of more lavish expenditure than Mrs. Greville at all approved of. Her husband, however, only laughedgood-humouredly whenever she ventured to remonstrate, and told her notto trouble herself or Mary about such things; they had enough, and hewould take care that sufficiency should not fail. A dim forebodingcrossed Mrs. Greville's mind at these words; but her husband's manner, though careless, preventing all further expostulation, she wascompelled to suppress, if she could not conquer, her anxiety. Atlength, the storm that Mary had long felt was brooding in this unnaturalcalm, burst over her, and opened Mrs. Greville's eyes at once. 

Among their most constant but least welcome visitors was a MonsieurDupont, a man of polished manners certainly, the superficial polish ofthe Frenchman, but of no other attraction, and even in that there wassomething about him to Mary particularly repulsive. He had seen somethreescore years; his countenance, in general inexpressive, at timesbetrayed that strong and evil passions were working at his heart. He wassaid to be very rich, though some reports had gone about that hisfortune had all been amassed by gambling in no very honourable manner. With this man Mr. Greville was continually associated; they were seldomseen apart, and being thus the favourite of the master, he wasconstantly at the house. To Mrs. Greville as to Mary he was an object ofindefinable yet strong aversion, and willingly would they have alwaysdenied themselves, and thus escaped his odious presence. Once they haddone so, but the storm of fury that burst from Mr. Greville intimidatedboth; they felt some little concession on their parts was demanded topreserve peace, and Monsieur Dupont continued his visits. 

To this man, publicly known as unprincipled, selfish, incapable of oneexalted or generous feeling, Greville had sworn to give his gentle andunoffending child; this man he sternly commanded Mary to receive as herhusband, and prepare herself for her marriage within a month. 

As if a thunderbolt had fallen, Mary and her mother listened to theseterrible words, and scarcely had the latter sufficient courage toinform her unpitying husband of their child's engagement with HerbertHamilton. For Mary's sake, she struggled and spoke, but her fears werenot without foundation. A horrid imprecation on Mr. Hamilton and hisfamily burst instantly from the lips of the now infuriated Greville; hehad chosen for many years to fancy himself deeply injured by thatgentleman, and, with an oath too fearful to be written, he solemnlyswore that Mary should never be the wife of Herbert; he would rather seeher dead. Louder and louder grew his passion, but Mrs. Greville heardhim not. Mary had dropped as if lifeless at his feet. She had sprung upas if to arrest the imprecation on her father's lips, but when hisdreadful oath reached her ears, her senses happily forsook her, and itwas long, very long before she woke to consciousness and thought. Mrs. Greville hung in agony over the couch of her unhappy child; scarcelycould she pray or wish for her recovery, for she knew there was no hope. Her husband had let fall hints of being so deeply pledged to Dupont, that his liberty or perhaps his life depended on his union with Mary, and could she wish her child to live to be the wife of such a man, yetcould she see her die? What pen can describe the anguish of that fondmother, as for weeks she watched and tended her senseless child, or thecontending feelings that wrung her heart when Mary woke again toconsciousness and misery, and asked her, in a voice almost inarticulatefrom weakness, what had happened--why she was thus? Truth graduallybroke upon her mind, and Mary too soon remembered all. The physiciansaid she was recovering, that she would quickly be enabled to leave herbed and go about as usual. Greville swore he would no longer beprevented seeing her, and Mary made no opposition to his entrance. Calmly and passively she heard all he had to say; what he told her thenshe did not repeat in writing to Herbert. She merely said that she hadimplored him to wait till her health was a little more restored; not toforce her to become the wife of Dupont, till she could stand _withoutsupport_ beside the altar, and he had consented. 

"Be comforted, then, my beloved Herbert, " she wrote, as she concludedthis brief tale of suffering. "They buoy me up with hopes that in a veryfew months I shall be as well as ever I was. I smile, for I know theblight has fallen, and I shall never stand beside an earthly altar; allI pray is, that death may not linger till my father's patience beexhausted, and he vent on my poor mother all the reproaches which mylingering illness will, I know, call forth. Oh, my beloved Herbert, there are moments when I think the bitterness of death is passed, when Iam so calm, so happy, I feel as if I had already reached the confines ofmy blissful, my eternal home; but this is not always granted me. Thereare times when I can think only on the happiness I had once hoped toshare with you when heaven itself seemed dimmed by the blessedness I hadanticipated on earth. Herbert, I shall never be another's wife, and itwill not be misery to think of me in heaven. Oh, no, we shall meet theresoon, very soon, never, never more to part. Why does my pen linger?Alas! it cannot trace the word farewell. Yet why does it so weaklyshrink? 'tis but for a brief space, and we shall meet where that word isnever heard, where sorrow and sighing shall be no more. Farewell, then, my beloved Herbert, beloved faithfully, unchangeably in death as youhave been in life. I know my last prayer to you is granted ere even itis spoken: you will protect and think of my poor mother; you will notpermit her to droop and die of a broken heart, with no kind voice tosoothe and cheer. I feel she will in time be happy; and oh, theunutterable comfort of that confiding trust. Once more, and for the lasttime, farewell, my beloved; think only that your Mary is in heaven, thather spirit, redeemed and blessed, waits for thee near the Saviour'sthrone, and be comforted. We shall meet again. "

No sound broke the stillness when that sad letter had been perused. Mr. Hamilton had bowed his head upon his hands, for he could not speak ofcomfort; the long years of domestic bliss which had been his portion, made him feel bitterly the trial which the heart of his son was doomedto endure. And how was he to aid? Could he seek Greville, and condescendto use persuasions, arguments to force from him his consent? Withclenched hand and knitted brow Percy stood, his thoughts forcibly drawnfrom the sufferers by the bitter indignation he felt towards theheartless, cruel man who had occasioned all. Mrs. Hamilton could thinkonly of her son, of Mary, whom she had so long loved as her own child, and the longing to behold her once again, to speak the words of soothingand of love, with which her heart felt bursting. Emmeline could onlyweep, that such should be the fate of one whom from her childhood shehad loved, and whom she had lately anticipated with so much delightreceiving as a sister. For some minutes Ellen sat in deep and painfulthought, then starting up, she flew to the side of her uncle, andclasping his hand, entreated--

"Go to Paris, my dear uncle; go yourself, and see this relentless man;speak with him, know why he has commanded Mary to receive this Dupont asher husband; perhaps you may render Herbert's claims as valuable in hiseyes. He has no cause of strife with you; he will hear you, I know hewill; his fury was called forth because he thought Herbert stood in theway of his wishes. Prove to him the happiness, the life of his child, ofyours, depend on their union. He cannot, he will not refuse to hear you. Oh, do not hesitate, go to him, my dear uncle; all may not be sodesperate as at this distance we may fancy. "

"My father may as well plead to the hard flint as to Alfred Greville'sfeelings, " muttered Percy. "Ellen, you know not what you ask; would youhave my father debase himself to a wretch like that?"

"'Tis Mr. Greville who will be debased, and not my uncle, Percy. Theworld might think him humbled to plead to such a man, but they wouldthink falsely; he is raised above the cringing crowd, who from falsepride would condemn the child of virtue to misery and death, becausethey would not bear with the vices of the parent. Were Mary, were Mrs. Greville in any point otherwise than they are, I would not thus plead, for there would be no necessity. She could not be so dear to Herbert. Ido not ask my uncle to humble himself; I ask him but to reason with Mr. Greville, to convince him of his error. "

"What says my Herbert?" demanded Mr. Hamilton, gazing with astonishmenton his niece's animated features, and almost wondering at her unwontedeloquence. 

"That she has spoken well, and may God in Heaven bless her for thethought!" exclaimed Herbert, who had roused himself to listen to herearnest words, and now, with sudden energy, sprung up. "Father, let usgo. Ellen has spoken justly; he will listen to you, he will not hear myentreaties unmoved. I have never offended him; he is, indeed, a harshand cruel man, one whom I would gladly shun, but the father of Mary. Oh, let us seek him, for her sake we will plead; he will wake from hisdream, he will know he has been in error. Oh, my father, let us go. Shemay yet be saved to live and bless me. "

He sunk back on the sofa, and burst into tears. Hope had suddenly sprungup from the dark void which had been in his heart. Mrs. Hamilton couldnot check that suddenly-excited hope, but she did not share it, for shefelt it came but to deceive. She whispered gentle and consoling words, she spoke of comfort that she could not feel. But once his energiesaroused, they did not fail him. To go instantly to Paris, to seek Mr. Greville, and plead his own cause, aided by his father's influence, acknowledge he had been wrong in not asking his consent before, suchthoughts now alone occupied his mind, and Mr. Hamilton could not checkthem, though, even as his wife, he shared not his son's sanguineexpectations. That he had once possessed more influence than any oneelse over Mr. Greville he well knew; but he thought with Percy, thedislike felt towards him originated from this, and that it was more thanprobable he would remain firm in his refusal to triumph over bothhimself and his son; yet he could not hesitate to comply with Herbert'swishes. Ellen's suggestion had roused him to exertion, and he should notbe permitted to sink back into despondency, at least they should meet. 

It would be difficult to define Ellen's feelings as she beheld herwork, and marked the effect of her words upon her cousin. Not a particleof selfishness mingled in her feelings, but that deep pang was yetunconquered. Herbert's manner to her was even kinder, more affectionatethan usual, during the few days that intervened ere they parted, as ifhe felt that she had drawn aside the dark veil of impenetrable gloom, and summoned hope to rise again; and could she see or feel this unmoved?Still was she calm and tranquil, and she would speak of Mary and ofbrighter hopes, and no emotion was betrayed in her pale cheek or in thattearless eye. 

Percy accompanied his father and brother. They travelled rapidly, and afavourable voyage enabled them to reach Paris in a shorter time thanusual. Mr. Hamilton had insisted on seeking Mr. Greville's mansion atfirst alone, and Percy controlled his own feelings. To calm the strongemotion, the deep anxiety, that now he was indeed in the same city ashis Mary, almost overpowered Herbert; the struggle for composure, forresignation to whatever might be the will of his God, was too powerfulfor his exhausted strength. Sleep had only visited him by snatches, short and troubled, since he had received Mary's letter; the longinterval which elapsed ere Mr. Hamilton returned was productive of evenkeener suffering than he had yet endured. Hope had sunk powerless beforeanxiety; the strength of mind which had borne him up so long was givingway beneath the exhaustion of bodily powers, which Percy saw with alarmand sorrow; his eyes had lost their lustre, and were becoming dim andhaggard; more than once he observed a slight shudder pass through hisframe, and felt his words of cheering and of comfort fell unheeded onhis brother's ear. At length Mr. Hamilton returned. 

"She lives, my son, " were the first words he uttered, but his tone wasnot joyful; "our beloved and gentle Mary yet lives, and soon, very soonyou shall meet, not to part on earth again. "

Herbert gazed wildly in his face, he clasped his hands convulsively, andthen he bowed his head in a deep and fervent burst of thanksgiving. 

"And Greville, " said Percy, impatiently, "has he so soon consented?father, you have not descended to entreaties, and to such a man?"

"Percy, peace, " said his father, gravely. "With Mr. Greville I haveenchanged no words. Thank God, I sought not his house with any hostileintention, with any irritation urging me against him. Percy, he is dead, and let his faults die with him. "

"Dead!" repeated the young man, shocked and astonished, and Herbertstarted up. His lip quivered with the vain effort to ask an explanation. 

It was even so, that very morning Greville had breathed his last, withall his sins upon his head, for no time had been allowed him either forrepentance or atonement. A few days after Mary had written to Herbert, her father had been brought home senseless, and dreadfully injured, by afall from his horse. His constitution, shattered by intemperance andcontinued dissipation, was not proof against the fever that ensued;delirium never left him. For five days Mrs. Greville and Mary watchedover his couch. His ravings were dreadful; he would speak of Dupont, atone time, with imprecations; at others, as if imploring him to forbear. He would entreat his child to forgive him; and then, with fearfulconvulsions, appear struggling with the effort to drag her to the altar. Mary heard, and her slight frame shook and withered each day faster thanthe last, but she moved not from her father's side. In vain Mrs. Greville watched for some returning consciousness, for some sign to sayhe died in peace. Alas! there was none. He expired in convulsions; andscarcely had his wife and child recovered the awful scene, when theentrance of the hated Dupont roused them to exertion. He came to claimMary as his promised wife, or send them forth as beggars. The house andall that it contained, even to their jewels, were his; for Greville haddied, owing him debts to an amount which even the sale of all theypossessed could not entirely repay. He had it in his power to arrest theburial of the scarcely cold corpse, to stain the name of the dead withundying infamy; and he vowed that he would use his power to its utmostextent, if Mary's consent were not instantly given. Four-and-twentyhours he gave her to decide, and departed, leaving inexpressiblewretchedness behind him, on the part of Mrs. Greville, and the calmstupor of exhaustion and despair pervading Mary's every faculty. 

"My child, my child, it shall not be; you shall not be that heartlessvillain's wife. I have health; I can work, teach, do anything to supportus, and why, oh, why should you be thus sacrificed? Mary, Mary, you willlive, my child, to bless your desolate and wretched mother. Oh, my God, my God, why hast thou thus forsaken me? I have trusted in thee, and wiltthou thus fail me? To whom can I appeal--what friend have I near me?"

"Mother, do not speak thus, " exclaimed Mary, roused from the lethargyof exhaustion by her mother's despairing words, and she flung herself onher knees beside her, and threw her arms around her. "Mother, my ownmother, the God of the widow and the fatherless is still our friend; Hehath not forsaken us, though for a time His countenance is darkenedtowards us. Oh, he will have mercy; He will raise us up a friend--Ifeel, I know He will. He will relieve us. Let us but trust in Him, mother; let us not fail now. Oh, let us pray to Him, and He willanswer. "

The eyes of the good and gentle girl were lit up with sudden radiance. Her pallid cheek was faintly flushed; her whole countenance and toneexpressed the enthusiasm, the holiness which had characterised her wholelife. Mrs. Greville clasped her faded form convulsively to her achingbosom, and, drooping her head, wept long and freely. 

"Father, I have sinned, " she murmured; "oh, have mercy. "

An hour passed, and neither Mary nor her mother moved from that postureof affliction, yet of prayer. They heard not the sound of many voicesbelow, nor a rapid footstep on the stairs. The opening of the dooraroused them, but Mary looked not up; she clung closer to her mother, for she feared to gaze again on Dupont. A wild exclamation of joy, ofthanksgiving, bursting from Mrs. Greville's lips startled her; for amoment she trembled, yet she could not be mistaken, that tone was joy. Slowly she looked on the intruder. Wildly she sprung up--she clasped herhands together. 

"My God, I thank thee, we are saved!" broke from her parched lips, andshe sunk senseless at Mr. Hamilton's feet. 

Emissaries of wickedness were not wanting to convey the intelligencevery quickly to Dupont's ear, that Mrs. And Miss Greville had departedfrom the Rue Royale, under the protection of an English gentleman, whohad stationed two of his servants at their house to protect Mr. Greville's body from insult, and give him information of all that tookplace during his absence. Furiously enraged, Dupont hastened to know thetruth of these reports, and a scene of fierce altercation took placebetween him and Mr. Hamilton. The calm, steady firmness of hisunexpected opponent daunted Dupont as much as his cool sarcasticbitterness galled him to the quick. The character of the man was known;he was convinced he dared not bring down shame on the memory ofGreville, without inculpating himself, without irretrievably injuringhis own character, and however he might use that threat as his weapon tocompel Mary's submission, Mr. Hamilton was perfectly easy on that head. Dupont's cowardly nature very soon evinced itself. A few words from Mr. Hamilton convinced him that his true character had been penetrated, anddreading exposure, he changed his ground and his tone, acknowledged hehad been too violent, but that his admiration for Miss Greville had beenthe sole cause; expressed deep sorrow for Mr. Greville's melancholy end, disavowed all intention of preventing the interment of the body, andfinally consented to liquidate all debts, save those which the sale ofthe house and furniture might suffice to discharge. 

Scarcely could Mr. Hamilton command his indignation during thisinterview, or listen to Dupont's professions, excuses, defences, andconcessions, without losing temper. He would not consent to be under anyobligation: if M. Dupont could _prove_ that more was owing than thatwhich he had consented to receive, it should be paid directly, but heshould institute inquiries as to the legality of his claims, andcarefully examine all the papers of the deceased. 

"It was not at all necessary, " Dupont replied. "The sum he demanded wasdue for debts of honour, which he had a slip of paper in Greville's ownhandwriting to prove. "

Mr. Hamilton made no further reply, and they parted with nothing decidedon either side, Dupont only repeating his extreme distress at havingcaused Miss Greville so much unnecessary pain; that had he known she wasengaged to another, he would never have persisted in his suit, anddeeply regretted he had been so deceived. 

Mr. Hamilton heard him with an unchanging countenance, and gravely andformally bowed him out of the house. He then placed his seal on the lockof a small cabinet, which Mrs. Greville's one faithful English servantinformed him contained all his master's private papers, dismissed theFrench domestics, and charging the Englishmen to be careful in theirwatch that no strangers should be admitted, he hastened to impart to hisanxiously-expecting sons all the important business he had transacted. 

Early the following morning Mr. Hamilton received intelligence whichvery much annoyed and startled him. Notwithstanding the vigilant watchof the three Englishmen stationed at Mr. Greville's house, the cabinet, which contained all his private papers, was gone. The men declaredagain and again, no one could have entered the house without theirknowledge, or removed such a thing as that without some noise. Mr. Hamilton went instantly with them to the house; how it had been taken hecould not discover, but it was so small that Mr. Hamilton felt it couldeasily have been removed; and he had no doubt that Dupont had bribed oneof the dismissed servants, who was well acquainted with every secret ofthe house, to purloin it for him, and Dupont he instantly determined oncharging with the atrocious theft. Dupont, however, had decamped, he wasnowhere to be found; but he had desired an agent to receive from Mr. Hamilton's hands the payment of the debts he still claimed, and fromthis man it was endeavoured by many questions to discover some traces ofhis employer, but all in vain. M. Dupont had left Paris, he said, theprevious evening. 

Mr. Hamilton was not satisfied, and, consequently, seeking an ablesolicitor, put the affair into his hands, and desired that he would useevery means in his power to obtain the restoration of the papers. ThatDupont had it in his power farther to injure the widow and child of thedeceased he did not believe; he rather thought that his extreme desireto obtain them proceeded from a consciousness that they betrayed some ofhis own evil deeds, yet he could not feel easy till they were eitherregained, or he knew that they were destroyed. Mrs. Greville earnestlywished their recovery, for she feared they might, through the similarityof names, bring some evil on her son, towards whom her fond heart yetpainfully yearned, though years had passed since she had seen, and manyweary months since she had heard of him. Her fears on this headrendered both Mr. Hamilton and Percy still more active in theirproceedings, and both determined on remaining at Paris even afterHerbert and Mrs. Greville, with Mary, had left for England. 

And what did Herbert feel as he looked on the fearful change in her heloved? Not yet did he think that she must die; that beaming eye, thatradiant cheek, that soft, sweet smile--oh, could such things tell ofdeath to him who loved? He held her to his heart, and only knew that hewas blessed. 

And Mary, she was happy; the past seemed as a dim and troubled vision;the smile of him she loved was ever near her, his low sweet voice wassounding in her ear. A calm had stolen over her, a holy soothing calm. She did not speak her thoughts to Herbert, for she saw that he stillhoped on; they were together, and the present was enough. But silentlyshe prayed that his mind might be so prepared, so chastened, that whenhis eyes were opened, the truth might not be so terrible to bear. 

CHAPTER VII. 

It was indeed a day of happiness that beheld the arrival of Mrs. Greville and Mary at Oakwood, unalloyed to them, but not so, alas! tothose who received them. Mrs. Hamilton pressed the faded form of Mary toher heart, she kissed her repeatedly, but it was long before she couldspeak the words of greeting; she looked on her and on her son, and tearsrose so thick and fast, she was compelled to turn away to hide them. Ellen alone retained her calmness. In the fond embrace that had passedbetween her and Mary, it is true her lip had quivered and her cheek hadpaled, but her agitation passed unnoticed. 

"It was _her_ voice, my Mary, that roused me to exertion, it was herrepresentations that bade me not despair, " whispered Herbert, as he hungover Mary's couch that evening, and perceived Ellen busily employed inarranging her pillows. "When, overwhelmed by the deep misery occasionedby your letter, I had no power to act, it was her ready thought thatdictated to my father the course he so successfully pursued. " Marypressed the hand of Ellen within both her own, and looked up gratefullyin her face. A faint smile played round the orphan's lips, but she madeno observation in reply. 

A very few weeks elapsed before the dreaded truth forced itself upon theminds of all, even on her mother, that Mary was sinking, surely sinking, there was no longer hope. Devotedly as her friends loved her, they couldnot sorrow, before her they could not weep. She was spared all bodilysuffering save that proceeding from debility, so extreme she could notwalk across the room without assistance. No pain distorted theexpression of her features, which, in this hour of approaching death, looked more lovely than they had ever seemed before; her soft blue eyebeamed at times with a celestial light, and her fair hair shaded a browand cheek so transparent, every blue vein could be clearly seen. Onethought alone gave her pain, her Herbert she felt was still unprepared. 

He was speaking one day of the future, anticipating the time when theRectory would receive her as its gentle mistress, and of the many thingswhich occupied his thoughts for the furtherance of her comfort, whenMary laid her hand gently on his arm, and, with a smile of peculiarsweetness, said--

"Do not think any more of such things, my beloved; the mansion whichwill behold our blessed union is already furnished and prepared; I mayseek it first, but it will be but to render it even yet more desirableto you. "

Herbert looked on her face to read the meaning of her words; he readthem, alas! too plainly, but voice utterly failed. 

"Look not on me thus, " she continued, in that same pleading and soothingtone. "Our mansion is prepared for us above; below, my Herbert, oh, think not it will ever receive me. Why should I hesitate to speak thetruth? The blessed Saviour, to whose arms I so soon shall go, will giveyou strength to bear this; He hath promised that He will, my ownHerbert, my first, my only love. My Saviour calls me, and to Him, oh, can you not without tears resign me?"

"Mary, " murmured the unhappy Herbert, "Mary, oh, do not, do not tortureme. You will not die; you will not leave me desolate. "

"I shall not die, but live, my beloved--live, oh, in such blessedness!'tis but a brief, brief parting, Herbert, to meet and love eternally. "

"You are ill, you are weak, my own Mary, and thus death is ever presentto your mind; but you will recover, oh, I know, I feel you will. My Godwill hear my prayers. "

"And He will grant them, Herbert--oh, doubt Him not, grant them, even inmy removal. He takes me not from you, my Herbert, He but places me, where to seek me, you must look to and love but Him alone; and will youshrink from this? Will that spirit, vowed to His service from yourearliest boyhood, now murmur at His will? Oh, no, no; my Herbert willyet support and strengthen his Mary, I know, I feel he will. Forgive meif I have pained you, my best love; but I could bear no other lips thanmine to tell you, that on earth I may not live--but a brief space more, and I shall be called away. You must not mourn for me, my Herbert; I dieso happy, oh, so very happy!"

Herbert had sunk on his knees beside her couch; he drooped his head uponhis hands, and a strong convulsion shook his frame. He uttered no sound, he spoke no word, but Mary could read the overwhelming anguish thatbowed his spirit to the earth. The words were spoken; he knew that shemust die, and Mary raised her mild eyes to heaven, and clasped her handsin earnest prayer for him. "Forsake him not now, oh God; support himnow; oh, give him strength to meet Thy will, " was the import of herprayer. Long was that deep, deep stillness, but when Herbert looked upagain he was calm. 

"May God in heaven bless you, my beloved, " he said, and imprinted a longfervent kiss upon her forehead. "You have taught me my Saviour's will, and I will meet it. May He forgive--" His words failed him; again heheld her to his heart, and then he sat by her side and read from theBook of Life, of peace, of comfort, those passages which might calm thisanguish and strengthen her; he read till sleep closed the eyes of hisbeloved. Yes, she was the idol of his young affections; he felt herwords were true, and when she was gone there would be naught to bind hisspirit to this world. 

It would be needless to lift the veil from Herbert's moments ofsolitary prayer. Those who have followed him through his boyhood andtraced his character need no description of his feelings. We know theintensity of his earthly affections, the strength and force of his everyemotion, the depth and holiness of his spiritual sentiments, and vainthen would be the attempt to portray his private moments in this dreadtrial: yet before his family he was calm, before his Mary cheerful. Shefelt her prayers were heard, he was, he would be yet more supported, andher last pang was soothed. 

Mr. Hamilton had returned from France, unsuccessful, however, in hiswish to obtain the restitution of Greville's papers. Dupont hadconcealed his measures so artfully, and with such efficacy, that notraces were discovered regarding him, and Mr. Hamilton felt it was nouse to remain himself, confident in the integrity and abilities of thesolicitor to whom he had intrusted the whole affair; he wasunaccompanied, however, by Percy, who, as his sister's wedding was, fromMary's illness, postponed, determined on paying Lord and Lady St. Eval avisit at Geneva. 

As Emmeline's engagement with Arthur very frequently engrossed her time, Ellen had devoted herself assiduously as Mary's constant nurse, and welland tenderly she performed her office. There was no selfishness in herfeelings, deeply, unfeignedly she sorrowed, and willingly, gladly wouldshe have laid down her life to preserve Mary's, that this fearful trialmight be removed from Herbert. To spare him one pang, oh, what would shenot have endured. Controlled and calm, who could have guessed the chaosof contending feeling that was passing within; who, that had seen thegentle smile with which she would receive Herbert's impassioned thanksfor her care of his Mary, could have suspected the thrill, the pangthose simple words occasioned. Mary alone of those around her, exceptMrs. Hamilton, was not deceived. She loved Ellen, had long done so, andthe affectionate attention she so constantly received from her had drawnthe bonds of friendship closer. She felt convinced she was not happy, that there was something heavy on her mind, and the quick intellect of avivid fancy and loving nature guessed the truth. Her wish to see herhappy became so powerful, that she could not control it. She fanciedthat Ellen might be herself deceived, and that the object of heraffections once known, all difficulties would be smoothed. The idea thather last act might be to secure the happiness of Ellen, was so soothingto her grateful and affectionate feelings, that, after dwelling on itsome time, she took the first opportunity of being alone with her friendto seek her confidence. 

"No, dearest, do not read to me, " she said, one evening, in answer toEllen's question. "I would rather talk with you; do not look anxious, Iwill not fatigue myself. Come, and sit by me, dear Ellen, it is of youthat I would speak. "

"Of me?" repeated Ellen, surprised. "Nay, dearest Mary, can you not finda more interesting subject?"

"No, love, for you are often in my thoughts; the approach of death has, I think, sharpened every faculty, for I see and read trifles clearerthan I ever did before; and I can read through all that calm control andconstant smile that you are not happy, my kind Ellen; and will you thinkme a rude intruder on your thoughts if I ask you why?"

"Do you not remember, Mary, I was ever unlike others?" replied Ellen, shrinking from her penetrating gaze. "I never knew what it was to belively and joyous even as a child, and as years increase, is it likelythat I should? I am contented with my lot, and with so many blessingsaround, should I not be ungrateful were I otherwise?"

"You evade my question, Ellen, and convince me more and more that I amright. Ah, you know not how my last hour would be soothed, could I feelthat I had done aught to restore happiness to one who has been to me theblessing you have been, dear Ellen. "

"Think not of it, dearest Mary, " said Ellen. "I ought to be happy, veryhappy, and if I am not, it is my own wayward temper. You cannot give mehappiness, Mary; do not let the thought of me disturb you, dearest, kindas is your wish, it is unavailing. "

"Do not say so, Ellen; we are apt to look on sorrow, while it isconfined to our own anxious breasts, as incurable and lasting; but whenonce it is confessed, how quickly do difficulties vanish, and the griefis often gone before we are aware it is departing. Do not, dearest, magnify it by the encouragement which solitary thought bestows. "

"Are there not some sorrows, Mary, which are better ever concealed? Doesnot the opening of a wound often make it bleed afresh, whereas, hiddenin our own heart, it remains closed till time has healed it. "

"Some there are, " said Mary, "which are indeed irremediable, but"--shepaused a moment, then slightly raising herself on her couch, she threwher arm round Ellen's neck, and said, in a low yet deeply expressivevoice--"is your love, indeed, so hopeless, my poor Ellen? Oh, no, itcannot be; surely, there is not one whom you have known sufficiently togive your precious love, can look on you and not return it. "

Ellen started, a deep and painful flush rose for a moment to her cheek, she struggled to speak calmly, to deny the truth of Mary's suspicion, but she could not, the secret of her heart was too suddenly exposedbefore her, and she burst into tears. How quickly will a word, a tonedestroy the well-maintained calmness of years; how strangely andsuddenly will the voice of sympathy lift from the heart its veil. 

"You have penetrated my secret, " she said, and her voice faltered, "andI will not deny it; but oh, Mary, let us speak no more of it. When awoman is weak enough to bestow her affections on one who never sought, who will never seek them, surely the more darkly they are hidden, thebetter for her own peace as well as character. My love was not calledfor. I never had aught to hope; and if that unrequited affection be thedestroyer of my happiness, it has sprung from my own weakness, and Ialone have but to bear it. "

"But is there no hope, Ellen--none? Do not think so, dearest. If hisaffections be still disengaged, is there not hope they may one day beyours?"

"No, Mary, none. I knew his affections were engaged; I knew he nevercould be mine, and yet I loved him. Oh, Mary, do not scorn my weakness;you have wrung my secret from me, do not, oh, do not betray me. There isno shame in loving one so good, so holy, and yet--and yet--Mary, dearestMary, promise me you will not speak it--I cannot rest unless you do; letit pass your lips to _none_. "

"It shall not, my Ellen; be calm, your secret shall die with me, dearest, " replied Mary, earnestly, for Ellen's feelings completelyoverpowered her, and bursting sobs choked her utterance. 

"For me there is no hope. Oh, could I but see him happy, I should ask nomore; but, oh, to see him miserable, and feel I have no power tosoothe--when--" She paused abruptly, again the burning blood dyed hercheeks, even her temples with crimson. Mary's eyes were fixed upon herin sympathy, in love; Ellen fancied in surprise, yet suspicion. With onepowerful effort she conquered herself, she forced back the scaldingtears, the convulsive sob, and bending over Mary, pressed her tremblinglips upon her pale brow. 

"Let us speak no more of this, dearest Mary, " she said, in a low calmvoice. "May God bless you for your intended kindness. It is over now. Forgive me, dearest Mary, I have agitated and disturbed you. "

"Nay, forgive me, my sweet Ellen. It is I who have given you pain, andshould ask your forgiveness. I thought not of such utter hopelessness. Ihad hoped that, ere I departed, I might have seen the dawn of happinessfor you; but I see, I feel now that cannot be. My own Ellen, I need nottell you the comfort, the blessed comfort of prayer. "

For a few minutes there was silence. Ellen had clasped the hand of Mary, and turned aside her head to conceal the tears that slowly stole downher cheek. The entrance of Emmeline was a relief to both, and Ellen leftthe room; and when she returned, even to Mary's awakened eyes, therewere no traces of agitation. Each week produced a visible change inMary; she became weaker and weaker, but her mind retained its energy, and often her sorrowing friends feared she would pass from the detaininggrasp of love, ere they were aware of the actual moment of herdeparture. One evening she begged that all the family might assemble inher room; she felt stronger, and wished to see them altogether again. Her wish was complied with, and she joined so cheerfully in theconversation that passed around, that her mother and Herbert forgotanxiety. It was a soft and lovely evening; her couch, at her ownrequest, had been drawn to the open window, and the dying girl lookedforth on the beautiful scene beneath. The trees bore the rich full greenof summer, save where the brilliantly setting sun tinged them with huesof gold and crimson. Part of the river was also discernible at thispoint, lying in the bosom of trees, as a small lake, on which theheavens were reflected in all their surpassing splendour. The sun, orrather its remaining beams, rested on the brow of a hill, which, lyingin the deepest shadow, formed a superb contrast with the flood of liquidgold that bathed its brow. Clouds of purple, gold, crimson, in someparts fading into pink, floated slowly along the azure heavens, and theperfect stillness that reigned around completed the enchantment of thescene. 

"Look up, my Mary, and mark those clouds of light, " said Herbert. "Seethe splendour of their hues, the unstained blue beyond; beautiful as isearth, it shows not such exquisite beauty as yon heaven displays, evento our mortal sight, nor calls such feelings of adoration forth. Whatthen will it be when that blue arch is rent asunder, and the effulgentglory of the Maker of that heaven burst upon our view?"

"Blessed, oh, how blessed are those who, conducted by the Lamb of God, can share that glory, " answered Mary, with sudden energy. "Who can speakthe unutterable love which, while the beauteous earth yet retains thetraces of an awful curse, hath washed from man his sin, and takes fromdeath its sting?"

"And is it this thought, this faith which supports you now, my Mary?"demanded Herbert, with that deep tenderness of one so peculiarly hisown. 

"It is, it is, " she answered, fervently, "My sins are washed away; myprayers are heard, for my Saviour pleads, and my home is prepared onhigh amid the redeemed and the saved. Oh, blessed be the God of truththat hath granted me this faith"--she paused a minute, then added--"andheard my prayer, my beloved Herbert, and permitted me thus to die in mynative land, surrounded by those I love!"

She leaned her head on Herbert's bosom, and for some time remainedsilent; then looking up, said cheerfully, "Do you remember, Emmeline, when we were together some few years ago, we always said such a sceneand hour as this only wanted music to make it perfect? I feel as if allthose fresh delightful feelings of girlhood had come over me again. Bring your harp and sing to me, dearest, those words you read to me theother day. "

"Nay, Mary, will it not disturb you?" said Emmeline, kneeling by hercouch, and kissing the thin hand extended to her. 

"No, dearest, not your soft, sweet voice, it will soothe and give mepleasure. I feel stronger and better to-night than I have done for sometime. Sing to me, but only those words, dear Emmy; all others wouldneither suit this scene nor my feelings. "

For a moment Emmeline hesitated, and looked towards her mother and Mrs. Greville. Neither was inclined to make any objection to her request, andon the appearance of her harp, under the superintendence of Arthur, Emmeline prepared to comply. She placed the instrument at the furtherend of the apartment, that the notes might fall softer on Mary's ear, and sung, in a sweet and plaintive voice, the following words:--

 "Remember me! ah, not with sorrow, 'Tis but sleep to wake in bliss. Life's gayest hours can seek to borrow Vainly such a dream as this. 

 Ah, see, 'tis heaven itself revealing To my dimmed and failing sight; And hark! 'tis angels' voices stealing Through the starry veil of night. 

 Come, brother, come; ah, quickly sever The cold links of earth's dull chain; Come to thy home, where thou wilt never Pain or sorrow feel again. 

 Come, brother, come; we spread before thee Visions of thy blissful home; Heed not, if Death's cold pang come o'er thee, It will but bid thee haste and come!

 Ah, yes, I see bright forms are breaking Through the mist that veils mine eyes; Now gladly, gladly, earth forsaking, Take, oh, take me to the skies. 

The mournful strain ceased, and there was silence. Emmeline had adaptedthe words to that beautiful air of Weber's, the last composition of hisgifted mind. Mary's head still rested on the bosom of Herbert, her handclasped his. Evening was darkening into twilight, or the expression ofher countenance might have been remarked as changed--more spiritual, asif the earthly shell had shared the beatified glory of the departingspirit. She fixed her fading eyes on Ellen, who was kneeling by hercouch, steadily and calmly, but Ellen saw her not, for in that hour hereyes were fixed, as in fascination on the form of Herbert, as he bentover his beloved. The dying girl saw that mournful glance, and a gleamof intelligence passed over her beautiful features. She extended onehand to Ellen, who clasped it fondly, and then she tried to draw ittowards Herbert. She looked up in his face, as if to explain the meaningof the action, but voice and strength utterly failed, and Ellen's handdropped from her grasp. 

"Kiss me, Herbert, I would sleep, " she said, so faintly, Herbert aloneheard it. Their lips met in one long lingering kiss, and then Marydrooped her head again upon his bosom, and seemed to sleep so gently, sosweetly, her friends held their breath lest they should disturb her. Nearly half an hour passed and still there was no movement. The fullsoft light of an unclouded moon fell within that silent chamber, andgilded the forms of Mary and Herbert with a silvery halo, that seemed tofall from heaven itself upon them. Mary's head had fallen slightlyforward, and her long luxuriant hair, escaped from its confinement, concealed her features as a veil of shadowy gold. Gently and tenderlyHerbert raised her head, so as to rest upon his arm; as he did so herhair fell back and fully exposed her countenance. A faint cry broke fromhis parched lips, and Ellen started in agony to her feet. 

"Hush, hush, my Mary sleeps, " Mrs. Greville said; but Mr. Hamiltongently drew her from the couch and from the room. Her eyes were closed;a smile illumined that sweet face, as in sleep it had so often done, andthat soft and shadowy light took from her features all the harsher taleof death. Yes, she did sleep sweetly and calmly, but her pure spirit haddeparted. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

It was long, very long ere Mr. Hamilton's family recovered the shock ofMary's death. She had been so long loved, living amongst them from herbirth, her virtues and gentleness were so well known and appreciated byevery member. She had been by Mr. And Mrs. Hamilton so long consideredas their child, by her betrothment with their Herbert, that theysorrowed for her as if indeed she had been bound to them by that tendertie; and her poor mother now indeed felt desolate: her only treasure, her precious, almost idolized Mary, was taken from her, and she waschildless, for of Alfred she had long ceased to receive intelligence. She bowed her head, earnestly striving for submission, but it was long, long ere peace returned; soothed she was indeed by the tender kindnessof her friends; but what on earth can soothe a bereaved and dotingmother? Emmeline, Ellen, Herbert, even Arthur Myrvin, treated her withall the love and reverence of children, but neither could fill theaching void within. On Herbert indeed her spirit rested with morefondness than on any other object, but it was with a foreboding love;she looked on him and trembled. It was a strange and affecting sight, could any one have looked on those two afflicted ones: to hear Herbertspeak words of holy comfort to the mother of his Mary, to hear him speakof hope, of resignation, mark the impress of that heavenly virtue onhis pale features; his grief was all internal, not a word escaped hislips, not a thought of repining crossed his chastened mind. The extentof that deep anguish was seen alone in his fading form, in his pallidfeatures; but it was known only to the Searcher of all hearts. He hadwished to perform the last office to his Mary, but his father andArchdeacon Howard conjured him to abandon the idea, and suffer thelatter to take his place. All were bathed in tears during that solemnand awful service. Scarcely could Mr. Howard command his voicethroughout, and his concluding words were wholly inaudible. But nomovement was observable in Herbert's slight and boyish form; envelopedin his long mourning robe, his features could not be seen, but there wassomewhat around him that created in the breasts of all who beheld him asensation of reverence. All departed from the lowly grave, but Herbertyet remained motionless and silent. His father and Myrvin gently soughtto lead him away, but scarcely had he proceeded two paces, when he sunkdown on the grass in a long and deathlike swoon; so painfully had it theappearance of death, that his father and friends believed for a time hisspirit had indeed fled to seek his Mary; but he recovered. There wassuch an aspect of serenity and submission on his countenance, that allwho loved him would have been at peace, had not the thought pressedheavily on their minds that such feelings were not long for earth. 

These fainting fits returned at intervals, and Mrs. Hamilton, whilst shestruggled to lift up her soul in undying faith to the God of Love, andresignedly commit into His hands the life and death of her beloved son, yet every time she gazed on him, while lying insensible before her, feltmore and more how difficult was the lesson she so continually strove tolearn; how hard it would be to part from him, if indeed he were calledaway. She compared her lot with Mrs. Greville's, and thought how muchgreater was her trial; and yet she, too, was a mother, and though somany other gifts were vouchsafed her, Herbert was as dear to her as Maryhad been to Mrs. Greville. Must she lose him now, now that the fruit shehad so fondly cherished, watched as it expanded from the infant germ, had bloomed so richly to repay her care, would he be taken from her nowthat every passing month appeared to increase his love for her and hersfor him? for Herbert clung to his mother in this dread hour ofaffliction with increasing fondness. True, he never spoke the extent ofhis feelings even to her, but his manner betrayed how much he loved her, how deeply he felt her sympathy, which said that next to his God, heleaned on her. 

At first Mr. Hamilton wished his son to resign the Rectory and join hisbrother and sister at Geneva, and then accompany Percy on his travels;but mournfully yet steadily Herbert rejected this plan. 

"No, father, " he said. "My duties as a son and brother, as well as thefriend and father of the flock committed to my charge, will be far moresoothing and beneficial, believe me, than travelling in far distantlands. My health is at present such, that my home and the belovedfriends of my infancy appear dearer to me than ever, and I cannot partfrom them to seek happiness elsewhere. I will do all in my power, by thesteady discharge of my many and interesting duties, to preserve myhealth and restore peace and contentment. I seek not to resign my chargein this world till my Saviour calls me; His work has yet to be done on, earth, and till He dismisses me, I will cheerfully perform it; till thendo not ask me to forsake it. "

Mr. Hamilton wrung his son's hand in silence, and never again urged hisdeparture. 

There was no selfishness in Herbert's sorrow; he was still the devotedson, the affectionate brother, the steady friend to his own immediatecircle; and to the poor committed to his spiritual charge, he was intruth, as he had said he would be, a father and a friend. In soothingthe sufferings of others, his own became less bitterly severe; inbidding others hope, and watch, and pray, he found his own spiritstrengthened and its frequent struggles calmed. With such unwaveringsteadiness were his duties performed, that his bodily sufferings nevercould have been discovered, had not those alarming faints sometimesoverpowered him in the cottages he visited ere his duties werecompleted; and he was thankful, when such was the case, that it occurredwhen from home, that his mother was thus sometimes spared anxiety. Hewould walk on quietly home, remain some little time in his own chamber, and then join his family cheerful and composed as usual, that no onemight suspect he had been ill. 

Arthur Myrvin often gazed on his friend with emotions of admiration, almost amounting to awe. His love for Emmeline was the strongest feelingof his heart, and when for a moment he fancied her snatched from him, asMary had been from Herbert, he felt he knew he could not have acted likehis friend: he must have flown from scenes, every trace of which couldspeak of the departed, or, if he had remained, he could not, as Herbertdid, have attended to his duties, have been like him so calm. 

In the society of his cousin Ellen, Herbert found both solace andpleasure. She had been so devoted to the departed, that he felt he lovedher more fondly than he had ever done, and he would seek her as thecompanion of a walk, and give her directions as to the cottages hesometimes wished her to visit, with a portion of his former animation, but Ellen never permitted herself to be deceived; it was still abrother's love, she knew it never could be more, and she struggled longto control, if not to banish, the throb of joy that ever filled herbosom when she perceived there were times she had power to call thesmile to Herbert's pensive features. 

Percy's letters were such as to soothe his brother by his affectionatesympathy; to betray more powerfully than ever to Mr. And Mrs. Hamiltonhow dear to each other were their sons, how pure and consoling was thefriendship subsisting between them, and on other points to give muchpleasure to all his family. Caroline's health was much improved; herlittle son, Percy declared, was such a nice, merry fellow, and sohandsome, that he was quite sure he resembled in all respects what he, Percy Hamilton, must have been at the venerable age of two years. Hesaid farther, that as Lord and Lady St. Eval were going to make the tourof the principal cities of Europe, he should remain with them and becontented with what they saw, instead of rambling alone all over theworld, as he had intended. At first Mr. And Mrs. Hamilton were somewhatsurprised at this decision, but knowing the nature of their son, beganto fancy that a certain Miss Manvers had something to do with it, thesister of Lord Delmont, the Earl St. Eval's most intimate friend, andthe chosen friend of Mary Greville during her residence at Monte Rosa. In Lord Delmont's will he had left the Earl guardian of his sisterduring the year that intervened before her coming of age, an officewhich rendered St. Eval still more intimate with the family. On his wayto Geneva he had heard from Miss Manvers of her mother's death, and thatshe was residing with an English family on the banks of the Lake. Theinformation that her brother's friends, and indeed her own, with hiswife and family, intended spending some little time at Geneva, was asource of so much pleasure, that after a little hesitation she acceptedthe earnest invitation of both the Earl and his lady, and gladly andgratefully consented to reside with them during their stay inSwitzerland, and then accompany them on their intended tour. 

The strong affection Percy bore his brother rendered him long unable toregain his usual mirth and flow of spirits, and he found theconversation of Louisa Manvers even more pleasing than ever. Mary hadmade her perfectly acquainted with Herbert, and therefore, though shehad never seen him, she was well enabled to enter into the deepaffliction the loss of his betrothed must have occasioned him. Percycould speak to her as often as he pleased of his brother and Mary, andever found sympathy and interest attached to the subject. Thus the ideaof travelling alone, when his sister's family offered such attractions, became absolutely irksome to him, and he was pleased to see that hisplan of joining them was not disagreeable to Miss Manvers. Mr. Hamiltonsent his unqualified approval of Percy's intentions, and Herbert alsowrote sufficiently of himself to satisfy the anxious affection of hisbrother. 

There was only one disappointing clause in Percy's plans, and heregretted it himself, and even hinted that if his sister still very muchwished it, he would give up his intention, and return home in time to bepresent, as he had promised, at her wedding. He wrote in his usualaffectionate strain both to Emmeline and Myrvin, but neither was selfishenough to wish such a sacrifice. 

At Herbert's earnest entreaty, the marriage of his sister was, however, fixed rather earlier than she had intended. It was not, he said, as iftheir marriage was to be like Caroline's, the signal for a long courseof gaiety and pleasure; that Emmeline had always determined on only herown family being present, and everything would be so quiet, he was surethere could be no necessity for a longer postponement. 

"My Mary wished to have beheld your union, " his lip trembled as hespoke; "had not her illness so rapidly increased she wished to have beenpresent, and could she now speak her wishes, it would be to bid you behappy--no longer to defer your union for her sake. Do not defer it, dearEmmeline, " he added, in a somewhat sadder tone, "we know not the eventsof an hour, and wherefore should we delay? it will be such joy to me tounite my friend and my sister, to pour forth on their love the blessingof the Lord. "

There was something so inexpressibly sweet yet mournful in hisconcluding words, that Emmeline, unable to restrain the impulse, leanedupon his neck and wept. 

"Do not chide my weakness, Herbert, " she tried to say, "these are nottears of unmingled sadness; oh, could I but see you happy. "

"And you will, my sweet sister: soon--very soon, I shall be happy, quite--quite happy, " he added, in a lower tone, as he fondly kissed herbrow. 

Emmeline had not marked the tone of his concluding words, she had notseen the expression of his features; but Ellen had, and a cold yetindefinable thrill passed through her heart, and left a pang behind, which she could not conquer the whole of that day. She understood itnot, for she _would_ not understand. 

Urged on, however, a few days afterwards, during a walk with Herbert, she asked him why he was so anxious the ceremony should take placewithout delay. 

"Because, my dear Ellen, I look forward to the performance of thisceremony as a source of pleasure which I could not bear to resign toanother. "

"To another, Herbert; what do you mean? Do you think of following myuncle's advice, and resigning your duties for a time, for the purpose oftravel?"

"No, Ellen; those duties will not be resigned till I am called away;they are sources of enjoyment and consolation too pure to be given up. Ido not wish my sister's wedding to be deferred, for I know not how soonmy Saviour may call me to Himself. "

"May we not all urge that plea, my dear cousin?" said Ellen; "and yet inyour sermon last Sunday, you told us to do all things soberly, to givedue reflection to things of weight, particularly those in which temporaland eternal interests were united; not to enter rashly and hastily intoengagements, not too quickly to put off the garb of mourning, and plungeonce more into the haunts of pleasure. " She paused. 

"I did say all this, Ellen, I own; but it has not much to do with ourpresent subject. Emmeline's engagement with Arthur has not been enteredon rashly or in haste. She does not throw off the garb of mourning toforget the serious thoughts it may have encouraged; and though you areright, we none of us can know how soon we may be called away, yet, surely, it behoves those unto whom the dart has sped, the mandate beengiven, to set their house in order for they shall surely die, and notlive the usual period of mortals. "

"But who can tell this, Herbert? who are so favoured as to know theactual moment when the dart has sped and how soon it will reach them?should we not all live as if death were near?"

"Undoubtedly, we should so order our souls, as ever to be ready torender them back to Him who gave them; but we cannot always so arrangeour worldly matters, as we should, did we know the actual moment ofdeath's appearance; our business may require constant care, we may havedear objects for whom it is our duty to provide, to the best of ourpower, and did we know when we should die, these things would lose theinterest they demand. Death should, indeed, be ever present to ourminds; it should follow us in our joy as in our sorrow, and never willit come as a dark and gloomy shadow to those who in truth believe; butwise and merciful is the decree that conceals from us the moment of ourdeparture. Were the gates of Heaven thus visible, how tame and coldwould this world appear; how few would be the ties we should form, howinsignificant would seem those duties which on earth we are commanded toperform. No, to prepare our souls to be ready at a minute's warning toreturn to their heavenly home is the duty of all. More is not expectedfrom those in perfect health; but, Ellen, when a mortal disease isconsuming this earthly tabernacle, when, though Death linger, he isalready seen, ay, and even felt approaching, then should we not wind upour worldly affairs, instead of wilfully blinding our eyes to the truth, as, alas! too many do? Then should we not 'watch and pray' yet more, notonly for ourselves, but those dearest to us, and do all in our power tosecure their happiness, ere we are called away?"

Ellen could not answer. She understood too well his meaning; a sicknessas of death crept over her, but with an effort she subdued that deadlyfaintness; she would have spoken on other things, but her tongue wasparched and dry. 

Engrossed in his own solemn feelings, in the wish to prepare his cousinfor the truth, Herbert perceived not her agitation, and, after aminute's pause, continued tenderly--

"My own cousin, death to you is, I know, not terrible; why then should Ihesitate to impart tidings which to me are full of bliss? The shaftwhich bore away my Mary, also entered my heart, and implanted in me thedisease which no mortal skill can cure. Do not chide me for entertainingan unfounded fancy. Ellen, dear Ellen, I look to you, under heaven, tosupport my mother under this affliction. I look to your fond cares tosubdue the pang of parting. You alone of her children will be left nearher, and you can do much to comfort and soothe not only her, but myfather; they will mourn for me, nature will speak, though I go to joyinexpressible, unutterable! Ellen, speak to me; will you not do this, mysister, my friend?"

"Give me but a moment, " she murmured almost inaudibly, as, overpoweredby increasing faintness, she sunk down on a grassy bank near them, andburied her face in her hands. Minutes rolled by, and still there wassilence. Herbert sat down beside her, threw his arm around her, andpressed a brother's kiss upon her cold, damp brow. She started and wouldhave risen, but strength failed; for a moment her head leaned againsthis bosom, and a burst of tears relieved her. "Forgive me, Herbert, " shesaid, striving at once for composure and voice. "Oh, weak as I am, donot repent your confidence. It was unexpected, sudden; the idea ofparting was sharper than at the first moment I could bear, but it willsoon be over, very, very soon; do not doubt me, Herbert. " She fixed hermournful eyes upon his face, and her cheek was very pale, "Yes, " shesaid, with returning strength, "trust me, dear Herbert, I will be to myaunt, my more than mother, ever as you wish. My every care, my everyenergy shall be employed to soften that deep anguish which--" She couldnot complete the sentence, but quickly added, "the deep debt ofgratitude I owe her, not a whole life can repay. Long have I felt it, long wished to devote myself to her and to my uncle, and this charge hasconfirmed me in my resolution. Yes, dearest Herbert, while Ellen lives, never, never shall my beloved aunt be lonely. "

Herbert understood not the entire signification of his cousin's words;he knew not, that simple as they were to his ears, to her they were avow sacred and irrevocable. She knew she could never, never loveanother, and there was something strangely soothing in the thought, thatit was his last request that consecrated her to his mother, to herbenefactress. To feel that, in endeavouring to repay the dept ofgratitude she owed, she could associate Herbert intimately with herevery action, so to perform his last charge, that could he look downfrom heaven it would be to bless her. 

Herbert knew not the intensity of Ellen's feelings, still less did heimagine he was the object of her ill-fated affection. Never once hadsuch a suspicion crossed his mind; that she loved him he doubted not, but he thought it was as Emmeline loved. He trusted in her strength ofcharacter, and therefore had he spoken openly; and could Ellen regrethis confidence, when she found that after that painful day, her societyappeared dearer, more consoling to him than ever?

Although some members of her family could not be present at Emmeline'swedding, a hasty visit from Edward was a source of joy to all. He wasabout to sail to the shores of Africa in a small frigate, in which hehad been promoted to the second in command, an honour which had elevatedhis spirits even beyond their usual buoyancy. He had been much shockedand grieved at his sister's account of Mary's death, and Herbert's deepaffliction; but after he had been at home a few days, the influence ofhis natural light-heartedness extended over all, and rendered Oakwoodmore cheerful than it had been since the melancholy event we havenarrated. 

To Lilla Grahame it was indeed a pleasure to revisit Oakwood, particularly when Lieutenant Fortescue was amongst its inmates. Edward'smanner was gallantly courteous to all his fair friends; a stranger mighthave found it difficult to say which was his favourite, but there wassomething about both him and Miss Grahame which very often called fromEllen a smile. 

It was an interesting group assembled in the old parish church on theday that united our favourite Emmeline with her long-beloved Arthur, butit was far from being a day of unmingled gladness. Deep and chastened aswas the individual and mutual happiness of the young couple, they couldneither of them forget that there was a beloved one wanting; that theyhad once hoped the same day that beheld their nuptials would havewitnessed also those of Herbert and his Mary. 

Mr. And Mrs. Hamilton had looked with some degree of dread to this day, as one of painful recollection to Herbert; but he, perhaps of all whowere around him, was the most composed, and as the impressive ceremonycontinued, he thought only of those dear ones whose fate he thus united;he felt only the solemn import of the prayers he said, and his large andbeautiful eyes glistened with enthusiasm as in former days. It wouldhave been a sweet group for a skilful painter, those three principalfigures beside the altar. Herbert, as we have described him; Emmeline, in her simple garb of white, her slight figure and peculiarly feminineexpression of countenance causing her to appear very many years youngerthan in reality she was; and Arthur, too, his manly features radiantwith chastened yet perfect happiness, seemed well fitted to be theprotector, the friend of the gentle being who so soon would call himhusband, and look to him alone for happiness. Mr. And Mrs. Hamiltonrejoiced that their beloved child was at length blessed in thegratification of her long-cherished, long-controlled hopes; that, as faras human eye could penetrate, they had secured her happiness by givingher to the man she loved. There was one other kneeling beside the altaron whom Mrs. Hamilton looked with no small anxiety, for the emotion sheperceived, appeared to confirm the idea that it was indeed Arthur Myrvinwho had engrossed the affections of her niece. There are mysteries inthe human heart for which we seek in vain to account; associations andsympathies that come often uncalled-for and unwished. Ellen knew notwherefore the scene she witnessed pressed strangely on her heart; shestruggled against the feeling, and she might perhaps have succeeded inconcealing her inward emotions, but suddenly she looked on Herbert. Shemarked him radiant, it seemed, in health and animation, his wordsflashed across her mind; soon would the hue of death be on that cheek, the light of that eye be dimmed, that sweet and thrilling voice behushed on earth for ever; that beautiful form bent down as a flower, "the wind passeth over it and it is gone, and the place thereof shallknow it no more;" and thus would it soon be with him she loved. The gushof feeling mocked all her efforts at control, Ellen buried her face inher hands, and her slight frame shook, and the low choking sob wasdistinctly heard in the brief silence that followed the words, "Thosewhom God hath joined let no man put asunder. "

Arthur, at Emmeline's own desire, conducted his bride at once to thesmall yet comfortable home which had been prepared for her in hisvicarage on Lord St. Eval's estate. That her residence was so near themwas a great source of pleasure to both her parents, and the feeling thather home was in the centre of all she loved, not only so near thebeloved guardians of her infancy but Caroline and St. Eval, would haveadded to her cup of joy, had it not been already full to overflowing;the pang of parting was thus soothed to both mother and child. Even morethan Caroline, Mrs. Hamilton felt she should miss the gentle girl, whoscarcely from her infancy had given her one moment's pain; but in thehappiness of her child she too was blessed, and thankfully she raisedher voice to Him whose blessing, in the rearing of her children, she hadso constantly and fervently implored, and the mother's fond and yearningheart was comforted. 

Though Ellen had smiled, and seemed to every eye but that of herwatchful aunt the same as usual the whole of that day, yet Mrs. Hamiltoncould not resist the impulse that bade her seek her when all had retiredto their separate apartments. Ellen had been gone some time, but she wassitting in a posture of deep thought, in which she had sunk on firstentering her room. She did not observe her aunt, and Mrs. Hamiltontraced many tears slowly, almost one by one, fall upon hertightly-clasped hands, ere she found voice to speak. 

"Ellen, my sweet child!"

Ellen sprung up, she threw herself into those extended arms, and hid hertearful eyes on her aunt's bosom. 

"I have but you now, my own Ellen, to cheer my old age and enliven ourdeserted hearth. You must not leave me yet, dearest. I cannot part withyou. "

"Oh, no, no; I will never, never leave you. Your home shall be my home, my more than mother; and where you go, Ellen will follow, " she murmured, speaking unconsciously in the spirit of one of the sweetest charactersthe Sacred Book presents. "Do not ask me to leave you; indeed, indeed, no home will be to me like yours. "

"Speak not, then, so despondingly, my Ellen, " replied Mrs. Hamilton, fondly kissing her. "Never shall you leave me without your own full andfree consent. Do you remember, love, when I first promised that?" shecontinued, playfully; for she sought not to draw from Ellen the secretof her love, she only wished to soothe, to cheer, to tell her, howeverunrequited might be her affections, still she was not desolate, and whenshe left her, fully had she succeeded. Ellen was comforted, though shescarcely knew wherefore. 

Some few months passed after the marriage of Emmeline, and the domesticpeace of Oakwood yet remained undisturbed. There were times when Ellenhoped she had been deceived, that Herbert had been deceived himself. ButMyrvin dared not hope; he was not with his friend as constantly as Ellenwas, and almost every time he beheld him he fancied he perceived analarming change. 

About this time a malignant disease broke out in the neighbourhood ofthe Dart, whose awful ravages it appeared as if no medical aid wasadequate to stop. In Herbert Hamilton's parish the mortality wasdreadful, and his duties were consequently increased, painfully tohimself and alarmingly to his family. A superhuman strength seemed, however, suddenly granted him. Whole days, frequently whole nights, hespent in the cottages of the afflicted poor. Soothing, encouraging, compelling even the hardened and impenitent to own the power of thereligion he taught; bidding even them bow in unfeigned penitence at thefootstool of their Redeemer, and robbing death, in very truth, of itssting. The young, the old, men in their prime, were carried off. Theterrible destroyer knew no distinction of age or sex or rank. Many ayoung child would cease its wailing cry of suffering when its belovedpastor entered the lowly cot, and with the fondness of a parent, withthat smile of pitying love which few hearts can resist, would seek tosoothe the bodily anguish, while at the same moment he taught the youngsoul that death was not terrible; that it was but a few moments of painto end in everlasting bliss; that they were going to Him who had said"Suffer little children to come unto me, for of such is the kingdom ofheaven. " From the old, Herbert would learn many a lesson of piety andresignation, and feel that attendance on such beds of death was in trutha blessing to himself. 

Fearlessly, for her trust was fixed on the Rock of Righteousness, didEllen second the exertions of her cousin in this time of generalaffliction. There were many who sought to deter her, for they whisperedthe disease was contagious, but Ellen heeded them not, nor did Mrs. Hamilton, herself so active in seasons of distress, seek to dissuadeher. "The arm of my God is around me, alike in the cottages of the dyingas in the fancied security of Oakwood, " she said one day to Herbert, whotrembled for her safety, though for himself no fears had ever enteredhis mind. "If it is His will that I too should feel His chastening rod, it will find me though I should never leave my home; my trust is in Him. I go in the humble hope to do His work, and He will not forsake me, Herbert. "

Herbert trembled for her no more, and an active and judicious assistantdid he find her. For six weeks the disease continued unabated; aboutthat time it began to decline, and hopes were entertained that it wasindeed departing. 

There was moisture in the eyes of the young minister, as he lookedaround him one Sabbath evening on the diminished number of hiscongregation; so many of whom were either clad in mourning, or bore ontheir countenance the marks of recent suffering, over the last victimthe whole family at Oakwood had sincerely mourned, for it was that kindold woman whom we have mentioned more than once as being connected withthe affairs we have related. Nurse Langford had gone to her last home, and both Ellen and Herbert dreaded writing the intelligence to heraffectionate son, who was now in Percy's service. She had been buriedonly the day previous. Her seat was exactly opposite the pulpit, whereshe had so often said it was such a blessing to look on the face of herdear Master Herbert, and hear such blessed truths from his lips. She nowwas gone. Herbert looked on her vacant seat, and it was then his eyesglistened in starting tears. He had seen his cousin look towards thesame place, and though her veil was closely drawn down, he _felt_ hertears were falling fast and thick upon her book. More than usuallyeloquent was the young clergyman that day, in the discourse he hadselected as most appropriate to the feelings of those present. He spokeof death, and, with an eloquence affecting in its pure simplicity, healluded to the loss of those we love. "Wherefore should I say loss, mybrethren?" he said, in conclusion. "They have but departed to mansionsof undying joy: to earth they may be lost, but not to us. Oh, no, Godcursed the ground for man's sake--it is fading, perishable! There willbe a new heaven and a new earth, but the spirit which God breathedwithin us shall not see corruption. Released from this earthly shell, weshall again behold those who have departed first; they will meet usrejoicing, singing aloud the praises of that unutterable love thatredeemed and saved us, removing the curse pronounced on man, even as onearth, making us heirs of eternal life, of everlasting glory! Mybrethren, Death has been amongst us, but how clothed? to us who remain, perhaps for a time in sadness; but to those who have triumphantlydeparted, even as an angel of light, guiding them to the portals ofheaven. Purified by suffering and repentance, their garments white assnow, they encircle the throne of their Saviour; and those whose livesbelow were those of toil and long suffering, are now among the blessed. Shall we then weep for them, my friends? Surely not. Let us think ofthem, and follow in their paths, that our last end may be like theirs, that we may rejoin them, never again to part!

"Are there any here who fear to die? Are there any who shrink andtremble when they think they may be the next it may please the Lord tocall? My Christian brethren, think awhile, and such thoughts will ceaseto appal you. To the heathen alone is death the evil spirit, theblackening shadow which, when called to mind, will poison his dearestjoys! To us, brethren, what is it? In pain it tells us of ease; instrife or tumult, that the grave is a place of quiet; in the wearinessof exhausted spirits, that the end of all these things is at hand. Whoever found perfect joy on earth? Are we not restless, even in the midstof happiness? Death tells us of a purer happiness, in which there is noweariness, no satiety. When we look around on those we love, when wefeel the blessings of affection, death tells us that we shall love themstill better in heaven! Is death then so terrible? Oh, let us think onit thus in life and health, and in the solitude and silence of ourchamber such thoughts will not depart from us. Let these reflectionspervade us as we witness the dying moments of those we love, and weshall find even for us death has no sting; for we shall meet again in aworld where death and time shall be no more! Oh, my beloved brethren, let us go home, and in our closets thank God that His chastening handappears about to be removed from us, and so beseech Him to enlighten oureyes to look on death, and so to give us that faith, which alone canmake us whole, and give us peace, that we may say with the venerableSimeon, 'Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, for mineeyes have seen thy salvation. '"

He ceased, and a solemn stillness reigned within the church. For amoment the young clergyman bowed his head in silent prayer upon hisbook, and then he raised his clasped hands on high, and, in a voice ofalmost unearthly sweetness and power, gave the parting benediction. Theflush was observed to fade from his cheek, the lustre depart from hiseye; he raised his hand languidly to his damp brow, and in anotherminute Mr. Hamilton darted from his seat, and received his son in hisarms, in a long and deathlike swoon, That same evening beheld HerbertHamilton, the beloved, the good, stretched on his couch a victim to thesame fearful disease, to remove the sting of which he had so long andperseveringly laboured. 

CHAPTER IX. 

There was joy in the superb hotel at Frankfort-sur-Maine which served asthe temporary residence of Lord St. Eval's family, domestic joy, for thedanger which had threatened the young Countess in her confinement hadpassed away, and she and her beautiful babe were doing as well as thefond heart of a father and husband could desire. They had been atFrankfort for the last two months, at which place, however, PercyHamilton had not been stationary, taking advantage of this pause in St. Eval's intended plans, by seeing as much of Germany as he could duringthat time; and short as it was, his energetic mind had derived moreimprovement and pleasure in the places he had visited, than many who hadlingered over the same space of ground more than double the time. Intelligence that Caroline was not quite so well as her friends wished, aided perhaps by his secret desire to see again her gentle companion, Percy determined for a short time to return to Frankfort, till hissister's health was perfectly restored, and they might be again enabledto travel together. His almost unexpected arrival added to the happinessof the young Earl's domestic circle, and there was somewhat in his archyet expressive glance, as he received his baby niece from the arms ofMiss Manvers, and imprinted a light kiss on the infant's sleepingfeatures, that dyed her cheek with blushes, and bade her heart beatquick with an indefinable sense of pleasure. 

The sisterly friendship of Louisa Manvers had been a source of realgratification to both the Earl St. Eval and his Countess during theirtravels, more particularly now, when the health of the latter requiredsuch kindly tending. Mrs. Hamilton had deeply regretted theimpossibility of her being with her child at such a time; the letterLord St. Eval had despatched was, however, calculated to disperse allher anxiety, the danger appearing after the letter had gone, and notlasting sufficiently long to justify his writing again. They weresitting round the breakfast-table the morning after Percy's return, lengthening the usual time of the meal by lively and intelligentconversation; Miss Manvers was presiding at the table, and Percy did notfeel the least inclined to move, declaring he would wait for his Englishdespatches, if there were any, before he went out. The post happened tobe rather late that morning, a circumstance, wonderful to say, which didnot occasion Percy annoyance. It came in, however, at length, bringingseveral papers for Lord St. Eval and his wife, from the Malvern family, but only two from Oakwood, one, in the handwriting of Ellen, to Percy, and one for Robert Langford, evidently from Mr Hamilton. 

"This is most extraordinary, " Percy said, much surprised. "My mothernot written to Caroline, and none from Herbert to me; his duties areincreased, I know, but surely he could find time to write to me. "

"Mrs. Hamilton has written to Caroline since her confinement, and so didall her family four or five days ago, " said Lord St. Eval, but his wordsfell unheeded on the ear of Percy, who had hastily torn open hiscousin's letter, and glanced his eye over its contents. Engaged in hisown letters, the Earl did not observe the agitation of his friend, butMiss Manvers saw his hand tremble so violently, that he could scarcelyhold the paper. 

"Merciful heaven! Mr. Hamilton--Percy, what is the matter?" sheexclaimed, suddenly losing all her wonted reserve, as she remarked hisstrange emotion, and her words, connected with the low groan that burstfrom Percy's heart, effectually roused the Earl's attention. 

"Hamilton, speak; are there ill news from Oakwood? In mercy, speak!" hesaid, almost as much agitated as his friend. 

"Herbert, " was all Percy could articulate, "Herbert, my brother; oh God, he is dying, and I am not near him. Read, St. Eval, for pity; I cannotsee the words. Is there yet time--can I reach England in time? or isthis only a preparation to tell me he is--is dead?"

"He lives, Percy; there may be yet time, if you set off at once, "exclaimed the Earl, who saw the necessity of rousing his friend toexertion, for the sudden blow had bewildered his every faculty. Hestarted up wildly, and was darting from the room, when he suddenlypaused--

"Keep it from Caroline--tell her not now, it will kill her, " he cried. "May God in heaven bless you for those tears!" he continued, springingtowards Louisa, and clasping her hands convulsively in his, as the sightof her unfeigned emotion caused the hot tears slowly to trickle down hisown cheek, and his lip quivered, till he could scarcely speak the wordsof parting. "Oh, think of me; I go to the dying bed of him, whom I hadhoped would one day have been to you a brother--would have joined--" Hepaused in overwhelming emotion, took the hand of the trembling girl, raised it to his lips, and darted from the apartment. 

St. Eval hastily followed him, for he saw Percy was in no state to thinkof anything himself, and the letter Robert had received, telling him ofthe death of his mother, rendered him almost as incapable of exertion ashis master; but as soon as he heard the cause of Percy's very visiblebut at first incomprehensible agitation, his own deep affliction was atonce subdued; he was ready and active in Percy's service. That Mr. Hamilton should thus have written to him, to alleviate the blow of aparent's death, to comfort him when his own son lay on a dying bed, penetrated at once the heart of the young man, and urged him toexertion. 

Day and night Percy travelled; but we must outstrip even his rapidcourse, and conduct our readers to Oakwood, the evening of the secondday after Percy's arrival at Ostend. 

Herbert Hamilton lay on his couch, the cold hand of Death upon his brow;but instead of robing his features with a ghastly hue, it had spreadover them even more than usual beauty. Reduced he was to a mere shadow, but his prayers in his days of health and life had been heard; thedelirium of fever had passed, and he met death unshrinkingly, his mindretaining even more than its wonted powers. It was the Sabbath evening, and all around him was still and calm. For the first two days after thedelirium had departed, his mind had still been darkened, restless, anduneasy. Perseveringly as he had laboured in his calling, he had felt inthose darker days the utter nothingness of his own works, how whollyinsufficient they had been to secure his salvation; and the love of hisGod, the infinite atonement in which he so steadily believed, shone notwith sufficient brightness to remove this painful darkness. Death wasvery near, and it no longer seemed the angel of light he had everregarded it; but on the Saturday the mist was mercifully dispelled fromhis mind, the clouds dispersed, and faith shone forth with a brilliancy, a lustre overpowering; it told of heaven with an eloquence that banishedevery other thought, and Herbert's bodily sufferings were felt nolonger; the confines of heaven were gained--but a brief space, onemortal struggle, and he would meet his Mary at the footstool of his God. 

With solemn impressiveness, yet affecting tenderness, Archdeacon Howardhad administered the sacrament to him, whom he regarded at once aspupil, friend, and brother; and the whole family of the dying youth, athis own particular request, had shared it with him. Exhausted by theearnestness in which he had joined in the solemn service, Herbert nowlay with one hand clasped in his mother's, who sat by his side, her headbent over his, and her whole countenance, save when the gaze of her sonwas turned towards her, expressive of tearless, heart-rending sorrow, struggling for resignation to the will of Him, who called her Herbertto Himself. Emmeline was kneeling by her mother's side. Mr. Hamiltonleaned against the wall, pale and still; it was only the agonizedexpression of his manly features that betrayed he was a living being. Onthe left side of the dying youth stood Arthur Myrvin, who, from themoment of his arrival at Oakwood, had never once left Herbert's couch, night and day he remained beside him; and near Arthur, but yet closer toher cousin, knelt the orphan, her eyes tearless indeed, but her wholecountenance so haggard and wan, that had not all been engrossed inindividual suffering, it could not have passed unobserved. The tall, venerable figure of the Archdeacon, as he stood a little aloof from theprincipal figures, completed the painful group. 

"My own mother, your Herbert is so happy, so very happy! you must notweep for me, mother. Oh, it is your fostering love and care, theremembrance of all your tenderness from my infancy, gilding my boyhoodwith sunshine, my manhood with such refreshing rays--it is that which isresting on my heart, and I would give it words and thank and bless you, but I cannot. And my father, too, my beloved, my revered father--oh, butlittle have I done to repay your tender care, my brother and sisters'love, but my Father in heaven will bless--bless you all; I know, I feelHe will. "

"Percy, " repeated the dying youth, a gleam of light kindling in his eyeand flushing his cheek. "Is there indeed a hope that I may see him, thatI may trace those beloved features once again?"

He closed his eyes, and his lips moved in silent yet fervent prayer, that wish was still powerful within; it was the only thought of earththat lingered. 

"Tell him, " he said, and his voice sounded weaker and weaker, "tell him, Herbert's last prayer was for him, that he was in my last thoughts; tellhim to seek for comfort at the foot of that Throne where we have sooften knelt together. Oh, let him not sorrow, for I shall be happy--oh, so happy!"

Again he was silent, and for a much longer interval; but when hereopened his eyes, they were fixed on Ellen. 

"My sister, my kind and tender nurse, what shall I say to you?" he said, languidly, but in a tone that thrilled to her aching heart. "I can butcommend you to His care, who can take from grief its sting, even as Hehath clothed this moment in victory. May His spirit rest upon you, Ellen, and give you peace. May He bless you, not only for youraffectionate kindness towards me, but to her who went before me. Youwill not forget, Ellen. " His glance wandered from his cousin to hismother, and then returned to her. She bowed her head upon his extendedhand, but her choking voice could speak no word. "Caroline, too, shewill weep for me, but St. Eval will dry her tears; tell them I did notforget them; that my love and blessing is theirs even as if they hadbeen around me. Emmeline, Arthur, --Mr. Howard, oh, where are you? myeyes are dim, my voice is failing, yet"--

"I am here, my beloved son, " said the Archdeacon, and Herbert fixed akind glance upon his face, and leaned his head against him. 

"I would tell you, that it is the sense of the Divine presence, of love, unutterable, infinite, inexhaustible, that has taken all anguish fromthis moment. My spirit rises triumphant, secure of eternal salvation, triumphing in the love of Him who died for me. Oh, Death, well may Isay, where is thy sting? oh, grave, where is thy victory? they arepassed; heaven is opening. Oh, bliss unutterable, undying!" He sunk backutterly exhausted, but the expression of his countenance still evincedthe internal triumph of his soul. 

A faint sound, as of the distant trampling of horses, suddenly came uponthe ear. Nearer, nearer still, and a flush of excitement rose toHerbert's cheek. "Percy--can it be? My God, I thank thee for thismercy!"

Arthur darted from the room, as the sound appeared rapidly approaching;evidently it was a horse urged to its utmost speed, and it could be noneother save Percy. Arthur flew across the hall, and through the entrance, which had been flung widely open, as the figure of the young heir ofOakwood had been recognised by the streaming eyes of the faithfulMorris, who stood by his young master's stirrup, but without uttering aword. Percy's tongue clove to the roof of his mouth; his eyes werebloodshot and haggard. He had no power to ask a question, and it wasonly the appearance of Myrvin, his entreaty that he would be calm ereHerbert saw him, that roused him to exertion. His brother yet lived; itwas enough, and in another minute he stood on the threshold of Herbert'sroom. With an overpowering effort the dying youth raised himself on hiscouch, and extended his arms towards him. 

"Percy, my own Percy, this is kind, " he said, and his voice suddenlyregained its wonted power. Percy sprung towards him, and the brotherswere clasped in each other's arms. No word did Percy speak, but hischoking sobs were heard; there was no movement in the drooping form ofhis brother to say that he had heard the sound; he did not raise hishead from Percy's shoulder, or seek to speak of comfort. 

"Speak to me, oh, once again, but once more, Herbert!" exclaimed Percy. Fearful agony was in his voice, but, oh, it could not rouse the _dead_:Herbert Hamilton had departed. His last wish on earth was fulfilled. Itwas but the lifeless form of his beloved brother that Percy held in thestern grasp of despairing woe. It was long ere the truth was known, andwhen it was, there was no sound of wailing heard within the chamber, nocry of sorrow broke the solemn stillness. For him they could not weep, and for themselves, oh, it was a grief too deep for tears. 

 * * * * *

We will not linger on the first few weeks that passed over the inmatesof Oakwood after the death of one we have followed so long, and beheldso fondly and deservedly beloved. Silent and profound was that sorrow, but it was the sorrow of those who, in all things, both great and small, beheld the hand of a God of love. Could the faith, the truth, which fromher girlhood's years had distinguished Mrs. Hamilton, desert her now?Would her husband permit her to look to him for support and consolationunder this deep affliction, and yet not find it? No; they looked up totheir God; they rejoiced that so peaceful, so blessed had been the deathof their beloved one. His last words to them came again and again on theheart of each parent as soothing balm, of which nor time norcircumstance could deprive them. For the sake of each other, theyexerted themselves, an example followed by their children; but each feltyears must pass ere the loss they had sustained would lose its pang, erethey could cease to miss the being they had so dearly loved, who hadbeen such a brilliant light in their domestic circle--brilliant, yet howgentle; not one that was ever sparkling, ever changing, but of a softand steady lustre. On earth that light had set, but in heaven it wasdawning never to set again. 

For some few weeks the family remained all together, as far at least asArthur's ministerial duties permitted. Mr. Hamilton wished much to seethat living, now vacant by the death of his son, transferred to Myrvin, and he exerted himself towards effecting an exchange. Ere, however, Percy could return to the Continent, or Emmeline return to her husband'shome, the sudden and alarming illness of Mrs. Hamilton detained themboth at Oakwood. The fever which had been raging in the village, andwhich had hastened the death of Herbert, had also entered the householdof Mrs. Hamilton. Resolved that no affliction of her own shouldinterfere with those duties of benevolence, to exercise which was herconstant practice, Mrs. Hamilton had compelled herself to exertionbeyond the strength of a frame already wearied and exhausted bylong-continued but forcibly-suppressed anxiety, and three weeks afterthe death of her son she too was stretched on a bed of suffering, which, for the first few days during the violence of the fever, her afflictedfamily believed might also be of death. In this trying time, it was toEllen that not only her cousin but even her uncle turned, by her exampleto obtain more control and strength. No persuasions could induce her toleave the side of her aunt's couch, or resign to another the painful yetsoothing task of nursing. Young and inexperienced she was, but herstrong affection for her aunt, heightened by some other feeling whichwas hidden in her own breast, endowed her at once with strength toendure continued fatigue, with an experience that often made Mr. Maitland contemplate her with astonishment. From the period of Herbert'sdeath, Ellen had placed her feelings under a restraint that utterlyprevented all relief in tears. She was never seen to weep; every featurehad indeed spoken the deep affliction that was hers, but it neverinterfered with the devoted care she manifested towards her aunt. Silently yet perseveringly she laboured to soften the intense sufferingin the mother's heart; it was on her neck Mrs. Hamilton had first weptfreely and relievingly, and as she clasped the orphan to her bosom, hadlifted up her heart in thanksgiving that such a precious gift was yetpreserved her, how little did even she imagine all that was passing inEllen's heart; that Herbert to her young fancy had been how much dearerthan a brother; that she mourned not only a cousin's loss, but one roundwhom her first affections had been twined with an intensity that deathalone could sever. How little could she guess the continued strugglepressing on that young mind, the anguish of her solitary moments, ereshe could by prayer so calm her bursting heart as to appear the composedand tranquil being she ever seemed before the family. Mrs. Hamiltoncould only feel that the comfort her niece bestowed in this hour ofaffliction, her controlled yet sympathising conduct, repaid her for allthe care and sorrow Ellen once had caused. Never had she regretted shehad taken the orphans to her heart and cherished them as her own; butnow it was she felt the Lord had indeed returned the blessing tenfold inher own bosom; and still more did she feel this in the long and painfulconvalescence that followed her brief but severe attack of fever, whenEllen was the only one of her children remaining near her. 

Completely worn out by previous anxiety, the subsequent affliction, and, finally, her mother's dangerous illness, Emmeline's health appeared soshattered, that as soon as the actual danger was passed, Myrvin insistedon her going with him, for change of air and scene, to Llangwillan, aproposal that both her father and Mr. Maitland seconded; trembling forthe precious girl so lately made his own, Arthur resisted her entreatiesto remain a little longer at Oakwood, and conveyed her at once to hisfather's vicarage, where time and improved tidings of her motherrestored at length the bloom to her cheek and the smile to her lip. 

It was strange to observe the difference of character which oppositecircumstances and opposite treatment in their infant years had made inthese two cousins. Emmeline and Ellen, had they been brought up frombabes together, and the same discipline extended to each, would, in allprobability, have in after years displayed precisely the samedisposition; but though weak indulgence had never been extended toEmmeline, prosperity unalloyed, save in the affair with Arthur Myrvin, had been her portion. Affection and caresses had been ever lavishedalmost unconsciously upon her, but instead of cherishing faults, suchtreatment had formed her happiness, and had encouraged and led her onin the paths of virtue. Every thought and feeling were expressed withoutdisguise; she had been so accustomed to think aloud to her mother fromchildhood, so accustomed to give vent to her little vexations in words, her sorrows in tears, which were quickly dried, that as years increased, she found it a very difficult task either to restrain her sentiments orcontrol her feelings. Her mind could not be called weak, for in heraffection for Arthur Myrvin, as we have seen, when there was aperemptory call for exertion or self-control, it was ever heard andattended to. Her health indeed suffered, but that very fact proved themind was stronger than the frame; though when she marked Ellen'ssuperior composure and coolness, Emmeline would sometimes bitterlyreproach herself. From her birth, Ellen had been initiated in sorrow, her infant years had been one scene of trial. Never caressed by hermother or those around her, save when her poor father was near, she hadlearned to bury every affectionate yearning deep within her own littleheart, every childish sentiment was carefully concealed, and herfather's death, the horrors of that night, appeared to have placed theseal on her character, infant as she was. She was scarcely ten when shebecame an inmate of her aunt's family, but then it was too late for hercharacter to become as Emmeline's. The impression had been made on theyielding wax, and now it could not be effaced. Many circumstancescontributed to strengthen this impression, as in the first portion ofthis history we have seen. Adversity had made Ellen as she was, andself-control had become her second nature, long before she knew themeaning of the word. 

The intelligence of Herbert's death, though deferred till St. Evalthought his wife enabled to bear it with some composure, had, however, so completely thrown her back, that she was quite unequal to travel toEngland, as her wishes had instantly dictated, and her husband wascompelled to keep up a constant system of deception with regard to hermother's illness, lest she should insist, weak as she was, onimmediately flying to her aid. As soon as sufficient strength returnedfor Mrs. Hamilton to express her wishes, she entreated Percy to rejoinhis sister, that all alarm on her account might subside. The thought ofher child was still uppermost in the mother's mind, though her excessivedebility compelled her to lie motionless for hours on her couch, scarcely sensible of anything passing around her, or that her husbandand Ellen hardly for one moment left her side. The plan succeeded, Caroline recovered soon after Percy's arrival; and at the earnestmessage Percy bore her from her mother, that she would not think ofreturning to England till her health was quite restored, she consentedleisurely to take the celebrated excursion down the Rhine, ere shereturned home. 

It would have seemed as though no other grief could be the portion ofEllen, but another sorrow was impending over her, which, while itlasted, was a source of distress inferior only to Herbert's death. Entering the library one morning, she was rather surprised to find notonly Mr. Maitland but Archdeacon Howard with her uncle. 

The former was now too constantly a visitor at the Hall to occasionindividually much surprise, but it was the expression on thecountenances of each that created alarm. Mr. Hamilton appearedstruggling with some strong and painful emotion, and had started asEllen entered the room, while he looked imploringly towards theArchdeacon, as if seeking his counsel and assistance. 

"Can we indeed trust her?" Mr. Maitland said, doubtingly, and in a lowvoice, as he looked sadly upon Ellen. "Can we he sure these melancholytidings will be for the present inviolably kept from Mrs. Hamilton, forsuspense such as this, in her present state of health, might produceconsequences on which I tremble to think?"

"You may depend upon me, Mr. Maitland, " Ellen said, firmly, as she cameforward. "What new affliction can have happened of which you so dread myaunt being informed? Oh, do not deceive me. I have heard enough to makefancy perhaps more dreadful than reality, Mr. Howard. My dear uncle, will you not trust me?"

"My poor Ellen, " her uncle said, in a faltering voice, "you have indeedborne sorrow well; but this will demand even a greater share offortitude. All is not yet known, there may be hope, but I dare notencourage it. Tell her, Howard, " he added, hastily, shrinking from hersorrowful glance, "I cannot. "

"Is it of Edward you would tell me? Oh, what of him?" she exclaimed. "Oh, tell me at once, Mr. Howard, indeed, indeed, I can bear it. "

With the tenderness of a father, Mr. Howard gently and soothingly toldher that letters had that morning arrived from Edward's captain, informing them that the young lieutenant had been despatched with aboat's crew, on a message to a ship stationed about twelve milessouthward, towards the Cape of Good Hope; a storm had arisen as thenight darkened, but still Captain Seaforth had felt no uneasiness, imagining his young officer had deemed it better remaining on board theStranger all night, though somewhat contrary to his usual habits ofpromptness and activity. As the day, however, waned to noon, and stillLieutenant Fortescue did not appear, the captain despatched another boatto know why he tarried. The sea was still raging in fury from the lastnight's storm, but the foaming billows had never before detained Edwardfrom his duty. With increasing anxiety, Captain Seaforth paced the deckfor several hours, until indeed the last boat he had sent returned. Hescanned the crew with an eye that never failed him, and saw with dismay, that neither his lieutenant nor one of his men were amongst them. Horror-stricken and distressed, the sailors related that, despite everypersuasion of the captain of the Stranger, Lieutenant Fortescue hadresolved on returning to the Gem the moment his message had beendelivered and the answer given; his men had seconded him, though manysigns denoted that as the evening advanced, so too would the impendingstorm. Twilight was darkening around him when, urged on by a mistakensense of duty, the intrepid young man descended into the boat, and nothalf an hour afterwards the storm came on with terrific violence, andthe pitchy darkness had entirely frustrated every effort of the crew ofthe Stranger to trace the boat. Morning dawned, and brought with it somefaint confirmation of the fate which all had dreaded. Some spars onwhich the name of the Gem was impressed, and which were easilyrecognised as belonging to the long-boat, floated on the foaming waves, and the men sent out to reconnoitre had discovered the dead body of oneof the unfortunate sailors, who the evening previous had been so full oflife and mirth, clinging to some sea-weed; while a hat bearing the nameof Edward Fortescue, caused the painful suspicion that the young andgallant officer had shared the same fate. Every inquiry was set afloat, every exertion made, to discover something more certain concerning him, but without any effect. Some faint hope there yet existed, that he mighthave been picked up by one of the ships which were continually passingand repassing on that course; and Captain Seaforth concluded hismelancholy narration by entreating Mr. Hamilton not to permit himself todespair, as hope there yet was, though but faint. Evidently he wrote ashe felt, not merely to calm the minds of Edward's sorrowing friends, butMr. Hamilton could not share these sanguine expectations. Mystery hadalso enveloped the fate of his brother-in-law, Charles Manvers; long, very long, had he hoped that he lived, that he would yet return; butyear after year had passed, till four-and-twenty had rolled by, andstill there were no tidings. Well did he remember the heart-sickeningthat had attended his hopes deferred, the anguish of suspense which formany weary months had been the portion of his wife, and he thought italmost better for Ellen to believe her brother dead, than to live on inthe indulgence of hopes that might have no foundation; yet how could hetell her he was dead, when there was one gleam of hope, however faint. Well did he know the devoted affection which the orphans bore to eachother. He gazed on her in deep commiseration, as in unbroken silence shelistened to the tenderly-told tale; and, drawing her once more to hisbosom as Mr. Howard ceased, he fondly and repeatedly kissed her brow, as he entreated her not to despair; Edward might yet be saved. No wordcame from Ellen's parched lips, but he felt the cold shudder ofsuffering pass through her frame. Several minutes passed, and still sheraised not her head. Impressively the venerable clergyman addressed herin tones and words that never failed to find their way to the orphan'sheart. He spoke of a love and mercy that sent these continued trials tomark her as more peculiarly His own. He told of comfort, that even insuch a moment she could feel. He bade her cease not to pray for herbrother's safety; that nothing was too great for the power or the mercyof the Lord; that however it might appear impossible to worldly mindsthat he could be saved, yet if the Almighty's hand had been stretchedforth, a hundred storms might have passed him by unhurt; yet he bade hernot entertain too sanguine hopes. "Place our beloved Edward and yourselfin the hands of our Father in heaven, my child; implore Him for strengthto meet His will, whatever it may be, and if, indeed, He hath taken himin mercy to a happier world, He will give you strength and grace to meetHis ordinance of love; but if hope still lingers, check it not--he maybe spared. Be comforted, then, my child, and for the sake of the belovedrelative yet spared you, try and compose your agitated spirits. We maytrust to your care in retaining this fresh grief from her, I know wemay. "

"You are right. Mr. Howard; oh, may God bless you for your kindness!"said the almost heart-broken girl, as she raised her head and placed hertrembling hands in his. Her cheeks were colourless as marble, but thelong dark fringes that rested on them were unwetted by tears; she hadforcibly sent them back. Her heart throbbed almost to suffocation, butshe would not listen to its anguish. The form of Herbert seemed to flitbefore her and remind her of her promise, that her every care, her everyenergy should be devoted to his mother; and that remembrance, strengthened as it was by Mr. Howard's words, nerved her to the painfulduty which was now hers to perform. "You may indeed trust me. My Fatherin heaven will support me, and give me strength to conceal thisintelligence effectually, till my beloved aunt is enabled to hear itwith composure. Do not fear me, Mr. Maitland; it is not in my ownstrength I trust, for that I feel too painfully at this moment is lessthan nothing. My dearest uncle, will you not trust your Ellen?"

She turned towards him as she spoke, and Mr. Hamilton felt the tearsglisten in his eyes as he met the upturned glance of the afflictedorphan--now indeed, as it seemed, so utterly alone. 

"Yes I do and ever will trust you, my beloved Ellen, " he said, withemotion. "May God grant you His blessing in this most painful duty. ToHim I commend you, my child; I would speak of comfort and hope, but Healone can give them. "

"And He _will_, " replied Ellen, in a low, steady voice; and gentlywithdrawing her hand from Mr. Howard's, she softly but quickly left thelibrary. But half an hour elapsed, and Ellen was once more seated by heraunt's couch. The struggle of that half hour we will not follow; it wastoo sacred, too painful to be divulged, and many, many solitary hourswere thus spent in suffering, known only to herself and to her God. 

"You have been long away from me, my Ellen, or else my selfish wish tohave you again near me has made me think so, " Mrs. Hamilton said thateventful morning. 

"Have you then missed me, my dear aunt? I am glad of it, for comfort asit is to be allowed to remain always with yon, it is even greaterpleasure to think you like to have me near you, " replied Ellen. 

"Can I do otherwise, my own Ellen? Where can I find a nurse so tender, affectionate, and attentive as you are? Who would know so well how tocheer and soothe me as the child whose smallest action proves how muchshe loves me?"

Tears glistened in the eyes of Ellen as her aunt spoke, for if she hadwanted fresh incentive for exertion, those simple words would have givenit. Oh, how much encouragement may be given in one sentence from thosewe love; how is every effort to please lightened by the consciousness itis appreciated; how is every duty sweetened when we feel we are beloved. 

Mrs. Hamilton knew not how that expression of her feelings had fallen onthe torn heart of her niece; she guessed not one-half Ellen endured insecret for her sake, but she felt, and showed she felt, the full valueof the unremitting affectionate attentions she received. 

Days, weeks passed by; at length, Mrs. Hamilton's extreme debility beganto give place to the more restless weariness of convalescence. It wascomparatively an easy task to sit in continued silence by the couch, actively yet quietly to anticipate her faintest wish, and attend to allthe duties of nurse, which demanded no exertion in the way of talking, and other efforts at amusement; there were then very many hours thatEllen's saddened thoughts could dwell on the painful past. 

She struggled to behold heaven's mercy in affliction, and rapidly, morerapidly than she was herself aware of, was this young and gentle girlprogressing in the paths of grace. Had Herbert and Mary both lived andbeen united, Ellen would, in all probability, have at length soconquered her feelings, as to have been happy in the marriage state, andthough she could not have bestowed the first freshness of youngaffection, she would ever have so felt and acted as to be in very truth, as Lord St. Eval had said, a treasure to any man who had the felicity tocall her his. Had her cousin indeed married, Ellen might have felt itincumbent on her as an actual duty so to conquer herself; but now thathe was dead she felt it no sin to love, in devoting herself to hisparents in their advancing age, partly for his sake, in associating himwith all she did for them, and for all whom he loved; there was no sinnow in all this, but she felt it would be a crime to give her hand toanother, when her whole heart was thus devoted to the dead. There wassomething peculiarly soothing to the grateful and affectionate feelingswith which she regarded her aunt and uncle; that she perhaps would bethe only one of all those who had--

 "Played Beneath the same green tree, Whose voices mingled as they prayed Around one parent knee"--

would remain with nothing to divert her attention from the pleasing taskof soothing and cheering their advancing years, and her every effort wasnow turned towards making her _single_ life, indeed, one of_blessedness_, by works of good and thoughts of love towards all withwhom she might associate; but in these visions her brother had everintimately mingled. She had pictured herself beholding and rejoicing inhis happiness, loving his children as her own, being to them a secondmother. She had fancied herself ever received with joy, a welcome inmateof her Edward's home, and so strongly had her imagination becomeimpressed with this idea, that its annihilation appeared to heighten theanguish with which the news of his untimely fate had overwhelmed her. Hewas gone; and it seemed as if she had never, never felt so utterlydesolate before; as if advancing years had entirely lost the soft andgentle colouring with which they had so lately been invested. It seemedbut a very short interval since she had seen him, the lovely, playfulchild, his mother's pet, the admiration of all who looked on him; thenhe stood before her, the handsome, manly boy she had parted with, whenhe first left the sheltering roof of Oakwood, to become a sailor. Then, shuddering, she recalled him when they had met again, after a lapse ofsuffering in the young life of each; and her too sensitive fancyconjured up the thought that her fault had not yet been sufficientlychastised, that he was taken from her because she had loved him toowell; because her deep intense affection for him had caused her once toforget the mandate of her God. In the deep agony of that thought, itseemed as if she lived over again those months of suffering, which in aformer pages we have endeavoured to describe. 

Humbled to the dust, she recognised the chastising hand of her Maker, and as if it had only now been committed, she acknowledged and repentedthe transgression a moment's powerful temptation had forced her tocommit. Had there been one to whom she could have confessed thesefeelings, whose soothing friendship would have whispered it was needlessand uncalled-for to enhance the suffering of Edward's fate by suchself-reproach, Ellen's young heart would have been relieved; but fromthat beloved relative who might have consoled and alleviated her grief, this bitter trial she must still conceal. Mr. Hamilton dared notencourage the hope which he had never felt but his bosom swelled withlove and almost veneration for the gentle being, to whose care Mr. Maitland had assured him the recovery of his beloved wife was, underProvidence, greatly owing. He longed to speak of comfort; but, alas!what could he say? he would have praised, encouraged, but there was thatabout his niece that utterly forbade it; for it silently yetimpressively told whence that sustaining strength arose. 

It was when Mrs. Hamilton was beginning to recover, that still moreactive exertions on the part of Ellen were demanded. Every effort wasnow made to prevent her relapsing into that despondency whichconvalescence so often engenders, however we may strive to resist it. She was ready at a minute's notice to comply with and often toanticipate her aunt's most faintly-hinted wishes; she would read to her, sing her favourite airs, or by a thousand little winning artsunconsciously entice the interest of her aunt to her various pursuits, as had been her wont in former days. There was no appearance of efforton her part, and Mrs. Hamilton insensibly, at first, but surely feltthat with her strength her habitual cheerfulness was returning, andfervently she blessed her God for this abundant mercy. No exertion onher side was wanting to become to her husband and household as she hadbeen before the death of her beloved son; she felt the beauteous flowerwas transplanted above; the hand of the reaper had laid it low, thoughthe eye of faith beheld it in perfect undying loveliness, and though themother's heart yet sorrowed, 'twas a sorrow now in which no pain wasmingled. 

One evening they had been speaking, among other subjects, of LillaGrahame, whose letters, Mrs. Hamilton had observed, were not written inher usual style. Too well did Ellen guess the reason; once only the poorgirl had alluded to Edward's supposed fate, but that once had more thansufficiently betrayed to Ellen's quickly-excited sympathy the truenature of her feelings towards him. As Lilla had not, however, writtenin perfect confidence, but still as if she feared to write too much onemotions she scarcely understood herself, Ellen had not answered her asshe would otherwise have done. That her sympathy was Lilla's was veryclearly evident, but as the secrecy preserved towards Mrs. Hamilton hadbeen made known to her by Emmeline, she had not written again on thesubject, but yet Ellen was not deceived; in every letter she receivedshe could easily penetrate where Lilla's anxious thoughts werewandering. Of Cecil Grahame there were still no tidings, and, allcircumstances considered, it did not seem strange she should often besorrowful and anxious. On dismissing this subject, Mrs. Hamilton hadasked Ellen to sing to her, and selected, as a very old favourite, "TheGraves of the Household. " She had always forgotten it, she said, before, when Ellen wished her to select one she preferred. She was surprisedthat Ellen had not reminded her of it, as it had once been an equalfavourite with her. For a moment Ellen hesitated, and then hastened tothe piano. In a low, sweet, yet unfaltering voice, she complied with heraunt's request; once only her lip quivered, for she could not sing thatverse without the thought of Edward. 

 "The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one, He lies where pearls lie deep; He was the loved of all, yet none O'er his low bed may weep. "

Mr. Hamilton unobserved had entered the room, and now stood with foldedarms and mournful glance, alternately regarding his wife and niece. Mr. Maitland had that morning told him there was not now the slightestdanger remaining, and he rather advised that Mrs. Hamilton should beinformed of what had passed, lest the painful intelligence should comeupon her when quite unprepared. He had striven for composure, and he nowentered expressly to execute this painful task; he had marked thesuffering imprinted on his niece's face, and he could continue thedeception no longer. On the conclusion of her song, Ellen reseatedherself on the stool she had occupied at her aunt's feet, her heart toofull to speak. 

"Why are you so silent, my dear husband?" Mrs. Hamilton said, addressinghim, and who almost started at her address. "May I know the subject ofsuch very deep thought?"

"Ellen, partly, " he replied, and he spoke the truth. "I was thinking howpale and thin she looks, and how much she has lately had to distress andcause her anxiety. "

"She has, indeed, and therefore the sooner we can leave Oakwood for afew months, as we intended, the better. I have been a long andtroublesome patient, my Ellen, and all your efforts to restore me toperfect health will he quite ineffectual unless I see the colour returnto your cheek, and your step resume its elasticity. "

"Do not fear for me, my beloved aunt; indeed I am quite well, " answeredEllen, not daring to look up, lest her tears should be discovered. 

"You are right, my Emmeline, " suddenly exclaimed Mr. Hamilton, rousinghimself with a strong effort, and advancing to the couch where his wifesat, he threw his arms around her. "You do not yet know all that ourEllen has in secret borne for your sake. You do not yet know the deepaffliction which is the real cause of that alteration in her health, which only now you are beginning to discover. Oh, my beloved wife, Ihave feared to tell you, but now that strength is returning, I mayhesitate no longer; for her sake you will bear these cruel tidings evenas she has done. Will you not comfort her? Will you--" The suddenopening of the door arrested the words upon his lips. Touched byindefinable alarm, Mrs. Hamilton's hand grasped his without the power ofspeech. Ellen had risen, for she felt she could not hear those sad wordsagain spoken. 

It was James the footman who entered, and he placed a letter in herhand. She looked at the direction, a faint cry broke from her lips; shetore it open, gazed on the signature, and sunk senseless on the floor. She who had borne suffering so well, who had successfully struggled toconceal every trace of emotion, when affliction was her allottedportion, was now too weak to bear the sudden transition from suchbitter grief to overwhelming joy. Mr. Hamilton sprung forward; he couldnot arrest her fall, but his eye had caught the well-known writing ofhim he had believed lay buried in the ocean, and conquering her ownextreme agitation, Mrs. Hamilton compelled herself to think of nothingbut restoring the still senseless girl to life. A few, very few wordstold her all. At first Mr. Hamilton's words had been almost inarticulatefrom the thankfulness that filled his heart. It was long ere Ellen awoketo consciousness. Her slight frame was utterly exhausted by itscontinued conflict with the mind within, and now that joy had come, thatthere was no more need for control or sorrow, her extraordinary energyof character for the moment fled, and left her in very truth the weakand loving woman. Before she could restore life to Ellen's inanimateform, Mrs. Hamilton had time to hear that simple tale of silentsuffering, to feel her bosom glow in increasing love and gratitudetowards the gentle being who for her sake had endured so much. 

"Was it but a dream, or did I not read that Edward lived, wasspared, --that he was not drowned? Oh, tell me, my brain seems still toswim. Did they not give me a letter signed by him himself? Oh, was itonly fancy?"

"It is truth, my beloved; the Almighty mercifully stretched forth Hisarm and saved him. Should we not give Him thanks, my child?"

Like dew upon the arid desert, or healing balm to a throbbing wound, sodid those few and simple words fall on Ellen's ear; but the ferventthanksgiving that rose swelling in her heart, wanted not words to renderit acceptable to Him, whose unbounded mercy she thus acknowledged andadored. 

Mrs. Hamilton pressed her closer to her bosom, again and again shekissed her, and tried to speak the words of affectionate soothing, whichseldom failed to restore Ellen to composure. 

"You told me once, my Ellen, that you never, never could repay the largedebt of gratitude you seemed to think you owed me. Do you remember mysaying you could not tell that one day you might make me your debtor, and are not my words truth? Did I not prophesy rightly? What do I notowe you, my own love, for sparing me so much anxiety and wretchedness?Look up and smile, my Ellen, and let us try if we can listen composedlyto our dear Edward's account of his providential escape. If he were nearme I would scold him for giving you such inexpressible joy so suddenly. "

Ellen did look up and did smile, a bright beaming smile of chastenedhappiness, and again and again did she read over that letter, as if itwere tidings too blessed to be believed, as if it could not be Edwardhimself who had written. His letter was hasty, nor did he enter intovery many particulars, which, to render a particular part of our taleintelligible, we must relate at large in another chapter. This epistlewas dated from Rio Janeiro, and written evidently under the idea thathis sister had received a former letter containing every minutiae of hisescape, which he had forwarded to her, under cover to Captain Seaforth, only seven days after his supposed death. Had the captain received thisletter, all anxiety would have been spared, for as he did not write toMr. Hamilton for above a week after Edward's disappearance, it wouldhave reached him first; it was therefore very clear it had been lost onits way, and Edward fearing such might be the case, from the uncertainmethod by which it had been sent, wrote again. He had quite recovered, he said, all ill effects from being so long floating in the water on anarrow plank; that he was treated with marked kindness and attention byall the crew of the Alma, a Spanish vessel bound to Rio Janeiro andthence to New York, particularly by an Englishman, Lieutenant Mordaunt, to whose energetic exertions he said he greatly owed his preservation;for it was he who had prevailed on the captain to lower a boat, todiscover what that strange object was floating on the waves. Hecontinued, there was something about Lieutenant Mordaunt he could notdefine, but which had the power of irresistibly attracting his respect, if not affection. His story he believed was uncommon, but he had not yetheard it all, and had no time to repeat it, as he was writing in greathaste. Affectionately he hoped no alarm amongst his friends had beenentertained on his account, that it would not be long before he returnedhome; for as soon as the slow-sailing Spaniard could finish her affairswith the ports along the coast of Spanish America and reach New York, Lieutenant Mordaunt and himself had determined on quitting her, andreturning to England by the first packet that sailed. A letter to NewYork might reach him, but it was a chance; therefore he did not expectto receive any certain intelligence of home--a truth which only made himthe more anxious to reach it. 

Quickly the news that Edward Fortescue lived, and was returning home inperfect health, extended far and wide, and brought joy to all who heardit. A messenger was instantly despatched to Trevilion Vicarage toimpart the joyful intelligence to Arthur and Emmeline, and the next daysaw them both at Oakwood to rejoice with Ellen at this unexpected butmost welcome news. There was not one who had been aware of the suspenseMr. Hamilton and Ellen had been enduring who did not sympathise in theirrelief. Even Mrs. Greville left her solitary home to seek the friends ofher youth: she had done so previously when affliction was their portion. She had more than once shared Ellen's anxious task of nursing, when Mrs. Hamilton's fever had been highest; kindly and judiciously she hadsoothed in grief, and Mrs. Greville's character was too unselfish torefuse her sympathy in joy. 

A few weeks after the receipt of that letter, Mr. Hamilton, his wife, and Ellen removed to a beautiful little villa in the neighbourhood ofRichmond, where they intended to pass some of the winter months. Achange was desirable, indeed requisite for all. But a short interval hadpassed since the death of their beloved Herbert, and there were manytimes when the parents' hearts yet painfully bled, and each feltretirement, the society of each other, and sometimes of their mostvalued friends, the exercise of domestic and religious duties, would bethe most efficient means of acquiring that peace of which even thegreatest affliction cannot deprive the truly religious mind. AtChristmas, St. Eval had promised his family should join them, and alllooked forward to that period with pleasure. 

CHAPTER X. 

Although we are as much averse to retrospection in a tale as our readerscan be, yet to retrace our steps for a short interval is a necessity. Edward had written highly of Lieutenant Mordaunt, but as he happens tobe a personage of rather more consequence to him than young Fortescueimagined, we must be allowed to introduce him more intimately to ourreaders. 

It was the evening after that in which Lieutenant Fortescue had sorashly encountered the storm, that a Spanish vessel, of ill-shaped bulkand of some hundred tons, was slowly pursuing her course from the coastof Guinea towards Rio Janeiro. The sea was calm, almost motionless, compared with its previous fearful agitation. The sailors were gailyemployed in their various avocations, declaring loudly that this respiteof calm was entirely owing to the interposition of St. Jago in theirfavour, he being the saint to whom they had last appealed during thecontinuance of the tempest. Aloof from the crew, and leaning against amast, stood one apparently very different to those by whom he wassurrounded. It was an English countenance, but embrowned almost to aswarthy hue, from continued exposure to a tropical sun. Tall andremarkably well formed, he might well have been supposed of noble birth;there were, however, traces of long-continued suffering imprinted on hismanly face and in his form, which sometimes was slightly bent, as iffrom weakness rather than from age. His dark brown hair was in manyparts silvered with grey, which made him appear as if he had seen somefifty years at least; though at times, by the expression of hiscountenance, he might have been thought full ten years younger. Melancholy was the characteristic of his features; but his eye wouldkindle and that cheek flush, betraying that a high, warm spirit stilllurked within, one which a keen observer might have fancied had beensuppressed by injury and suffering. It was in truth a countenance onwhich a physiognomist or painter would have loved to dwell, for bothwould have found in it an interest they could scarcely have defined. 

Thus resting in meditative silence, Lieutenant Mordaunt's attention wasattracted by a strange object floating on the now calm ocean. There wereno ships near, and Mordaunt felt his eyes fascinated in that direction, and looking still more attentively, he felt convinced it was a humanbody secured to a plank. He sought the captain instantly, and used everypersuasion humanity could dictate to urge him to lower a boat. For sometime he entreated in vain. Captain Bartholomew said it was mere folly tothink there was any chance of saving a man's life, who had been so longtossed about on the water, it would be only detaining him for nothing;his ship was already too full either for comfort or profit, and he wouldnot do it. 

Fire flashed from the dark eyes of Mordaunt at the captain's positiveand careless language, and he spoke again with all the spiritedeloquence of a British sailor. He did not spare the cruel recklessnessthat could thus refuse to save a fellow-creature's life, merely becauseit might occasion a little delay and trouble. Captain Bartholomew lookedat him in astonishment; he little expected such a burst of indignantfeeling from one whose melancholy and love of solitude he had despised;and, without answering a word, led the way to the deck, looked in thedirection of the plank, which had now floated near enough to the shipfor the body of Edward to be clearly visible upon it, and then instantlycommanded a boat to be lowered and bring it on board. 

"It will be but taking him out of the sea to plunge him back again, Señor, " he said, in Spanish, to the Lieutenant, who was now anxiouslywatching the proceedings of the sailors, who, more active than theircaptain, had carefully laid the plank and its burden at the bottom ofthe boat, and were now rapidly rowing to the ship. "Never was death moreclearly imprinted on a man's countenance than it is there, but have yourown will; only do not ask me to keep a dead man on board, I should havemy men mutiny in a twinkling. "

Mordaunt made him no answer, but hastened towards the gangway, where themen were now ascending. They carefully unloosed the bonds that attachedthe body to the plank, and laid him on a pile of cushions where thelight of the setting sun shone full on his face and form. One glancesufficed for Mordaunt to perceive he was an English officer; anothercaused him to start some paces back in astonishment. As the youth thuslay, the deadly paleness of his countenance, the extreme fairness of histhroat and part of his neck, which, as the sailors hastily untied hisneckcloth and opened his jacket, were fully exposed to view, thebeautifully formed brow strewed by thick masses of golden curls gave himso much the appearance of a delicate female, that the sailors lookedhumorously at each other, as if wondering what right he had to asailor's jacket; but Mordaunt's eyes never moved from him. Thoughts camecrowding over him, so full of youth, of home and joy, that tears gushedto his eyes, tears which had not glistened there for many a long year;and yet he knew not wherefore, he knew not, he could not, had he beenasked, have defined the cause of that strong emotion; but the more helooked upon that beautiful face, the faster and thicker came thosevisions on his soul. Memories came rushing back, days of his fresh andhappy boyhood, affections, long slumbering, recalled in all theirpurity, and his bosom yearned towards home, as if no time had elapsedsince last he had beheld it, as if he should find all those he lovedeven as he had left them. And what had brought them back? who was theyouth on whom he gazed, and towards whom he felt affection strangely andsuddenly aroused, affection so powerful, he could not shake it off?Nothing in all probability to him; and vainly he sought to account forthe emotions those bright features awakened within him. Rousing himself, as symptoms of life began to appear in the exhausted form before him, hedesired that the youth might be carried to his own cabin. He was hiscountryman, he said; an officer of equal rank it appeared, from hisepaulette, and he should not feel comfortable were he under the care ofany other. On bearing him from the deck to the cabin, a small volumefell from his loosened vest, which Mordaunt raised from the ground withsome curiosity, to know what could be so precious to a youthful sailor. It was a pocket Bible, so much resembling one Mordaunt possessedhimself, that scarcely knowing what he was about, he drew it from hispocket to compare them. "How can I be so silly?" he thought; "is thereanything strange in two English Bibles resembling each other?" Hereplaced his own, opened the other, and started in increased amazement. "Charles Manvers!" he cried, as that name met his eye. "Mercifulheaven! who is this youth? to whom would this Bible ever have beengiven?" So great was his agitation, that it was with difficulty he readthe words which were written beneath. 

"Edward Fortescue! oh, when will that name rival his to whom this bookonce belonged? I may be as brave a sailor, but what will make me as gooda man? This Sacred Book, he loved it, and so will I. " Underneath, andevidently added at a later period, was the following:

"I began to read this for the sake of those beloved ones to whom I knewit was all in all. I thought, for its own sake, it would never havebecome the dear and sacred volume they regarded it, but I am mistaken;how often has it soothed me in my hour of temptation, guided me in myduties, restrained my angry moments, and brought me penitent and humbleto the footstool of my God. Oh, my beloved Ellen, had this been mycompanion three years ago as it is now, what misery I should have sparedyou. "

Other memorandums in the same style were written in the blank leaveswhich appeared attached for the purpose, but it so happened that not oneof them solved the mystery which so completely puzzled Mordaunt. Thename of Fortescue was utterly unknown to him, and increased the mysteryof the youth's having produced such a strange effect upon his mind. There were many names introduced in these memorandums, but theyexplained nothing; one only struck him, it was one which in his hours ofsuffering, of slavery, ever sounded in his ear, the fondly-rememberedname of her whom he longed to clasp to his aching heart--it was_Emmeline_; and as he read it, the same gush of memory came over him aswhen he first gazed on Edward. In vain reason whispered there were many, very many Emmelines in his native land; that name only brought one tohis remembrance. Though recovering, the youth was still much too weakand exhausted to attempt speaking, and Mordaunt watched by his couch forone day and two nights, ere the surgeon permitted him to ask a questionor Edward to answer it. Often, however, during that interval had theyoung stranger turned his bright blue eyes with a look of intelligenceand feeling on him who attended him with the care of a father, and thecolour, the expression of those eyes seemed to thrill to Mordaunt'sheart, and speak even yet more forcibly of days gone by. 

"Let me write but two lines, to tell Captain Seaforth I am safe andwell, " said Edward impetuously, as he sprung with renewed spirits fromthe couch on which he had been so long an unwilling prisoner. 

"And how send it, my young friend? There is not a vessel within sight onthe wide sea. "

Edward uttered an exclamation of impatience, then instantly checkinghimself, said, with a smile--

"Forgive me, sir; I should think only of my merciful preservation, andof endeavouring to express in some manner my obligations to you, towhose generous exertions, blessed as they were by heaven, I owe my life. Oh, would that my aunt and sister were near me, their gratitude for thepreservation of one whom they perhaps too fondly and too partially love, would indeed be gratifying to feelings such as yours. I can feel what Iowe you, Lieutenant Mordaunt, but I cannot express myself sufficientlyin words. "

"In the name of heaven, young man, in pity tell me who you are!" gaspedMordaunt, almost inarticulately, as he grasped Edward's hand and gazedintently on his face; for every word he spoke, heightened by thekindling animation of his features, appeared to render thatextraordinary likeness yet more perfect. 

"Edward Fortescue is my name. "

"But your mother's, boy, --your mother's? I ask not from idle curiosity. "

"She was the youngest daughter of Lord Delmont, Eleanor Manvers. "

Mordaunt gazed yet more intently on the youth, then hoarsely murmuring, "I knew it, --it was no fancy, " sunk back almost overpowered withmomentary agitation. Recovering himself almost instantly, and beforeEdward could give vent to his surprise and sympathy in words, he asked, "Is Lord Delmont yet alive? I knew him once; he was a kind old man. " Hislip quivered, so as almost to prevent the articulation of his words. 

"Oh, no; the departure of my mother for India was a trial he neverrecovered, and the intelligence that his only son, a noble and gallantofficer, perished with the crew of the Leander, finally broke his heart;he never held up his head again, and died a very few months afterwards. "

Mordaunt buried his face in his hands, and for several minutes remainedsilent, as if struggling with some powerful emotion, then asked, "Youspoke only of your aunt and sister. Does not your mother live?"

"She died when I was little more than eleven years old, and my sisterscarcely ten. My father, Colonel Fortescue, dying in India, she couldnot bear to remain there, but we were compelled to take refuge off thecoast of Wales from the storms which had arisen, and then she had onlytime to give us to the care of her sister, for whom she had sent, anddied in her arms. "

"And is it her sister, or your father's, of whom you spoke just now?"

"Hers--Mrs. Hamilton. "

"Hamilton, and she lives still! you said you knew her, " repeatedMordaunt, suddenly springing up and speaking in a tone of animation, that bewildered Edward almost as much as his former agitation. "Speak ofher, young man; tell me something of her. Oh, it is long since I haveheard her name. "

"Did you know my aunt? I have never heard her mention your name, Lieutenant Mordaunt. "

"Very likely not, " he replied, and a faint smile played round his lip, creating an expression which made young Fortescue start, for thefeatures seemed familiar to him. "It was only in my boyhood that I knewher, and she was kind to me. We do not easily forget the associations ofour boyhood, my young friend, particularly when manhood has been adreary blank, or tinged with pain. In my hours of slavery, the smile andlook of Emmeline Manvers has often haunted my waking and my sleepingdreams; but she is married--is in all probability a happy wife andloving mother; prosperity is around her, and it is most likely she hasforgotten the boy to whom her kindness was so dear. "

"Hours of slavery?" asked Edward, for those words had alone riveted hisattention. "Can you, a free and British sailor, have ever been a slave?"

"Even so, my young friend; for seven years I languished in theloathsome dungeons of Algiers, and the last sixteen years have been aslave. "

Edward grasped his hand with an uncontrollable impulse, while at thesame moment he clenched his sword, and his countenance expressed thepowerful indignation of his young and gallant spirit, though words forthe moment he had none. Lieutenant Mordaunt again smiled--that smilewhich by some indefinable power inspired Edward with affection andesteem. 

"I am free now, my gallant boy, " he said; "free as if the gallingfetters of slavery had never bowed down my neck. Another day you shallhear more. Now gratify me by some account of your aunt; speak ofher--tell me if she have children--if her husband still lives. If Mrs. Hamilton is still the same gentle, affectionate being--the same firm, unflinching character, when duty called her, as the Emmeline Manvers itwas once my joy to know. "

With an animation that again riveted the eyes of Lieutenant Mordaunt onhis countenance, Edward eagerly entered on the subject. No other couldhave been dearer to him; Mordaunt could have fixed on few which wouldthus have called forth the eloquence of his young companion. Sailor ashe was, truly enthusiastic in his profession, yet home to Edward stillpossessed invincible attractions, and the devoted affection, gratitude, and reverence he felt for his aunt appeared to increase with his years. Neither Percy nor Herbert could have loved her more. He spoke as hefelt; he told of all he owed her, and not only himself but his orphansister; he said that as a mother she had been to them both, that neveronce had she made the slightest difference between them and her ownchildren. He painted in vivid colours the domestic joys of Oakwood, theaffectionate harmony that reigned there, till Mordaunt felt his eyesglisten with emotion, and ere that conversation ceased, all thataffection which for many a long and weary year had pined for some one onwhich to expend its force, now centred in the noble youth of whosepreservation he had been so strangely and providentially an instrument. To Edward it was not in the least strange, that any one who had onceknown his aunt, it mattered not how many years previous, should stillretain a lively remembrance of her, and wish to know more concerningher, and his feelings were strongly excited towards one, whose interestin all that concerned her was evidently so great. His first letter tohis family, which he enclosed in one to his captain, spoke very much ofLieutenant Mordaunt, wondering that his aunt had never mentioned one whoremembered her so well. This letter, as we know, was never received, andthe next he wrote was too hurried to enter into particulars, exceptthose that related to himself alone. When he again wrote home, he hadbecome so attached and so used to Mordaunt, that he fancied he must beas well known to his family as himself, and though he mentioned his namerepeatedly, he did not think of inquiring anything concerning him. 

The able activity as a sailor, the graceful, courteous manner of Edwardas a man, soon won him the hearts of Captain Bartholomew and all hiscrew. Ever the first when there was anything to be done on board or onshore, lively, high-spirited, and condescending, his appearance on deckafter any absence was generally acknowledged with respect. The variouscharacters thus presented to his notice in the Spanish crew, the manyports he touched at, afforded him continual and exciting amusement, although his thoughts very often lingered on his darling "Gem, " with theardent desire to be once more doing his duty on her decks. But amid allthese changing scenes, Edward and his friend, diverse as were their agesand apparently their dispositions, became almost inseparable. Anirresistible impulse urged Edward repeatedly to talk to him of his home, till Mordaunt became intimately acquainted with every member of thefamily. Of Herbert, Edward would speak with enthusiasm; he little knew, poor fellow, that the cousin whose character he almost venerated wasgone to his last home, that he should never see him more. Lettersdetailing that melancholy event had been forwarded to the Gem, arrivingthere just one week after the young sailor's disappearance; and, wheninformed of his safety, Captain Seaforth, then on his way to England, had no opportunity of forwarding them to him. His repeated mention ofHerbert in his letters home, his anxious desire to hear something ofhim, were most painful to his family, and Ellen was more than everanxious he should receive the account ere he returned. 

Among other subjects discussed between them, Mordaunt once asked Edwardwho now bore the title of Lord Delmont, and had appeared somewhatagitated when told the title was now extinct, and had become so from themelancholy death of the promising young nobleman on whom it haddevolved. 

"Sir George Wilmot is out in his prognostication then, " he observed, after a pause. "I remember, when a youngster under his command, hearinghim repeatedly prophesy that a Delmont would revive the honour of hisancient house by naval fame. Poor Charles was ever his favourite amongstus. "

"You were my uncle's messmate then, " said Edward, in a tone of surpriseand joy. "Why did you not tell me this before, that I might ask all thequestions I long to know concerning him?"

"And what have you heard of Charles to call for this extreme interest?"replied Mordaunt, with his peculiar smile. "I should have thought thatlong ere this my poor friend had been forgotten in his native land. "

"Forgotten! and by a sister who doted on him; who has never ceased tolament his melancholy fate; who ever held him up to my young fancy asone of those whom it should be my glory to resemble. Did you know myaunt, as, by two or three things I have heard you say, I fancy you must, you could never suspect her of forgetting one she loved as she did herbrother. My uncle Charles is enshrined in her memory too fondly for timeto efface it. "

Tears rose to Mordaunt's eager eyes at these words; he turned aside amoment to conceal his agitation, then asked if Sir George Wilmot everspoke of Manvers. Animatedly Edward related the old Admiral's agitationthe first night he had seen him at Oakwood; how feelingly he had spokenof one, whom he said he had ever regarded as the adopted son of hisaffections, the darling of his childless years, his gallant, merryCharles. Mordaunt twined his arm in Edward's, and looked up in his face, as if to thank him for the consolation his words imparted. Again wasthere an expression in his countenance, which sent a thrill to the youngman's heart, but vainly he tried to discover wherefore. 

We may here perhaps relate in a very few words Mordaunt's tale ofsuffering, which he imparted at different times to Edward. The wreck ofthe vessel to which he belonged had cast him, with one or two others ofhis hapless companions, on the coast of Morocco and Algiers. There theywere seized by the cruel Moors, and carried as spies before the Dey, andby his command immured in the dungeons of the fortress where manyunhappy captives were also confined, and had been for many years. Foreight years he was an inmate of these horrible prisons, a sickeningwitness of many of those tortures and cruelties which were inflicted onhis fellow-prisoners, and often on himself. All those at all acquaintedwith the bombardment of Algiers, so ably carried on by Admiral SirEdward Pellew, afterwards Viscount Exmouth, an entreprise which wasentered on to avenge the atrocious indignities practised by the Dey onall the unfortunate foreigners that visited his coast, can well imaginethe sufferings Mordaunt had not only to witness but to endure. On thefirst report of a hostile fleet appearing off the coast of Barbary, themost active and able of the prisoners were marched out to variousmarkets and there sold as slaves. Mordaunt was one of these:imprisonment and suffering had not quenched his youthful spirit, nor sobowed his frame as to render him incapable of energy. Scarcely twentywhen this cruel reverse of fortune overtook him, the tortures of hismind during the eight, nearly nine, years of his captivity may be betterconceived than described. He had entered prison a boy, with all thefresh, elastic buoyancy of youth, he quitted it a man; but, oh, how wasthat manhood's prime, to which in his visions of futurity he had lookedwith such bright anticipation as the zenith of his naval fame, nowabout to pass? as a slave; exposed to increased oppression and indignityon account of his religion, which he had inwardly vowed never to giveup. He secured the Bible, which had first been a treasure to him merelyas the gift of a beloved sister, and throughout all his change ofdestiny it was never taken from him. To submit calmly to slavery, Mordaunt felt at first his spirit never could, and various were theschemes he planned, and in part executed, towards obtaining his freedom, but all were eventually frustrated by the observation of his masters, who were too well accustomed to insubordination on the part of theirslaves for such attempts to cause them much trouble or uneasiness. StillMordaunt despaired not; still was the hope of freedom uppermost in hisbreast, even when he became the property of a Turk, who, had he been buta Christian, Mordaunt declared, must have commanded his reverence if nothis affection. Five times he had been exposed for sale, and each masterhad appeared to him more cruel and oppressive than the last. To relateall he suffered would occupy a much larger portion of our tale than wecould allow, but they were such that any one but Mordaunt would havefelt comparative contentment and happiness when changed for the serviceof Mahommed Ali, an officer of eminence in the court of Tunis. He wasindeed one who might well exemplify the assertion, that in all religionsthere is some good. Suffering and sorrow were aliens from his roof, misery approached not his doors, and Mordaunt had, in fact, beenpurchased from motives of compassion, which his evident wretchedness, both bodily and mental, had excited; to cure his bodily ills no kindlyattention was spared, but vainly Mahommed Ali sought to lessen the loadof anguish he saw imprinted on the brow of his Christian captive. Mordaunt's noble spirit was touched by the indulgence and kindness hereceived, and he made no effort to escape, for he felt it would be butan ungenerous, dishonourable return--but still he was a slave. Nofetters galled his limbs, but the fetters of slavery galled his spiritswith a deep anguish; no taskmaster was now set over him with the knottedwhip, to spur on each slackening effort; but the groan which no bodilysuffering could wring, which he had suppressed, lest his persecutorsshould triumph, now burst from his sorrowing heart, and scalding dropsstole down his cheeks, when he deemed no eye was near. Slavery, slaveryseemed his for ever, and each fond vision of his native land and all heloved but added to the burden on his soul. 

Mahommed at length became so deeply interested in his Christian slave, that he offered him freedom, wealth, distinction, his own friendship andsupport, all on the one, he thought, simple and easy condition of givingup his country and his faith, and embracing the one holy creed ofMahomet. In kindness was the offer made, but mournfully, yet with asteadiness that gave no hope of change, was it refused; vainly Mahommedurged the happiness its acceptance would bring, that he knew not all heso rashly refused; still he wavered not, and Ali with a weary heart gaveup the attempt. Time passed, but its fleeting years reconciled notMordaunt to his situation, nor lessened the kindly interest he excitedin the heart of the good old man; and when at length it happened thatMordaunt, almost unconsciously to himself, became the fortunateinstrument of reconciling some affairs of his master, which were inconfusion, and had been so for years, when, among many other unexpectedservices which it had been in his power to perform, he rescued thefavourite son of Mahommed from an infuriated tiger, which hadunexpectedly sprung upon him during a hunting expedition, the old mancould contain his wishes no longer, but gave him his freedom on thespot. Unconditional liberty to return to his native land was very soonafter accorded, and loading him with rich gifts, Ali himself accompaniedhim to the deck of the Alma, which was the only vessel then startingfrom the coast of Guinea, where Mahommed in general resided. Mordauntwas too impatient to wait for an English vessel, nor did he wish toincur the risk of encountering any hostile to his interests, by crossingthe country and embarking from Algiers or Tunis. While in Africa he feltthat the chain of slavery still hovered round his neck. He could notfeel himself once more a freeborn Briton till he was indeed on thebounding ocean. 

Once on the way to Europe, there was hope, even though that way was byAmerica. He parted from his former master, now his friend, with afeeling of regret; but the fresh breezes, the consciousness he stood ondeck free as the wind, free as the ocean that bore him onward to hisnative land, removed from his mind all lingering dread, and filled hissoul with joy; but the human heart is not now in a state to feel for anylength of time unchecked happiness. Four-and-twenty years had elapsedsince Mordaunt had been imagined dead; six-and-twenty since he haddeparted from his native land, and had last beheld his friends he sodearly loved. He might return, and be by all considered an intruder, perhaps not recognised, his tale not believed; he might see his familyscattered, all of them with new ties, new joys, and with no place forthe long-absent exile. The thought was anguish, but Mordaunt had weaklyindulged it too long to enable him at first to conquer it, even whenEdward's tale of the fond remembrance in which his uncle was held by allwho had loved him, unconsciously penetrated his soul with a sense of theinjustice he had done his friends, and brought consolation with it. 

These facts, which we have so briefly thrown together, formed mostinteresting subjects to Edward many times during his voyage to New York. Edward hung as in fascination on the stranger's history, innatenobleness was stamped in every word. More than once the thought struckhim that he was more than what he appeared to be, but Edward knew he hada slight tendency towards romance in his composition, and fearful oflowering himself in the estimation of his newfound friend by the avowalof such fanciful sentiments, he kept them to himself. 

At length the wished-for port to both the Englishmen (New York) wasgained, and their passage secured in the first packet sailing forEngland. Edward's heart beat high with anticipated pleasure; he longedto introduce his new friend to his family, and his bright anticipationsshed a kindred glow over the mind of Mordaunt, who had now become sodevotedly attached to the youth, that he could scarcely bear him out ofhis sight; and had he wanted fresh incentive to affection, the deepaffliction of the young sailor on receiving the intelligence of hiscousin Herbert's death, would have been sufficient. Edward had one daysought the post-office, declaring, however, that it was quiteimpossible such increased joy could be in store for him, as a letterfrom home. There were two instead of one: one from his aunt and uncle, the other from his sister; the black seal painfully startled him. Mourning for poor Mary is over long ere this, he thought, and scarcelyhad he strength to break the seal, and when he had read the fatal news, he sat for some time as if overwhelmed with the sudden and unexpectedblow. 

Mordaunt's words of consolation fell at first unheeded on his ear; itwas not for Herbert alone he sorrowed, it was for his aunt. He knew howdevotedly she loved her son, and though she did not write much on theactual loss she had sustained, yet every word seemed to reach his heart, and Edward leaned his head upon the paper, and wept like a child. Herbert, the bright, the good, the gentle companion of his boyhood, thefaithful friend of his maturer years, had he indeed gone--his placewould know him no more? And oh, how desolate must Oakwood seem. Percy, though in affection for his parents and his family, in his devotedattention to their comfort, equalled only by his brother, yet nevercould he be to Oakwood as Herbert. He was as the brilliant planet, shedding lustre indeed on all over whom it gleamed, but never still, continually roving, changing its course, as if its light would be moreglittering from such unsteady movements; but Herbert was as the mild andlucid star, stationary in its appointed orbit, gilding all things withits mellow light, but darting its most intense and radiant lustre onthat home which was to him indeed the centre-point of love. Such was thedescription of his two cousins given by Edward to his sympathisingcompanion, and Mordaunt looked on the young sailor in wonderingadmiration. Eagerly, delightedly, he had perused the letters, whichEdward intrusted to him; that of Mrs. Hamilton was pressed to his lips, but engrossed in his own thoughts, Edward observed him not. Sadnesslingered on Edward's heart during the whole of that voyage homeward; hisconversation was tinged with the same spirit, but it brought out so manypoints of his character, which in his joyous moods Mordaunt never couldhave discovered, that the links of that strangely-aroused affectionbecame even stronger than before. Edward returned his regard with allthe warmth of his enthusiastic nature strengthened by the manner inwhich his letters from home alluded to Lieutenant Mordaunt as hispreserver; and before their voyage was completed, Mordaunt, incompliance with the young man's earnest entreaty, consented to accompanyhim, in the first place, to Richmond, whence Edward promised, afterintroducing him to his family, and finding him a safe harbour there, hewould leave no stone unturned to discover every possible informationconcerning Mordaunt's family. That same peculiar smile curled thestranger's lips as Edward thus animatedly spoke, and he promisedunqualified compliance. 

Having thus brought Edward and his friend within but a few weeks' voyageto England, we may now leave them and return to Mr. And Mrs. Hamilton, who were both rejoicing in the improved looks of their niece atRichmond. 

The delightful calmness of their beautiful retreat, the suspension ofall anxiety, the total change of scene which was around them, had donemuch towards restoring peace, not only to Ellen but to her aunt. Thefeeling that she was now indeed called upon to fulfil the promise shehad made to Herbert, that the enjoyment and cheerfulness of homedepended on her alone, had inspired exertions which had partiallyenabled her to conquer her own grief; and every week seemed to bringforward some new quality, of which her relatives imagined they must havebeen ignorant before. Ellen's character was one not to attract at first, but to win affection slowly but surely; her merits were not dazzling, itwas generally long before they were all discovered, but when they were, they ever commanded reverence and love. In all her children Mrs. Hamilton felt indeed her cares fully repaid, and in Ellen more, far morethan she had ventured to anticipate. Thus left alone in her filialcares, Ellen's character appeared different to what it had been when oneof many. Steady, quiet cheerfulness was restored to the hearts of allwho now composed the small domestic circle of Mr. Hamilton's family;each had their private moments when sorrow for the loss of their belovedHerbert was indeed recalled in all its bitterness, but such sacred hoursnever were permitted to tinge their daily lives with gloom. 

They were now in daily expectation of St. Eval's return to England, withMiss Manvers, who, at Mrs. Hamilton's particular request, was to jointheir family party. An understanding had taken place between her andPercy, but not yet did either intend their engagement to be known. Thesympathy and affection of Louisa were indeed most soothing to Percy inthis affliction, which, even when months had passed, he could notconquer, but he could not think of entering into the bonds of marriage, even with the woman he sincerely loved, till his heart could, in somedegree, recover the deep wound which the death of his only brother hadso painfully inflicted. To his parents indeed, and all his family, herevealed his engagement, and Mr. And Mrs. Hamilton anxiously anticipatedthe return of Lord and Lady St. Eval, to introduce them to the intendedbride of their only son. Their intention was to remain at Richmond tillthe spring, when Arthur and his wife would pay their promised visit atOakwood, instead of spending the Christmas with them--an arrangementEmmeline had herself suggested; because, she said, if she and herhusband were away, the family party which had ever assembled at Oakwoodduring that festive season would be broken up, and Herbert's absence beless painfully felt. Mrs. Hamilton noticed it to none, but herpenetration discovered the cause of this change in Emmeline'sintentions, and tears of delicious feeling filled her eyes, as for amoment she permitted that gentle and affectionate girl to occupy thatthought which she was about to bestow on Herbert. 

"We have received interesting news this morning, my dear Arthur, " Mrs. Hamilton said, as her husband entered the parlour, where she and Ellenwere seated. "Lucy Harcourt is returning to England, and has requestedus to look out for a little cottage for her near Oakwood. The severeillness, and finally the death of her cousin, Mr. Seymour, has been thecause of my not hearing from her so long. Poor fellow, he has been forso many years such a sad sufferer, that a peaceful death must indeed bea blessed release. "

"It was a peaceful death, Lucy writes, mournfully but resignedly; shesays she cannot be sufficiently thankful that he was spared long enoughto see his daughters would both be happy under her charge. That she hadgained their young affections, and that, as far as mortal eye could see, by leaving them entirely under her guardianship and maternal care, hehad provided for their happiness. He said this almost with his lastbreath; and poor Lucy says that, among her many consolations in thistrying time, this assertion was not one of the least precious to herheart. "

"No doubt it was. To be the friend and adopted mother of his childrenmust be one of the many blessings created for herself by her nobleconduct in youth. I am glad now my prophecy was not verified, and thatshe never became his wife. "

"Did you ever think she would, uncle?" asked Ellen, surprised. 

"I fancied Seymour must have discovered her affection, and thenadmiration on his part would have done the rest. It is, I own, muchbetter as it is; his children will love her more, regarding her in thelight of his sister and their aunt, than had she become theirstepmother. But why did you seem so surprised at my prophecy, Nelly? Wasthere anything very impossible in their union?"

"Not impossible; but I do not think it likely Miss Harcourt would havebetrayed her affection, at the very time when she was endeavouring tosoothe her cousin for the loss of a beloved wife. She was much morelikely to conceal it, even more effectually than she had ever donebefore. Nor do I think it probable Mr. Seymour, accustomed from his veryearliest years to regard her as a sister, could ever succeed in lookingon her in any other light. "

"You seem well skilled in the history of the human heart, my littleEllen, " said her uncle, smiling. "Do you think it then quite impossiblefor cousins to love?"

Ellen bent lower over her embroidery-frame, for she felt a tell-taleflush was rising to her cheek, and without looking up, replied calmly--

"Miss Harcourt is a proof that such love can and does exist--more often, perhaps, in a woman's heart. In a man seldom, unless educated and livingentirely apart from each other. "

"I think you are right, Ellen, " said her aunt. "I never thought, withyour uncle, that Lucy would become Mr. Seymour's wife. "

"Had I prophesied such a thing, uncle, what would you have called me?"said Ellen, looking up archly from her frame, for the momentary flushhad gone. 

"That it was the prophecy of a most romantic young lady, much more likeEmmeline's heroics than the quiet, sober Ellen, " he answered, in thesame tone; "but as my own idea, of course it is wisdom itself. But jokesapart, as you are so skilled in the knowledge of the human heart, mydear Ellen, you must know I entered this room to-day for the purpose ofprobing your own. "

"Mine!" exclaimed the astonished girl, turning suddenly pale; "what doyou mean?"

"Only that the Rev. Ernest Lacy has been with me this morning entreatingmy permission to address you, and indeed making proposals for your hand. I told him that my permission he could have, with my earnest wishes forhis success, and that I did not doubt your aunt's consent would be asreadily given. Do not look so terribly alarmed; I told him I could notlet the matter proceed any farther without first speaking to you. "

"Pray let it go no farther, then, my dear uncle, " said Ellen, veryearnestly, as her needle fell from her hand, and she turned her eyesbeseechingly on her uncle's face. "I thank Mr. Lacy for the high opinionhe must have of me in making me this offer, but indeed I cannot acceptit. Do not, by your consent, let him encourage hopes which must end indisappointment. "

"My approbation I cannot withdraw, Ellen, for most sincerely do I esteemthe young man; and there are few whom I would so gladly behold united tomy family as himself. Why do you so positively refuse to hear him? Youmay not know him sufficiently now, I grant you, to love him, yet believeme, the more you know him the more will you find in him both to esteemand love. "

"I do not doubt it, my dear uncle. He is one among the young men whovisit here whom I most highly esteem, and I should be sorry to lose hisfriendship by the refusal of his hand. "

"But why not allow him to plead for himself? You are not one of thoseromantic beings, Ellen, who often refuse an excellent offer, becausethey imagine they are not violently in love. "

"Pray do not condemn me as such, my dear uncle; indeed, it is not thecase. Mr. Lacy, the little I know of him, appears to possess everyvirtue calculated to make an excellent husband. I know no fault to whichI can bring forward any objection; but"--

"But what, my dear niece? Surely, you are not afraid of speaking freelybefore your aunt and myself?"

"No, uncle; but I have little to say except that I have no wish tomarry; that it would be more pain to leave you and my aunt than marriagecould ever compensate. "

"Why, Nelly, do you mean to devote yourself to us all your young life, old and irritable as we shall in all probability become? think again, mydear girl, many enjoyments, much happiness, as far as human eye can see, await the wife of Lacy. Emmeline, you are silent; do you not agree withme in wishing to behold our gentle Ellen the wife of one so universallybeloved as this young clergyman?"

"Not if her wishes lead her to remain with us, my husband, " replied Mrs. Hamilton, impressively. She had not spoken before, for she had been tooattentively observing the fluctuation of Ellen's countenance; but nowher tone was such as to check the forced smile with which her niece hadtried to reply to Mr. Hamilton's suggestion of becoming old andirritable, and bring the painfully-checked tears back to her eyes, toopowerfully to be restrained. She tried to retain her calmness, but theeffort was vain, and springing from her seat, she flew to the couchwhere her aunt sat, and kneeling by her side, buried her face on hershoulder, and murmured, almost inaudibly, --

"Oh, do not, do not bid me leave you, I am happy here; but elsewhere, oh, I should be so very, very wretched. I own Mr. Lacy is all that Icould wish for in a husband; precious, indeed, would be his love to anygirl who could return it, but not to me; oh, not to one who can give himnothing in return. "

She paused abruptly; the crimson had mounted to both cheek and brow, and the choking sob prevented farther utterance. 

Mrs. Hamilton pressed her lips to Ellen's heated brow in silence, whileher husband looked at his niece in silent amazement. 

"Are your affections then given to another, my dear child?" he said, gently and tenderly; "but why this overwhelming grief, my Ellen? Surely, you do not believe we could thwart the happiness of one so dear to us, by refusing our consent to the man of your choice, if he be worthy ofyou? Speak, then, my dear girl, without reserve; who has so secretlygained your young affections, that for his sake every other offer isrejected?"

Ellen raised her head and looked mournfully in her uncle's face. Shetried to obey, but voice for the moment failed. 

"_My love is given to the dead_" she murmured at length, clasping heraunt's hands in hers, the words slowly falling from her parched lips;then added, hurriedly, "oh, do not reprove my weakness, I thought mysecret never would have passed my lips in life, but wherefore should Ihide it now? It is no sin to love the dead, though had he lived, neverwould I have ceased to struggle till this wild pang was conquered, tillcalmly I could have beheld him happy with the wife of his choice, of hislove. Oh, condemn me not for loving one who never thought of me save asa sister; one whom I knew from his boyhood loved another. None on earthcan tell how I have struggled to subdue myself. I knew not my own hearttill it was too late to school it into apathy. He has gone, but whilemy heart still clings to Herbert only, oh, can I give my hand untoanother?"

"Herbert!" burst from Mr. And Mrs. Hamilton at the same instant, andEllen, turning from their glance, hid her flushing and paling cheek inher hands; for a moment there was silence, and then Mrs. Hamilton drewthe agitated girl closer to her, and murmuring, in a tone of intensefeeling, "my poor, poor Ellen!" mingled a mother's tears with those ofher niece. Mr. Hamilton looked on them both with extreme emotion; hismind's eye rapidly glanced over the past, and in an instant he saw whata heavy load of suffering must have been his niece's portion from thefirst moment she awoke to the consciousness of her ill-fated love; andhow had she borne it? so uncomplainingly, so cheerfully, that no onecould suspect that inward sorrow. When cheering himself and his wifeunder their deep affliction, it was with her own heart breaking all thewhile. When inciting Herbert to exertion, during that painful trialoccasioned by his Mary's letter, when doing everything in her power tosecure his happiness, what must have been her own feelings? Yes, in verytruth she had loved, loved with all the purity, the self-devotedness ofwoman; and Mr. Hamilton felt that which at the moment he could notspeak. He raised his niece from the ground, where she still knelt besideher aunt, folded her to his bosom, kissed her tearful cheek, and placingher in Mrs. Hamilton's arms, hastily left the room. 

The same thoughts had likewise occupied the mind of her aunt, as Ellenstill seemed to cling to her for support and comfort; but they weremingled with a sensation almost amounting to self-reproach at her ownblindness in not earlier discovering the truth. Why not imagine Ellen'saffections fixed on Herbert as on Arthur Myrvin? both were equallyprobable. She could now well understand Ellen's agitation when Herbert'sengagement with Mary was published, when he performed the marriageceremony for Arthur and Emmeline; and when Mrs. Hamilton recalled howcompletely Ellen had appeared to forget herself, in devotedness to her;how, instead of weakly sinking beneath her severe trials, she had borneup through all, had suppressed her own suffering to alleviate those ofothers, was it strange, that admiration and respect should mingle withthe love she bore her? that from that hour Ellen appeared dearer to heraunt than she had ever done before? Nor was it only on this account heraffection increased. For the sake of her beloved son it was that herniece refused to marry; for love of him, even though he had departed, her heart rejected every other love; and the fond mother unconsciouslyfelt soothed, consoled. It seemed a tribute to the memory of her saintedboy, that he was thus beloved, and she who had thus loved him--oh, wasthere not some new and precious link between them?

It was some time before either could give vent in words to the feelingsthat swelled within. Ellen's tears fell fast and unrestrainedly on thebosom of her aunt, who sought not to check them, for she knew howblessed they must be to one who so seldom wept; and they were blessed, for a heavy weight seemed removed from the orphan's heart, the torturingsecret was revealed; she might weep now without restraint, and nevermore would her conduct appear mysterious either to her aunt or uncle. They now knew it was no caprice that bade her refuse every offer ofmarriage that was made her. How that treasured secret had escaped hershe knew not; she had been carried on by an impulse she could neitherresist nor understand. At the first, a sensation of shame hadoverpowered her, that she could thus have given words to an unrequitedaffection; but ere long, the gentle soothing of her aunt caused thatpainful feeling to pass away. Consoling, indeed, was the voice ofsympathy on a subject which to another ear had never been disclosed. Itwas some little time ere she could conquer her extreme agitation, herovercharged heart released from its rigorous restraint, appeared tospurn all effort of control; but after that day no violent emotiondisturbed the calm serenity that resumed its sway. Never again was thesubject alluded to in that little family circle, but the whole conductof her aunt and uncle evinced they felt for and with their Ellen;confidence increased between them, and after the first few days, theorphan's life was more calmly happy than it had been for many a longyear. 

The return of Lord St. Eval's family to England, and their meeting withMr. And Mrs. Hamilton, was attended with some alloy. Caroline and herparents had not met since the death of Herbert, and that afflictionappeared at the first moment recalled in all its bitterness. Thepresence of a comparative stranger, as was Miss Manvers, did muchtowards calming the excited feelings of each, and the exertions of LordSt. Eval and Ellen restored composure and cheerfulness sooner than theycould have anticipated. 

With Miss Manvers Mrs. Hamilton was much pleased. Gentle and unassuming, she won her way to every heart that knew her; she was the only remainingscion of Mrs. Hamilton's own family, and she felt pleased that by herunion with Percy the families of Manvers and Hamilton would be yet moreclosely connected. She had regretted much, at a former time, theextinction of the line of Delmont; for she had recalled those visions ofher girlhood, when she had looked to her brother to support the ancientline, and gilding it with naval honours, bid it stand forth as it haddone some centuries before. Mrs. Hamilton had but little of what istermed family pride, but these feelings were associated with the brotherwhom she had so dearly loved, and whose loss she so painfully deplored. 

The season of Christmas passed more cheerfully than Ellen had dared tohope. The scene was entirely changed; never before had they passed aChristmas anywhere but at Oakwood, and that simple circumstanceprevented the void in that domestic circle from being so sadly felt. That Herbert was in the thoughts of all his family, that it was aneffort for them to retain the cheerfulness which in them was ever thecharacteristic of the season, we will not deny, but affliction took notfrom the calm beauty which ever rested round Mr. Hamilton's hearth. Allappeared as if an even more hallowed and mellowed light was cast aroundthem; for it displayed, even more powerfully than when unalloyedprosperity was their portion, the true beauty of the religiouscharacter. Herbert and Mary were not lost to them; they were but removedto another sphere, that eternal Home, to which all who loved them lookedwith an eye of faith. 

Sir George Wilmot was the only guest at Richmond during the Christmasseason, but so long had he been a friend of the family and of LordDelmont's, when Mrs. Hamilton was a mere child, that he could scarcelybe looked on in the light of a mere guest. The kind old man had sorroweddeeply for Herbert's death, had felt himself attracted even moreirresistibly to his friends in their sorrow than even in their joy, andso constantly had he been invited to make his stay at Mr. Hamilton'sresidence, wherever that might be, that he often declared he had now noother home. The tale of Edward's peril interested him much; he wouldmake Ellen repeat it over and over again, and admire the daring rashnesswhich urged the young sailor not to defer his return to his commander, even though a storm was threatening around him; and when Mr. Hamiltonrelated the story of Ellen's fortitude in bearing as she did thispainful suspense, the old man would conceal his admiration of his youngfriend under a joke, and laughingly protest she was as fitted to be agallant sailor as her noble brother. 

On the character of the young heir of Oakwood the death of his brotherappeared to have made an impression, which neither time norcircumstances could efface. He was not outwardly sad, but his volatilenature appeared departed. He was no longer the same wild, boisterousyouth, ever on the look-out for some change, some new diversion orpractical joke, which had been his characteristics while Herbert lived. A species of quiet dignity was now his own, combined with a devotednessto his parents, which before had never been so distinctly visible. Hehad ever loved them, ever sought their happiness, their wishes inpreference to his own. Herbert himself had not surpassed him in filiallove and reverence, but now, though his feelings were the same, theirexpression was different; cheerful and animated he still was, but theringing laugh which had so often echoed through the halls of Oakwood hadgone. It seemed as if the death of a brother so beloved, had suddenlytransformed Percy Hamilton from the wild and thoughtlesspleasure-seeking, joke-loving lad into the calm and serious man. To theeyes of his family, opposite as the brothers in youth had been, therewere now many points of Herbert's character reflected upon Percy, anddearer than ever he became; and the love which had been excited in thegentle heart of Louisa Manvers by the wild spirits, the animation, theharmless recklessness, the freedom of thought and word, which hadcharacterised Percy, when she first knew him, was purified andheightened by the calm dignity, the more serious thought, the solidqualities of the virtuous and honourable man. 

Lieutenant Fortescue was now daily expected in England, much to thedelight of his family and Sir George Wilmot, who declared he should haveno peace till he was introduced to the preserver of his gallant boy, ashe chose to call Edward. Lieutenant Mordaunt; he never heard of such aname, and he was quite sure he had never been a youngster in hiscockpit. "What does he mean by saying he knows me, that he sailed withme, when a mid? he must be some impostor, Mistress Nell, take my wordfor it, " Sir George would laughingly say, and vow vengeance on Ellen, for daring to doubt the excellence of his memory; as she one dayventured to hint that it was so very many years, it was quite impossibleSir George could remember the names of all the middies under him. It wasmuch more probable, Sir George would retort, that slavery hadbewildered the poor man's understanding, and that he fancied he wasacquainted with the first English names he heard. 

"Never mind, Nell, he has been a slave, poor fellow, so we will nottreat him as an impostor, the first moment he reaches his native land, "was the general conclusion of the old Admiral's jokes, as each dayincreased his impatience for Edward's return. 

He was gratified at length, and as generally happens, when leastexpected, for protesting he would not be impatient any more, he amusedhimself by setting little Lord Lyle on his knee, and was so amused bythe child's playful prattle and joyous laugh, that he forgot to watch atthe window, which was his general post. Ellen was busily engaged innursing Caroline's babe, now about six months old. 

"Give me Mary, Ellen, " said the young Earl, entering the room, withpleasure visibly impressed on his features. "You will have somebody elseto kiss in a moment, and unless you can bear joy as composedly as youcan sorrow, why I tremble for the fate of my little Mary. "

"What do you mean, St. Eval? you shall not take my baby from me, unlessyou can give me a better reason. "

"I mean that Edward will be here in five minutes, if he be not already. Ah, Ellen, you will resign Mary now. Come to me, little lady, " and theyoung father caught his child from Ellen's trembling hands, and dancingher high in the air, was rewarded by her loud crow of joy. 

In another minute, Edward was in the room, and clasped to his sister'sbeating heart. It was an agitating moment, for it seemed to Ellen'sexcited fancy that Edward was indeed restored to her from the dead, hehad not merely returned from a long and dangerous voyage. The youngsailor, as he released her from his embrace, looked with an uncontrolledimpulse round the room. All were not there he loved; he did not missEmmeline, but Herbert--oh, his gentle voice was not heard amongst themany that crowded round to greet him. He looked on his aunt, her deepmourning robe, he thought her paler, thinner than he had ever seen herbefore, and the impetuous young man could not be restrained, he flunghimself within her extended arms, and burst into tears. 

Mr. Hamilton hastened towards them. "Our beloved Herbert is happy, " hesaid, solemnly, as he wrung his nephew's hands. "Let us not mourn forhim now, Edward, but rather rejoice, as were he amongst us he would do, gratefully rejoice that the same gracious hand which removed him in loveto a brighter world was stretched over you in your hour of peril, andpreserved you to those who so dearly love you. You, too, we might for atime have lost, my beloved Edward. Shall we not rejoice that you arespared us? Emmeline, my own Emmeline, think on the blessings stillsurrounding us. "

His impressive words had their effect on both his agitated auditors. Edward gently withdrew himself from the detaining arms of his aunt; hepressed a long, lingering kiss upon her cheek, and hastily conqueringhis emotion, clasped Sir George Wilmot's extended hand, after a fewminutes' silence, greeted all his cousins with his accustomed warmth, and spoke as usual. 

There had been one unseen, unthought-of spectator of this little scene;all had been too much startled and affected at Edward's unexpected burstof sorrow, to think of the stranger who had entered the room with him;but that stranger had looked around him, more particularly on Mrs. Hamilton, with feelings of intensity utterly depriving him of eitherspeech or motion. Years had passed lightly over Mrs. Hamilton's head;she had borne trials, cares, and sorrows, as all her fellow-creatures, but her burden had ever been cast upon Him who had promised to sustainher, and therefore on her it had not weighed so heavily; and years hadneither bent that graceful figure, nor robbed her features of theirbloom. Hers had never been extraordinary beauty, it had been theexpression only, which was ever the charm in her, an expression ofpurity of thought and deed, of gentle unassuming piety. Time cannottriumph over that beauty which is reflected from the soul; and Mordauntgazed on her till he could scarcely restrain himself from rushingforward, and clasping her to his bosom, proclaim aloud who and what hewas; but he did command himself, though his limbs trembled under him, and he was thankful that as yet he was unobserved. He looked on theblooming family around him--they were children, and yet to them he wasas the dead; and now would she indeed remember him? Edward suddenlyrecalled the presence of his friend, and springing towards him, with anexclamation of regret at his neglect, instantly attracted the attentionof all, and Mordaunt suddenly found himself the centre of a group, whowere listening with much interest to Edward's animated account of all heowed him, a recital which Mordaunt vainly endeavoured to suppress, bydeclaring he had done nothing worth speaking of. Mrs. Hamilton joinedher husband in welcoming the stranger, with that grace and kindness sopeculiarly her own. She thanked him warmly for the care he had taken, and the exertions he had made for her nephew; and as she did so, thecolour so completely faded from Mordaunt's sunburnt cheek, that Edward, declaring he was ill and exhausted by the exertions he had made from thefirst moment of their landing at Portsmouth, entreated him to retire tothe chamber which had been prepared for him, but this Mordaunt refused, saying he was perfectly well. 

"It is long I have heard the voice of kindness in my native tongue--longsince English faces and English hearts have thus blessed me, and wouldyou bid me leave them, my young friend?"

His mournful voice thrilled to Mrs. Hamilton's heart, as he laid hishand appealingly on Edward's arm. 

"Not for worlds, " replied the young sailor, cheerfully. "Sir GeorgeWilmot, my dear aunt, have you any recollection of my good friend here?he says he knew you both when he was a boy. "

Sir George Wilmot's eyes had never moved from Mordaunt since he hadwithdrawn his attention from Edward, and he now replied somewhatgravely--

"Of the name of Mordaunt I have no recollection as being borne by anyyoungsters on board my ship, but those features seem strangely familiarto me. I beg your pardon, sir, but have you always borne that name?"

"From the time I can remember, Sir George; but this may perhaps convinceyou I have been on board your ship. Was there not one amongst us in thecockpit, a young lad whom you ever treated with distinguished favour, whom, however unworthy, you ever held up to his comrades as a pattern ofall that was excellent in a seaman and a youth, whom you ever loved andtreated as a son? I was near him when he flung himself in the sea, witha sword in his mouth, and entering the enemy's ship by one of thecabin-windows, fought his way to the quarter-deck, and hauling down theFrench standard, retained his post till relieved by his comrades; andwhen the fight was over, hung back and gave to others the meed of praiseyou were so eager to bestow. Have you forgotten this, Sir George?"

"No!" replied the Admiral, with sudden animation. "Often have I recalledthat day, one amongst the many in which my Charles distinguishedhimself. "

"And you told him he would rise to eminence ere many years hadpassed--the name of Delmont would rival that of Nelson ere his careerhad run. "

The old Admiral looked on the stranger with increased astonishment andagitation. 

"Delmont! you knew my brother, then, Lieutenant Mordaunt, " Mrs. Hamiltoncould not refrain from saying. "Many, many years have passed, yet tellme when you saw him last. "

"I was with him in his last voyage, lady, " replied the stranger, in alow and peculiar voice, for it was evidently an effort to retain hiscalmness. Six-and-twenty years have gone by since the Leander left thecoasts of England never to return; six-and-twenty years since I set footin my native land. "

"And did all indeed perish, save yourself? Were you alone saved? saw youmy brother after the vessel sunk?" inquired Mrs. Hamilton, hurriedly, laying her trembling hand on the stranger's arm, scarcely conscious ofwhat she did. "He too might be spared even as yourself; but oh, deathwere preferable to lingering on his years in slavery. "

"Alas! my Emmeline, wherefore indulge in such fallacious hope?" said herhusband, tenderly, for he saw she was excessively agitated. 

"Mrs. Hamilton, " said Sir George Wilmot, earnestly, speaking at the samemoment, "Emmeline, child of my best, my earliest friend, look on thosefeatures, look well; do you not know them? six-and-twenty years havedone their work, yet surely not sufficiently to conceal him from youreyes. Have you not seen that flashing eye, that curling lip before? lookwell ere you decide. "

"Lady, Charles Manvers lives!" murmured the stranger, in the voice ofone whom strong emotion deprived of utterance, and he pushed from hisbrow the hair which thickly clustered there and in part concealed thenatural expression of his features, and gazed on her face. A gleam ofsunshine at this instant threw a sudden glow upon his countenance, andMr. Hamilton started forward, and an exclamation of astonishment, ofpleasure escaped his lips, but Mrs. Hamilton's eyes moved not from thestranger's face. 

"Emmeline, my sister, my own sister, will you not know me? can you notbelieve that Charles is spared?" he exclaimed, in a tone of excitedfeeling. 

"Oh, God, it is Charles himself?" she sobbed, and sunk almost faintingin his embrace; convulsively the brother pressed her to his bosom. Itseemed as if the happiness of that moment was too great for reality, asif it were but some dream of bliss; scarcely was he conscious of thewarm greeting he received; the uncontrollable emotion of the oldAdmiral, who, as he wrung his hand again and again, wept like a child. His brain seemed to reel, and every object danced before his eyes, hewas alone sensible that he held his sister in his arms, that sister whomhe had loved even more devotedly, more constantly in his hours ofslavery, than when she had been ever near him. Her counsels, her examplehad had but little apparent effect on him when a wild and reckless boyat his father's house, but they had sustained him in his affliction; itwas then he knew the value of those serious thoughts and feelings hissister had so laboured to inculcate, and associated as they were withher, she became dearer each time he felt himself supported, under hismany trials, by fervent prayer and that implicit trust, of which she hadso often spoken. 

In wondering astonishment the younger members of the family had regardedthis little scene some minutes before the truth had flashed on the mindof Mrs. Hamilton. Both St. Eval and Percy had guessed who in reality thestranger was, and waited in some anxiety for the effect that recognitionwould have on Mrs. Hamilton, whom Edward had already considerablyagitated. With characteristic delicacy of feeling, all then left theroom, Sir George Wilmot and Mr. Hamilton alone remaining with thelong-separated brother and sister. 

"My uncle Charles himself! Fool, idiot that I was never to discover thisbefore!" had been Edward's exclamation, in a tone of unrestrained joy. 

A short time sufficed to restore all to comparative composure, but alonger interval was required for Charles Manvers, whom we must now termLord Delmont, to ask and to answer the innumerable questions which werenaturally called forth by his unexpected return; much had he to hear andmuch to tell, even leaving, as he said he would, the history of hisadventures in Algiers to amuse two or three winter evenings, when allhis family were around him. 

"All my family, " he repeated, in a tone of deep feeling. "Do I say this?I, the isolated, desolate being I imagined myself; I, who believed somany years had passed, that I should remain unrecognised, unloved, forgotten. Reproach me not, my sister, the misery I occasioned myself, the emotions of this moment are punishment enough. And are all thosewhom I saw here yours, Hamilton?" he continued, more cheerfully. "Oh, let me claim their love; I know them all already, for Edward has longere this made me acquainted with them, both individually and as theunited members of one affectionate family; I long to judge for myself ifhis account be indeed correct, though I doubt it not. Poor fellow, Ideserve his reproaches for continuing my deception to him so long. "

"And why was that name assumed at all, dear Charles?" inquired Mr. Hamilton. "Why not resume your own when the chains of slavery werebroken?"

"And how dare you say Mordaunt was yours as long as you can remember?"demanded Sir George, holding up his hand in a threatening attitude, asif the full-grown man before him were still the slight stripling he lastremembered him. "Deception was never permitted on my decks, MasterCharles. "

Mrs. Hamilton smiled. 

"Nor have I practised it, Sir George, " he replied. "Mordaunt was myname, as my sister can vouch. Charles Mordaunt Manvers I was christened, Mordaunt being the name of my godfather, between whom and my father, however, a dispute arose, when I was about seven years old, completelysetting aside old friendship and causing them to be at enmity till SirHenry Mordaunt's death. The tale was repeated to me when I was about tenyears old, much exaggerated of course, and I declared I would bear hisname no longer. I remember well my gentle sister Emmeline's entreatiesand persuasions that I would not interfere, that I knew nothing aboutthe quarrel, and had no right to be so angry. However, I carried mypoint, as I generally did, with my too indulgent parent, and thereforefrom that time I was only known as Charles Manvers, for my father couldnot bear the name spoken before him. Do you not remember it, Emmeline?"

"Perfectly well, now it is recalled, though I candidly own I hadforgotten the circumstance. "

"But, still, why was Manvers disused?" Mr. Hamilton again inquired. 

"For perhaps an unjust and foolish fancy, my dear friend. I could notenjoy my freedom, because of the thought I mentioned before. I knew notif my beloved father still lived, nor who bore the title of LordDelmont, which, if he were no more, was mine by inheritance; forfour-and-twenty years I had heard nothing of all whom I loved, theylooked on me as dead: they might be scattered, dispersed; instead ofjoy, my return might bring with it sorrow, vexation, discontent. It wasfor this reason I relinquished the name of Manvers, and adopted the oneI had well-nigh forgotten as being mine by an equal right; I wished tovisit my native land unknown, and bearing that name, any inquiries Imight have made would be unsuspected. "

Surrounded by those whom in waking and sleeping dreams he had so longloved, the clouds which had overhung Lord Delmont's mind as a thickmist, even when he found himself free, dissolved before the calmsunshine of domestic love. A sense of happiness pervaded his heart, happiness chastened by a deep feeling of gratitude to Him who hadordained it. Affected he was almost to tears, as the manner of hisnephew and nieces towards him unconsciously betrayed how affectionatelythey had ever been taught to regard his memory. Rapidly he becameacquainted with each and all, and eagerly looked forward to the arrivalof Emmeline and her husband to look on them likewise as his own; butthough Edward laughingly protested he should tremble now for thecontinuance of his uncle's preference towards himself, he ever retainedhis place. He had been the first known; his society, his soothing words, his animated buoyancy of spirit, his strong affection and respect forhis uncle's memory when he believed him dead, and perhaps thefreemasonry of brother sailors, had bound him to Lord Delmont's heartwith ties too strong to be riven. The more he heard of, and the more heassociated with him in the intimacy of home, the stronger these feelingsbecame; and Edward on his part unconsciously increased them by hisdevotedness to his uncle himself, the manner with which he ever treatedMrs. Hamilton, and his conduct to his sister whose quiet unselfishhappiness at his return, and thus accompanied, was indeed heightened, more than she herself a few months previous could have believedpossible. 

CHAPTER XI. 

Our little narrative must here transport the reader to a small cottagein the picturesque village of Llangwillan, where, about three monthsafter the events we have narrated, Lilla Grahame sat one evening insolitude, and it seemed in sorrow. The room in which she was seated wassmall, but furnished and adorned with the refined and elegant taste ofone whose rank appeared much higher than the general occupants of such adwelling. A large window, reaching to the ground, opened on a smooth andsloping lawn, which was adorned by most beautiful flowers. It led to asmall gate opening on a long, narrow lane, which led to the Vicarage, leaving the little church and its picturesque burying-ground a little tothe right; the thick grove which surrounded it forming a leafy yetimpenetrable wall to one side of the garden. There were many very prettytombs in this churchyard; perhaps its beauty consisted in its extremeneatness, and the flowers that the vicar, Mr. Myrvin, took so muchpleasure in carefully preserving. One lowly grave, beneath a large andspreading yew, was never passed unnoticed. A plain marble stone denotedthat there lay one, who had once been the brightest amid the bright, thebrilliant star of a lordly circle. The name, her age, and two simpleverses were there inscribed; but around that humble grave there weresweet flowers flourishing more luxuriantly than in any other part ofthe churchyard; the climbing honeysuckle twined its odoriferous clustersup the dark trunk of the storm-resisting yew. Roses of various kindsintermingled with the lowly violet, the snowdrop, lily of the valley, the drooping convolvulus, which, closing its petals for a time, is a fitemblem of that sleep which, closing our eyes on earth, reopens them inheaven, beneath the general warmth of the sun of righteousness. Theseflowers were sacred in the eyes of the villagers, and their childrenwere charged not to despoil them; and too deep was their reverence fortheir minister, and too sacred was that little spot of earth, even totheir uncultured eyes, for those commands ever to be disobeyed. But itwas not to Mr. Myrvin's care alone that part of the churchyard owed itsbeauty. It had ever been distinguished from the rest by the flowersaround it; but it was only the last two years they had flourished soluxuriantly; the hand of Lilla Grahame watered and tended them withunceasing care. In the early morning or the calm twilight she was seenbeside the grave, and many might have believed that there reposed theashes of a near and dear relation, but it was not so. Lilla had neverseen and never known the lovely being whose last home she thusaffectionately tended. It was dear to her from its association with himwhom she loved, there her thoughts could wander to him; and surely thelove thus cherished beside the dead must have been purity itself. 

It was the hour that Lilla usually sought the churchyard, but she camenot, and the lengthening shadows of a soft and lovely May evening fellaround the graceful figure of a tall and elegant young man, in navaluniform, who lingered beside the grave; pensive, it seemed, yet scarcelymelancholy. His fine expressive countenance seemed to breathe ofhappiness proceeding from the heart, chastened and softened by holierthoughts. A smile of deep feeling encircled his lips as he looked on theflowers, which in this season were just bursting into beautiful bloom;and plucking an early violet, he pressed it to his lips and placed itnext his heart. "Doubly precious, " he said, internally, "planted by thehand of her I love, it flourished on my mother's grave. Oh, my mother, would that you could behold your Edward now; that your blessing could bemine. It cannot be, and thrice blessed as I am, why should I seek formore?" A few moments longer he lingered, then turned in the direction ofthe Vicarage. 

Lilla's spirits harmonized not as they generally did with the calmbeauty of nature around her. Anxious and sorrowful, her tears more thanonce fell slowly and unheeded on her work; but little improvement hadtaken place in her father's temper. She had much, very much to bear, even though she knew he loved her, and that his chief cares were forher; retirement had not relieved his irritated spirit. Had he, insteadof retreating from, mingled as formerly in, the world, he might havebeen much happier, for he would have found the dishonourable conduct ofhis son had not tarnished his own. He had been too long and too wellknown as the soul of honour and integrity, for one doubt or aspersion tobe cast upon his name. Lady Helen's injudicious conduct towards herchildren was indeed often blamed, and Grahame's own severity muchregretted, but it was much more of sympathy he now commanded than scornor suspicion, and all his friends lamented his retirement. Had notLilla's spirits been naturally elastic, they must have bent beneaththese continued and painful trials; her young heart often felt breaking, but the sense of religion, the excellent principles instilled both byMrs. Douglas and Mrs. Hamilton now had their full effect, and sustainedher amidst all. She never wavered in her duty to her father; she nevercomplained even in her letters to her dearest and most confidentialfriends. 

"Have you thought on the subject we spoke of last night, Lilla?" askedher father, entering suddenly, and seating himself gloomily on a chairsome paces from her. His daughter started as she saw him, for the firsttone of his voice betrayed he was more than usually irritable andgloomy. 

"Yes, father, I have, " she replied, somewhat timidly. 

"And what is your answer?"

"I fear you will be displeased, my dear father; but indeed I cannotanswer differently to last night. "

"You are still resolved then to refuse Philip Clapperton?"

Lilla was silent. 

"And pray may I ask the cause of your fastidiousness, Miss Grahame? Yourburst of tears last night made a very pretty scene no doubt, but theygave me no proper answer. "

"It is not only that I cannot love Mr. Clapperton, father, but I cannotrespect him. "

"And pray why not? I tell you, Lilla, blunt, even coarse, if you like, as he is, unpolished, hasty, yet he has a better heart by far than manyof those more elegant and attractive sprigs of nobility, amongst whichperhaps your romantic fancy has wandered, as being the only husbandsfitted for you. "

"You do me injustice, father. I have never indulged in such romanticvisions, but I cannot willingly unite my fate with one in whom I see nofixed principle of action--one who owns no guide but pleasure. His heartmay be good, I doubt it not; but I cannot respect one who spends hiswhole life in fox-hunting, drinking, and all the pleasures peculiar tothe members of country clubs. "

"In other words, a plain, honest-speaking, English gentleman is not fineenough for you. What harm is there in the amusements you haveenumerated? Why should not a fox-hunter make as good a husband as anyother member of society?"

Lilla looked at her father in astonishment. These were not always hissentiments she painfully thought. 

"I do not mean to condemn these amusements, my dear father, but whenthey are carried on without either principle or religion. How can Iventure to intrust my happiness to such a man?"

"And where do you expect to find either principle or religion now? Notin those polished circles, where I can perceive your hopes are fixed. Girl, banish such hopes. Not one amongst them would unite himself to thesister of that dishonoured outcast Cecil Grahame. "

Grahame's whole frame shook as he pronounced his son's name, butsternness still characterised his voice. 

"Never would I unite myself with one who considered himself degraded byan union with our family, father, be assured, " said Lilla, earnestly. "My hopes are not high. I have thought little of marriage, and till I amsought, have no wish to leave this sequestered spot, believe me. "

"And who, think you, will seek you here? You had better banish such idlehopes, for they will end in disappointment. "

"Be it so, then, " Lilla replied, calmly, though had her father been nearher, he would have seen her cheek suddenly become pale and her eyelidsquiver, as if by the pressure of a tear. "Is marriage a thing soindispensable, that you would compel me to leave you, my dear father?"

"To you it is indispensable; when once you have lost the name you nowhold, the world and all its pleasures will be spread before you, thestain will be remembered no more; your life need not be spent in gloomand exile like this. "

"And what, then, will become of you?"

"Of me! who cares. What am I, and what have I ever been to either of mychildren, that they should care for me? I scorn the mere act of duty, and which of you can love me? no, Lilla, not even you. "

"Father, you do me wrong; oh, do not speak such cruel words, " saidLilla, springing from her seat, and flinging herself on her knees by herfather's side. "Have I indeed so failed in testimonies of love, that youcan for one instant believe it is only the duty of a child I feel andpractise? Oh, my father, do me not such harsh injustice; could you readmy inmost heart, you would see how full it is of love and reverence foryou, though I have not always courage to express it. Ask of me any, every proof but this, and I will do it, but, oh, do not command me towed Mr. Clapperton; why, oh, why would you thus seek to send me fromyou?"

"I speak but for your happiness, Lilla;" his voice was somewhatsoftened. "You cannot be happy now with one so harsh, irritable, cruelas, I know, I am too often. "

"And would you compare the occasional irritation proceeding from thefailing health of a beloved father, with the fierce passion and constantimpatience of a husband, with whom I could not have one idea in common, whom I could neither love nor reverence, to whom even my duty would bewretchedness? oh, my father, can you compare the two? Think of Mrs. Greville: Philip Clapperton ever reminds me of Mr. Greville, of what atleast he must have been in his youth, and would you sentence me to allthe misery that has been poor Mrs. Greville's lot and her children'slikewise?"

"You do not know enough of Clapperton to judge him thus harshly, Lilla;I know him better, and I cannot see the faults against which you are soinveterate. Your sister chose a husband for herself, and how has shefared? is she happy?"

"Annie cannot be happy, father, even if her husband were of a verydifferent character. She disobeyed; a parent's blessing hallowed not hernuptials, and strange indeed would it be were her lot otherwise; butthough I cannot love the husband of your choice, you may trust me, father, without your consent and blessing, I will never marry. "

"Do not say you _cannot_ love Philip Clapperton, Lilla; when once hiswife, you could not fail to do so. I would see you united to one wholoves you, my child, ere your affections are bestowed on another, whomay be less willing to return them. "

Grahame spoke in a tone of such unwonted softness, that the tears nowrolled unchecked down Lilla's cheeks. Her ingenuous nature could not berestrained; she felt as if, were she still silent, she would bedeceiving him, and hiding her face in her hand, she almost inaudiblysaid--

"For that, then, it is too late, father; I cannot love Mr. Clapperton, because--because I love another. "

"Ha!" exclaimed Grahame, starting, then laying his trembling hand onLilla's head, he continued, struggling with strong emotion, "this, then, is the cause of your determined refusal. Poor child, poor child, whatmisery have you formed for yourself!"

"And wherefore misery, my father?" replied Lilla, raising her headsomewhat proudly, and speaking as firmly as her tears would permit. "Your child would not have loved had she not deemed her affectionssought, ay, and valued too. Think not I would degrade myself by givingmy heart to any one who deemed me or my father beneath his notice. Ifever eye or act can speak, I do not love in vain. "

"And would you believe in trifles such as these?" asked her father, sorrowfully. "Alas! poor child, words are often false, still less canyou rely on the language of the eye. Has anything like an understandingtaken place between you?"

"Alas! my father, no; and yet--and yet--oh, I know he loves me. "

"And so he may, my child, and yet break his own heart and yours, poorguileless girl, rather than unite himself with the dishonoured and thebase. Lilla, my own Lilla, I have been harsh and cruel; it is because Ifeel too keenly perhaps the gall in which your wretched brother'sconduct has steeped your life and mine; mine will soon pass away, butthe dark shadow will linger still round you, my child, and condemn youto wretchedness; I cannot, cannot bear that thought!" and he struck hisclenched hand against his brow. "Why on the innocent should fall thechastisement of the guilty? My child, my child, oh, banish from yourunsuspecting heart the hopes of love returned. Where in this selfishworld will you find one to love you so for yourself alone, that familyand fortune are as naught?"

"Why judge so harshly of your sex, Mr. Grahame?" said a rich andthrilling voice, in unexpected answer to his words, and the same youngman whom we before mentioned as lingering by a village grave, steppinglightly from the terrace on which the large window opened into the room, stood suddenly before the astonished father and his child. On the latterthe effect of his presence was almost electric. The rich crimson mantledat once over cheek and brow and neck, a faint cry burst from her lips, and as the thought flashed across her, that her perhaps too presumptuoushopes of love returned had been overheard, as well as her father'swords, she suddenly burst into tears of mingled feeling, and darting bythe intruder, passed by the way he had entered into the garden; but evenwhen away from him, composure for a time returned not. She forgotentirely that no name had been spoken either by her father or by herselfto designate him whom she confessed she loved; her only feeling was, she had betrayed a truth, which from him she would ever have concealed, till he indeed had sought it; and injured modesty now gave her so muchpain, it permitted her not to rejoice in this unexpected appearance ofone whom she had not seen since she had believed him dead. She knew thechurchyard was at this period of the evening quite deserted, and almostunconscious what she was about, she hastily tied on her bonnet, and withthe speed of a young fawn, she bounded through the narrow lane, andrested not till she found herself seated beside her favourite grave;there she gave full vent to the thoughts in which pleasure and confusionsomewhat strangely and painfully mingled. 

"Can you, will you forgive this unceremonious and, I fear, unwished-forintrusion?" was the young stranger's address to Grahame, when he hadrecovered from the agitation which Lilla's emotion had called forth, hescarcely knew wherefore. "To me you have ever extended the hand offriendship, Mr. Grahame, however severe upon the world in general, andwill you refuse it now, when my errand here is to seek an even nearerand a dearer name?"

"You are welcome, ever welcome to my humble home, my dear boy, for yourown sake, and for those dear to you, " replied Grahame, with a return offormer warmth and cordiality. "More than usually welcome I may say, Edward, as this is your first visit here since your rescue from thebowels of the great deep. You look confused and heated, and as if youwould much rather run after your old companion than stay with me, butindeed I cannot spare you yet, I have so many questions to ask you. "

"Forgive me, Mr. Grahame, but indeed you must hear me first. "

"I came here to speak to you on a subject nearest my heart, and tillthat is told, till from your lips I know my fate, do not, for pity, askme to speak on any other. I meant not to have entered so abruptly on mymission, but that which Mr. Myrvin has imparted to me, and what Iundesignedly overheard as I stood unseen on that terrace, have takenfrom me all the eloquence with which I meant to plead my cause. "

"Speak in your own proper person, Edward, and then I may perhaps hearyou, " replied Grahame, from whom the sight of his young friend appearedto have banished all misanthropy. "What I can, however, have to do withyour fate, I know not, except that I will acquit you of all intentionaleaves-dropping, if it be that which troubles you; and what can Mr. Myrvin have said to rob you of eloquence?"

"He told me that--that you had encouraged Philip Clapperton's addressesto Lil--to Miss Grahame, " answered Edward, with increasing agitation, for he perceived, what was indeed the truth, that Grahame had not theleast idea of his intentions. 

"And what can that have to do with you, young man?" inquired Grahame, somewhat haughtily, and his brow darkened. "You have not seen Lilla, tobe infected with her prejudices, and in what manner can my wishes withregard to my daughter on that head concern you?"

"In what manner? Mr. Grahame, I came hither with my aunt's and uncle'sblessing on my purpose, to seek from you your gentle daughter's hand. Iam not a man of many words, and all I had to say appears to havedeparted, and left me speechless. I came here to implore your consent, for without it I knew 'twere vain to think or hope to make your Lillamine. I came to plead to you, and armed with your blessing, plead mycause to her, and you ask me how Mr. Myrvin's intelligence can affectme. Speak, then, at once; in pity to that weakness which makes me feelas if my lasting happiness or misery depends upon your answer. "

"And do you, Edward, do you love my poor child?" asked the father, witha quivering lip and glistening eye, as he laid his hand, which trembled, on the young man's shoulder. 

"Love her? oh, Mr. Grahame, she has been the bright beaming star thathas shone on my ocean course for many a long year. I know not when Ifirst began to love, but from my cousin Caroline's wedding-day thethoughts of Lilla lingered with me, and gilded many a vision of domesticpeace and love, and each time I looked on her bright face, and markedher kindling spirit, heard and responded inwardly to her animated voice, I felt that she was dearer still; and when again I saw her in hersorrow, and sought with Ellen to soothe and cheer her, oh, no one canknow the pain it was to restrain the absorbing wish to ask her, ifindeed one day she would be mine, but that was no time to speak of love. Besides, I knew not if I had the means to offer her a comfortable home, I knew not how long I might be spared to linger near her; but now, whenof both I am assured, wherefore should I hesitate longer? With thetitle of captain, that for which I have so long pined, I am at libertyto retire on half-pay, till farther orders; the adopted son andacknowledged heir to my uncle, Lord Delmont, I have now enough to offerher my hand, without one remaining scruple. You are silent. Oh, Mr. Grahame, must I plead in vain?"

"And would you marry her, would you indeed take my child as your chosenbride?" faltered Grahame, deeply moved. "Honoured, titled as you are, mypoor, portionless Lilla is no meet bride for you. "

"Perish honours and title too, if they could deprive me of the gentlegirl I love!" exclaimed the young captain, impetuously. "Do not speakthus, Mr. Grahame. In what was my lamented father better thanyourself--my mother than Lady Helen? and if she were in very truth myinferior in birth, the virtues and beauty of Lilla Grahame would dohonour to the proudest peer of this proud land. "

"My boy, my gallant boy!" sobbed the agitated father, his irritabilitygone, dissolved, like the threatening cloud of a summer day beneath somegenial sunbeam, and as he wrung Captain Fortescue's hand again and againin his, the tears streamed like an infant's down his cheek. 

"_Will_ I consent, _will_ I give you my blessing? Oh, to see you thehusband of my poor child would be _too, too_ much happiness, happinesswholly, utterly undeserved. But, oh, Edward, can Mr. Hamilton, can LordDelmont consent to your union with one, whose only brother is adisgraced, dishonoured outcast, whose father is a selfish, irritablemisanthrope?"

"Can the misconduct of Cecil cast in the eyes of the just and good oneshadow on the fair fame of his sister? No, my dear sir; it is you whohave looked somewhat unkindly and unjustly on the world, as when youmingle again with your friends, in company with your children, you willnot fail, with your usual candour, to acknowledge. A selfish, irritablemisanthrope, " he added, archly smiling. "You cannot terrify me, Mr. Grahame. I know the charge is false, and I dread it not. "

"Ask me not to join the world again, " said Grahame, hoarsely; "in allelse, the duties of my children shall be as laws, but that"--

"Well, well, we will not urge it now, my dear sir, " replied the youngsailor, cheerfully; then added, with the eager agitation of affection, "But Lilla, my Lilla. Oh, may I hope that she will in truth be mine? Oh, have I, can I have been too presumptuous in the thought I have not lovedin vain?"

"Away with you, and seek the answer from her own lips, " said Mr. Grahame, with more of his former manner than he had yet evinced, for henow entertained not one doubt as to Edward being the chosen one on whomhis daughter's young affections had been so firmly fixed. "Go to her, myboy; she will not fly a second time, so like a startled hare, from yourapproach; tell her, had she told her father Edward Fortescue was theworthy object of her love, he would not thus have thrown a damp upon heryoung heart, he would not have condemned him as being incapable ofloving her for herself alone. Tell her, too, the name of PhilipClapperton shall offend her no more. Away with you, my boy. "

Edward awaited not a second bidding. In a very few minutes the wholegarden had been searched, and Miss Grahame inquired for all over thehouse, then he bounded through the lane, and scarcely five minutes afterhe had quitted Mr. Grahame, he stood by the side of Lilla; theconsciousness that she had confessed her love, that he might haveoverheard it, was still paramount in her modest bosom, and she wouldhave avoided him, but quickly was her design prevented. Rapidly, almostincoherently, was the conversation of the last half hour repeated, andwith all the eloquence of his enthusiastic nature, Edward pleaded hiscause, and, need it be said, not in vain. Lilla neither wished norsought to conceal her feelings, and long, long did those two young andanimated beings remain in sweet and heartfelt commune beside that lowlygrave. 

"What place so fitted where to pledge our troth, my Lilla, as by mymother's resting-place?" said Edward. "Would that she could look upon usnow and smile her blessing. "

Happily indeed flew those evening hours unheeded by the young lovers. Grahame, on the entrance of his happy child, folded her to his bosom;his blessing descended on her head, mingled with tears, which sprung atonce from a father's love and self-reproach at all the suffering hisirritability had occasioned her. And that evening Lilla indeed felt thatall her sorrows, all her struggles, all her dutiful forbearance, wererewarded. Not only was her long-cherished love returned, not only didshe feel that in a few short months she should be her Edward's own, thathe, the brave, the gallant, honoured sailor, had chosen her inpreference to any of those fairer and nobler maidens with whom he hadso often associated, but her father, her dear father, was more likehimself than he had been since her mother's death. He looked, he spokethe Montrose Grahame we have known him in former years. Edward had everbeen a favourite with him, but he and Lilla had been so intimate fromtheir earliest childhood, that he had never thought of him as a son; andwhen the truth was known, so truly did Grahame rejoice, that thebitterness in his earthly cup was well-nigh drowned by its presentsweetness. 

Innumerable were the questions both Lilla and Grahame had to ask, andEdward answered all with that peculiar joyousness which ever threw acharm around him. The adventures of his voyage, his dangers, theextraordinary means of his long-lost uncle being instrumental in hispreservation, Lord Delmont's varied tale, all was animatedly discussedtill a late hour. A smile was on Grahame's lip, as his now awakened eyerecalled the drooping spirits and fading cheek of his Lilla during thosethree months of suspense, when Captain Fortescue was supposed drowned, and the equally strange and sudden restoration to health andcheerfulness when Ellen's letter was received, detailing her brother'ssafety. Lilla's streaming eyes were hid on her lover's shoulder as hedetailed his danger, but quickly her tears were kissed away;thankfulness that he was indeed spared, again filled her heart, and thebright smile returned. He accounted for not seeking them earlier by thefact that, while they remained at Richmond, his uncle, whose health fromlong-continued suffering was but weakly established, could not bear himout of his sight, and that he had entreated him not to leave him tillthey returned to Oakwood. This, young Fortescue afterwards discovered, was to give Lord Delmont time for the gratification of his wishes, which, from the time he had heard the line of Delmont was extinct, hadoccupied his mind. Many of his father's old friends recognised him atonce. His father's and his sister's friends were eager to see and payhim every attention in their power. He found himself ever a welcome anda courted guest, and happiness, so long a stranger from his breast, nowfaded not again. To adopt Edward as his son, to leave him heir to histitle and estate, was now, as it had been from the first moment herecognised his nephew, the dearest wish of his heart, "if it were onlyto fulfil Sir George Wilmot's prophecy, " he jestingly told the oldAdmiral, who, with Mr. And Mrs. Hamilton, warmly seconded his wishes. The necessary formula met with no opposition, and the same day that gaveto Edward his promotion of captain, informed him of the secretly-formedand secretly-acted-upon desire of his uncle. 

In the time of Edward's grandfather, the Delmont estates, as some of ourreaders may remember, were, from the carelessness of stewards and thecomplete negligence of their lord, in such an embarrassed state, asbarely to return a sufficient income for the expenses of Lord Delmont'sestablishment. Affairs, however, were not in a worse state than that alittle energy and foresight might remedy. The guardian of Henry Manvers, who, as we know already, became Lord Delmont when only three years old, had acted his part with so much straightforwardness and trust, that whenManvers came of age he found his estates in such a thriving condition, that he was a very much richer nobleman than many of his predecessorshad been. Well able to discern true merit, and grateful for theservices already rendered, his guardian, by his earnest entreaty, remained his agent during his residence with his mother and sister inSwitzerland. There, living very much within his income, his fortuneaccumulated, and by his early death it fell to the Crown, from whichLord Delmont, on his return from his weary years of slavery, received itwith the title of earl, bestowed to prove that the tale of a Britishsailor's sufferings and indignities had not fallen unheeded on the royalear. The long-banished seaman was presented to his Majesty by the Dukeof Clarence himself, and had no need to regret the gracious interview. His intentions concerning the young officer Captain Fortescue met withan unqualified approval. Ardently loving his profession, the royal Dukethought the more naval heroes filled the nobility of his country thebetter for England, and an invitation to Bushy Park was soon afterwardsforwarded, both to Lord Delmont and his gallant nephew. 

Edward, already well-nigh beside himself by his unexpected promotion, nolonger knew how to contain the exuberance of his spirits, much to theamusement of his domestic circle; particularly to his quiet, gentlesister, who, as she looked on her brother, felt how truly, howinexpressibly her happiness increased with his prosperity. She too hadwound herself round the heart of her uncle; she loved him, first for hispartiality to her brother, but quickly her affection was extended tohimself. Mrs. Hamilton had related to him every particular of herhistory, with which he had been deeply and painfully affected, and as hequickly perceived how much his sister's gentle firmness and constantwatchfulness had done towards forming the character of not only Edwardand Ellen but of her own children, his admiration for her hourlyincreased. 

A very few days brought Lord Delmont and his niece Ellen to Mr. Grahame's cottage, and Lilla's delight at seeing Ellen was only secondto that she felt when Edward came. The presence, the cordial greeting ofLord Delmont removed from the mind of Grahame every remaining doubt ofhis approbation of the bride his nephew had chosen. As a faithfulhistorian, however, I must acknowledge the wishes of Lord Delmont hadpointed out Lady Emily Lyle as the most suitable connection for Edward. Lady Florence he would have preferred, but there were many whispersgoing about that she was engaged to the handsome young baronet SirWalter Cameron, who, by the death of his uncle Sir Hector, had latelyinherited some extensive estates in the south-west of Scotland. When, however, Lord Delmont perceived his nephew's affections were irrevocablyfixed, and he heard from his sister's lips the character of LillaGrahame, he made no opposition, but consented with much warmth andwillingness. He was not only content, but resolved on being introducedto Miss Grahame as soon as possible, without, however, saying a word toEdward of his intentions. He took Ellen with him, he said, to convoy himsafely and secure him a welcome reception; neither of which, she assuredhim, he needed, though she very gladly accompanied him. 

A few weeks passed too quickly by, imparting happiness even to Ellen, for had she been permitted the liberty of choosing a wife for herEdward, Lilla Grahame would have been her choice. Deeply and almostpainfully affected had she been indeed, when her brother first soughther to reveal the secret of his love. 

"I cannot, " he said, "I will not marry without your sympathy, yourapproval, my sister--my more than sister, my faithful friend, my gentlemonitress, for such you have ever been to me, " and he folded her in hisarms with a brother's love, and Ellen had concealed upon his manly bosomthe glistening tears, whose source she scarcely knew. "I would have youlove my wife, not only for my sake but for herself alone. Never will Imarry one who will refuse to look on you with the reverential affectionyour brother does. Lilla Grahame does this, my Ellen; it was her girlishaffection for you that first attracted my attention to her. She willregard you as I do; she will teach her children, if it please heaven togrant us any, to look on you even as I would; her heart and home will beas open to my beloved sister as mine. Speak then, my ever-cherished, ever faithful friend; tell me if, in seeking Lilla, your sympathy, yourblessing will be mine. "

Tears of joy choked her utterance, but quickly recovering herself, Ellenanswered him in a manner calculated indeed to increase his happiness, and her presence at Llangwillan satisfied every wish. 

Unable to resist the eloquent entreaties of all his friends and theappealing eyes of his child, Grahame at last consented to spend themonth which was to intervene ere his daughter's nuptials, at Oakwood. That period Edward intended to employ in visiting the ancient hall onthe Delmont estate, which for the last three months had been in a stateof active preparation for the reception of its long-absent master. Itwas beautifully situated in the vicinity of the New Forest, Hampshire. There Edward was to take his bride, considering the whole estate, hisuncle declared, already as his own, as he did not mean to be a fixturethere, but live alternately with his sister and his nephew. Oakwoodshould see quite as much of him as Beech Hill, and young people werebetter alone, particularly the first year of their marriage. VainlyEdward and Lilla sought to combat his resolution; the only concessionthey could obtain was, that when their honeymoon was over, he and Ellenwould pay them a visit, just to see how they were getting on. 

"You must never marry, Nelly, for I don't know what my sister will dowithout you, " said Lord Delmont, laughing. 

"Be assured, uncle Charles, I never will. I love the freedom of this oldhall much too well; and, unless my aunt absolutely sends me away, Ishall not go. "

"And that she never will, Ellen, " said Lilla earnestly. "She said theother day she did not know how she should ever spare you even to us; butyou must come to us very often, dearest Ellen. I shall never perform mypart well as mistress of the large establishment with which Edwardthreatens me, without your counsel and support"

"I will not come at all, if you and Edward lay your wise heads together, as you already seem inclined to do, to win me by flattery, " repliedEllen, playfully, endeavouring to look grave, though she refused not thekiss of peace for which Lilla looked up so appealingly. 

The first week in July was fixed for the celebration of the twomarriages in Mr. Hamilton's family. As both Edward and Percy wished theceremony should take place in the parish church of Oakwood, and beperformed by Archdeacon Howard, it was agreed the same day shouldwitness both bridals; and that Miss Manvers, who had been residing atCastle Terryn with the Earl and Countess St. Eval, should accompany themto Oakwood a few days previous. Young Hamilton took his bride to Paris, to which capital he had been intrusted with some government commission. It was not till the end of July he had originally intended his nuptialsshould take place; but he did not choose to leave England for anuncertain period without his Louisa, and consequently it was agreedtheir honeymoon should be passed in France. It may be well to mentionhere that Mr. Hamilton had effected the exchange he desired, and thatArthur Myrvin and his beloved Emmeline were now comfortably installed inthe Rectory, which had been so long the residence of Mr. Howard; andthat Myrvin now performed his pastoral duties in a manner that reflectedhappiness not only on his parishioners, but on all his friends, andenabled him to enjoy that true peace springing from a satisfiedconscience. He trod in the steps of his lamented friend; he knew nothimself how often his poor yet contented flock compared him in theirhumble cottages with Herbert, and that in their eyes he did not lose bythe comparison. Some, indeed, would say, "It is all Master Herbert'sexample, and the society of that sweet young creature, Miss Emmeline, that has made him what he is. " But whatever might be the reason, Arthurwas universally beloved; and that the village favourite, Miss Emmeline, who had grown up amongst them from infancy, was their Rector'swife--that she still mingled amongst them, the same gentle, loveablebeing she had ever been--that it was to her and not to a stranger, theywere ever at liberty to seek for relief in trouble, or sympathy in joy, was indeed a source of unbounded pleasure. And Emmeline was happy, truly, gratefully happy; never did she regret the choice she had made, nor envy her family the higher stations of life it was theirs to fill. She had not a wish beyond the homes of those she loved; her husband wasall in all to her, her child a treasure for which she could not besufficiently thankful. She was still the same playful, guileless beingto her family which she had ever been; but to strangers a greater degreeof dignity characterised her deportment, and commanded their involuntaryrespect. The home of Arthur Myrvin was indeed one over which peace andlove had entwined their roseate wings; a lowly yet a beauteous spot, over which the storms of the busy troubled world might burst, but neverreach; and for other sorrows, piety and submission were alike theirwatchword and their safeguard. Lord St. Eval was the only person whoregretted Arthur's promotion to the rectory of Oakwood, as it deprivedhim, he declared, of his chaplain, his vicar, and his friend. However, he willingly accepted a friend of Mr. Hamilton's to supply his place, aclergyman not much beyond the prime of life; one who for seven years haddevoted himself, laboriously and unceasingly, to a poor and unprofitableparish in one of the Feroe Islands; in the service of Mr. Hamilton hehad been employed, though voluntarily he had accepted, nay, eloquentlyhe had pleaded for the office. To those of our readers who areacquainted with the story of Home Influence, the Rev. Henry Morton is nostranger. They may remember that he accompanied Mr. Hamilton on hisperilous expedition, and had joyfully consented to remaining there tillthe young Christian, Wilson, was capable of undertaking the ministry. Hehad done so; his pupil promised fair to reward his every care, andpreserve his countrymen in that state of peace, prosperity, and virtue, to which they had been brought by the unceasing cares of Morton; andthat worthy man returned to his native land seven years after he hadquitted it, improved not only in inward peace but in health, andconsequently appearances. A perceptible lameness was now the onlyremains of what had been before painful deformity. The bracing air ofthe island had invigorated his nerves; the consciousness that he wasactive in the service of his fellow-creatures removed from his mind themorbid sensibility that had formerly so oppressed him; and Mr. And Mrs. Hamilton perceived, with benevolent pleasure, that life was to him nolonger a burden. He had become a cheerful, happy member of society, willing to enjoy the blessings that now surrounded him with a trulychastened, grateful spirit: Oakwood and Castle Terryn were everenlivened when he was present. After the cold and barren living atFeroe, exiled as he there had been from any of his own rank in life, theVicarage at Castle Terryn and the society those duties included, formedto him indeed a happy resting-place; while his many excellent qualitiessoon reconciled St. Eval and his Countess to Myrvin's desertion, as theycalled his accepting the rectory at Oakwood. No untoward event occurredto prevent the celebration of Percy and Edward's bridals as intended. They took place, attended with all that chastened joy and innocentfestivity which might have been expected from the characters of thoseprincipally concerned. No cloud obscured the happiness of theaffectionate united family, which witnessed these gladdening nuptials. Each might, perhaps, in secret have felt there was one blank in everyheart, that when thus united, there was still a void on earth. In theirbreasts the fond memory of Herbert lingered still. Mr. Grahame forgothis moroseness, though he had resolved on returning to his cottage inWales. He could feel nothing but delight as he looked on his Lilla inher chaste and simple bridal robes, and felt that of her he might indeedbe proud. Fondly he dried the tear that fell from her bright eyes, asshe clung to him in parting, and promised to see her soon, very soon atBeech Hill. 

It was the amusement of the village gossips for many a long evening todiscuss over and over again the various merits of the two brides; somepreferring the tearful, blushing Lilla, others the pale, yet composedand dignified demeanour of Miss Manvers. Some said Captain Fortescuelooked much more agitated than he did when he saved his uncle's life offDartmouth, some years before; it was marvellously strange for a braveyoung officer such as he, to be so flustered at such a simple thing astaking a pretty girl for better or worse. And Mr. Percy Hamilton, somesaid, was very much too serious for such a joyous occasion; if they hadbeen Miss Manvers they should not have liked it, and so unlike himself, too. 

"Hold your tongue, silly woman, " a venerable old man interposed, at thispart of the conversation, "the poor lad's thoughts were with hisbrother, to whom this day would have been as great a source of joy asto himself. He has not been the same man since dear Master Herbert'sdeath, and no wonder, poor fellow. "

This observation effectually put an end to the remarks on Percy'sdemeanour, and some owned, after all, marriage was somehow a solemnceremony, and it was better to be too serious at such a time than toogay. 

Percy and his bride stayed a week in London, and thence proceeded toParis, which place, a very short scrutiny convinced Percy was internallyin no quiet condition; some disturbance, he was convinced, wasthreatening, though of what nature he could not at first comprehend. Hehad not, however, left England a fortnight before his family werealarmed by the reports which so quickly flew over to our island of thatextraordinary revolution which in three short days completely changedthe sovereign dynasty of France, and threatened a renewal of thosehorrors which had deluged that fair capital with blood in the time ofthe unfortunate Louis XVI. We have neither space nor inclination toenter into such details; some extracts of a letter from Percy, which Mr. Hamilton received, after a week of extreme anxiety on his account, wefeel, however, compelled to transcribe, as the ultimate fates of twoindividuals, whose names have more than once been mentioned in thecourse of these memoirs, may there perhaps be discovered. 

"Your anxiety, my dearest mother, and that of my father and Ellen, I canwell understand, but for myself I had no fear. Had I been alone, Ibelieve a species of pleasurable excitement would have been theprevailing feeling, but for my Louisa I did tremble very often; thescenes passing around us were to a gentle eye and feeling heart terribleindeed, and so suddenly they had come upon us, we had no time to attemptretreat to a place of greater safety. Cannonballs were flying in alldirections, shattering the windows, killing some, and fearfully woundingmany others; for several hours I concealed Louisa in the cellar, whichwas the only secure abode our house presented. Mounted guards, to thenumber of six or seven hundred, were dashing down the various streets, with a noise like thunder, diversified only by the clash of arms, theshrieks of the wounded, and the fierce cries of the populace. It wasindeed terrible--the butchery of lives has indeed been awful; in thesesanguinary conflicts between desperate men, pent up in narrow streets, innocent lives have also been taken, for it was next to impossible todistinguish between those who took an active part in the affray, andthose who were merely paralysed spectators. In their own defence thegendarmes were compelled to fire, and their artillery did fearful havocamong the people. 

 * * * * *

Crossing the Quai de la Tournelle, at the commencement of the first day, I was startled by being addressed by name, and turning round, beheld, tomy utter astonishment, Cecil Grahame at my elbow; he was in the uniformof a gendarme, in which corps, he told me, with some glee, hisbrother-in-law, Lord Alphingham, who was high in favour with the Frenchcourt, had obtained him a commission; he spoke lightly, and with thatsame recklessness of spirit and want of principle which unfortunatelyhas ever characterised him, declaring he was far better off than he hadever been in England, which country he hoped never to see again, as heutterly abhorred the very sight of it. The French people were rathermore agreeable to live with; he could enjoy his pleasures without anyconfounded restraint. I suppose he saw how little I sympathised in hisexcited spirits, for, with a hoarse laugh and an oath of levity, heswore that I had not a bit more spirit in me than when I was acraven-hearted lad, always cringing before the frown of a saintlyfather, and therefore no fit companion for a jolly fellow like himself. 'Have you followed Herbert's example, and are you, too, a godly-mindedparson? then, good day, and good riddance to you, my lad, ' was theconclusion of his boisterous speech, and setting spurs to his horse, hewould have galloped off, when I detained him, to ask why he had notinformed his family of his present place of abode and situation. Myblood had boiled as he spoke, that such rude and scurrilous lips shouldthus scornfully have spoken my sainted brother's name; passion rosefierce within me, but I thought of him whose name he spoke, and wascalm. He swore that he had had quite enough of his father's severity, that he never meant to see his face again. He was now, thank heaven, hisown master, and would take care to remain so; that he had been a fool toaddress me, as he might be sure I should tell of his doings, and bringthe old fellow after him. Disgusted beyond measure, yet I could notforbear asking him if he had heard of his mother's death. Without theleast change of countenance or of voice, he replied--

"'Heard of it, man, aye, and forgotten it by this; why it is somecenturies ago. It would have been a good thing for me had she died yearsbefore she did. '

"'Cecil Grahame!' I exclaimed, in a tone that rung in my ears somehours afterwards, and I believe made him start, daring even as he was, 'do you know it is your mother of whom you speak? a mother whose onlyfault towards you was too much love, a mother whose too fond heart yourcruel conduct broke; are you so completely devoid of feeling that noteven this can move you?'

"'Pray add to your long list of my good mother's perfections a weaknessthat ruined me, that made me the wretch I am, ' he wildly exclaimed, andhe clenched his hand and bit his lip till the blood came, while hischeek became livid with some feeling I could not fathom. He spurred hishorse violently, the spirited animal started forward, a kind of spellseemed to rivet my eyes upon him. There was a loud report of cannon fromthe Place de Grêve, several balls whizzed close by me, evidently firedto disperse the multitude, who were tumultuously assembling on the Pontde la Cité, and ere I could recover from the startling effects of thereport, I heard a shrill scream of mortal agony, and Cecil Grahame fellfrom his horse a shattered corpse. 

 * * * * *

For several minutes I was wholly unconscious of all that was passingaround me. I stood by the body of the unfortunate young man, quiteinsensible to the danger I was incurring from the shot. I could only seehim before my eyes, as I had known him in his boyhood and his earliestyouth, full of fair promises, of hopeful futurity, the darling of hismother's eye, the pride of his father, spite of his faults; and now whatwas he? a mangled corpse, cut off without warning or preparation in hisearly youth. But, oh, worse, far worse than all, with the words ofhatred, of defiance on his lips. I sought in vain for life; there was nosign, no hope. To attempt to rescue the body was vain, the tumult wasincreasing fearfully around me; many gendarmes were fallingindiscriminately with the populace, and the countenance of Cecil was sofearfully disfigured, that to attempt to recognise it when all mightagain be quiet would, I knew, be useless. One effort I made, I inquiredfor and sought Lord Alphingham's hotel, intending to obtain hisassistance in the proper interment of this unfortunate young man, but inthis was equally frustrated; the hotel was closely shut up. Lord andLady Alphingham had, at the earliest threatening of disturbances, retreated to their chateau in the province of Champagne. I forwarded themelancholy intelligence to them, and returned to my own hotel sick atheart with the sight I had witnessed. The fearful tone of his lastwords, the agonized shriek, rung in my ears, as the shattered form andface floated before my eyes, with a tenacity no effort of my own or evenof my Louisa's could dispel. Oh, my mother, what do I not owe you forguarding me from the temptations that have assailed this wretched youngman, or rather for imprinting on my infant mind those principles which, with the blessing of our heavenly Father, have thus preserved me. Naturally, my temper, my passions were like his, in nothing was I hissuperior; but it was your hand, your prayers, my mother, planted theseeds of virtue, your gentle firmness eradicated those faults which, hadthey been fostered by indulgence, might have rendered my life like CecilGrahame's, and exposed me in the end to a death like his. What wouldhave availed my father's judicious guidance, my brother's mild example, had not the soil been prepared by a mother's hand and watered by amother's prayers? blessings, a thousand blessings on your head, mymother! Oh, may my children learn to bless theirs even as I do mine;they cannot know a purer joy on earth. 

 * * * * *

"We have arrived at Rouen in safety. I am truly thankful to feel mybeloved wife is far from the scene of confusion and danger to which shehas been so unavoidably exposed. I am not deceived in her strength ofnerve, my dear mother; I did not think, when I boasted of it as one ofher truly valuable acquirements, I should so soon have seen it put tothe proof; to her letter to Caroline I refer you for all entertainingmatter. 

 * * * * *

"I have been interrupted by an interview as unexpected as it promises tobe gratifying. One dear to us all may, at length, rejoice there is hope;but I dare not say too much, for the health of this unhappy young man isso shattered, he may never yet embrace his mother. But to be moreexplicit, I was engaged in writing, unconsciously with the door of myapartment half open, when I was roused by the voice of the waiter, exclaiming, 'Not that room, sir, if you please, yours is yonder. ' Ilooked up and met the glance of a young man, whom, notwithstanding thelong lapse of years, spite of faded form and attenuated features, Irecognised on the instant. It was Alfred Greville. I was far moresurprised and inconceivably more shocked than when Cecil Grahame crossedmy path; I had marked no change in the features or the expression of thelatter, but both in Alfred Greville were so totally altered, that hestood before me the living image of his sister, a likeness I had neverperceived before. I was too much astonished to address him, and before Icould frame words, he had sprung forward, with a burning flush on hischeek, and grasping my hand, wildly exclaimed, 'Do not shun me, Hamilton, I am not yet an utter reprobate. Tell me of my mother; doesshe live?"

"'She does, ' I replied; instantly a burst of thanksgiving broke from hislips, at least so I imagined, from the expression of his features, forthere were no articulate sounds, and a swoon resembling deathimmediately followed. Medical assistance was instantly procured, butthough actual insensibility was not of long continuance, he ispronounced to be in such an utterly exhausted state, that we dare notencourage hopes for his final recovery; yet still I cannot but believehe will be spared--spared not only in health, but as a reformed andbetter man, to bless that mother whose cares for him, despite long yearsof difficulties and sorrow, have never failed. In vain I entreated himnot to exhaust himself by speaking; that I would not leave him, and ifhe would only be quiet, he might be better able on the morrow to tell meall he desired. He would not be checked; he might not, he said, bespared many hours, and he must speak ere he died. Comparativelyspeaking, but little actual vice has stained the conduct of Greville. Throughout all his career the remembrance of his mother has often, veryoften mingled in his gayest hours, and dashed them with remorsefulbitterness. He owns that often of late years her image, and that of hissister Mary, have risen so mildly, so impressively before him, that hehas flown almost like a maniac from the gay and heartless throngs, tosolitude and silence, and as the thoughts of home and his infancy, whenhe first lisped out his boyish prayer by the side of his sister at hismother's knee, came thronging over him, he has sobbed and wept like achild. These feelings returned at length so often and so powerfully, that he felt to resist them was even more difficult and painful than tobreak from the flowery chains which his gay companions had woven roundhim. He declared his resolution; he resisted ridicule and persuasion. Almost for the first time in his life he remained steadily firm, andwhen he had indeed succeeded, and found himself some distance from thescenes of luxurious pleasure, he felt himself suddenly endowed with anelasticity of spirit, which he had not experienced for many a long year. The last tidings he had received of his mother and sister were that theywere at Paris, and thither he determined to go, having parted from hiscompanions at Florence. During the greater part of his journey to theFrench capital, he fancied his movements were watched by a stranger, gentlemanly in his appearance, and not refusing to enter intoconversation when Greville accosted him; but still Alfred did not feelsatisfied with his companionship, though to get rid of him seemed animpossibility, for however he changed his course, the day never passedwithout his shadow darkening Greville's path. Within eighty miles ofParis, however, he lost all traces of him, and he then reproachedhimself for indulging in unnecessary fears. He was not in Paris twodays, however, before, to his utter astonishment, he was arrested andthrown into prison on the charge of forging bank-notes, two yearsprevious, to a very considerable amount. In vain he protested againstthe accusation alleging at that time he had been in Italy and not inParis. Notes bearing his own signature, and papers betraying othermisdemeanours, were brought forward, and on their testimony and that ofthe stranger, whose name he found to be _Dupont_, he was thrown intoprison to await his trial. To him the whole business was an impenetrablemystery. To us, my dear father, it is all clear as day. Poor Mrs. Greville's fears were certainly not without foundation, and when affairsare somewhat more quiet in Paris, I shall leave no stone unturned toprove young Greville's perfect innocence to the public, and bring thatwretch Dupont to the same justice to which his hatred would havecondemned the son of his old companion. Alfred's agitation on hearing myexplanation of the circumstance was extreme. The errors of his fatherappeared to fall heavily on him, and yet he uttered no word of reproachon his memory. The relation of his melancholy death, and the misery inwhich we found Mrs. Greville and poor Mary affected him so deeply, Idreaded their effect on his health; but this was nothing to hiswretchedness when, by his repeated questions, he absolutely wrung fromme the tale of his sister's death, his mother's desolation: no words canportray the extent of his self-reproach. It is misery to look upon himnow, and feel what he might have been, had his mother been indeedpermitted to exercise her rights. There is no happiness for AlfredGreville this side of the Channel; he pines for home--for his mother'sblessing and forgiveness, and till he receives them, health will not, cannot return. 

 * * * * *

In prison he remained for six long weary months, with the consciousnessthat, amidst the many light companions with whom he had associated, there was not one to whom he could appeal for friendship and assistancein his present situation, and the thoughts of his mother and sisterreturned with greater force, from the impossibility of learning anythingconcerning them. The hope of escaping never left him, and, with theassistance of a comrade, he finally effected it on the 27th of July, theconfusion of the city aiding him far more effectually than he believedpossible. He came down to Rouen in a coal-barge, so completelyexhausted, that he declared, had not the thought of England and hismother been uppermost, he would gladly have laid down in the openstreets to die. To England he felt impelled, he scarcely knew wherefore, save that he looked to us for the information he so ardently desired. Our family had often been among his waking visions, and this accountsfor the agitation I witnessed when I first looked up. He said he felt heknew me, but he strove to move or speak in vain; he could not utter theonly question he wished to frame, and was unable to depart without beingconvinced if I indeed were Percy Hamilton. 

"'And now I have seen you, what have I learnt?' he said, as he ceased atale, more of sorrow than of crime. 

"'That your mother lives, ' I replied, 'that she has never ceased to prayfor and love her son, that you can yet be to her a blessing andsupport. '

"Should he wish her sent for, I asked, I knew she would not demand asecond summons. He would not hear of it. 

"'Not while I have life enough to seek her. What, bring her all thesemiles to me. My mother, my poor forsaken mother. Oh, no, if indeed I maynot live, if strength be not granted me to seek her, then, then it willbe time enough to think of beseeching her to come to me; but not while ahope of life remains, speak not of it, Percy. Let her know nothing ofme, nothing, till I can implore her blessing on my knees. '"

 * * * * *

"I have ceased to argue with him, for he is bent upon it, and perhaps itis better thus. His mind appears much relieved, he has passed a quietnight, and this morning the physician finds a wonderful improvement, wonderful to him perhaps, but not to me. "

 * * * * *

Percy's letters containing the above extracts, were productive of muchinterest to his friends at Oakwood. The details of Cecil's death, alleviated by sympathy, were forwarded to his father and sister. Thewords that had preceded his death Mr. Hamilton carefully suppressed fromhis friend, and Mr. Grahame, as if dreading to hear anything that couldconfirm his son's reckless disposition, asked no particulars. For threemonths he buried himself in increased seclusion at Llangwillan, refusingall invitations, and denying himself steadfastly to all. At thetermination of that period, however, he once more joined his friends, analtered and a happier man. His misanthropy had departed, and often Mr. Hamilton remarked to his wife, that the Grahame of fifty resembled theGrahame of five-and-twenty far more than he had during the interveningyears. Lilla and Edward were sources of such deep interest to him, thatin their society he seemed to forget the misery occasioned by his otherchildren. The shock of her brother's death was long felt by Lilla; shesorrowed that he was thus suddenly cut off without time for one thoughtof eternity, one word of penitence, of prayer. The affection of herhusband, however, gradually dispelled these melancholy thoughts, andwhen Lord Delmont paid his promised visit to his nephew, he found noabatement in those light and joyous spirits which had at first attractedhim towards Lilla. 

Ellen, at her own particular request, had undertaken to prepare Mrs. Greville for the return of her son, and the change that had taken placein him. Each letter from Percy continued his recovery, and here we maynotice, though somewhat out of place, as several months elapsed ere hewas enabled fully to succeed, that, by the active exertions of himselfand of the solicitor his father had originally employed, Dupont was atlength brought to justice, his criminal machinations fully exposed toview, and the innocence of Alfred Greville, the son of the deceased, asfully established in the eyes of all men. 

Gently and cautiously Ellen performed her office, and vain would be theeffort to portray the feelings or the fond and desolate mother, as sheanticipated the return of her long-absent, dearly-loved son. Of his ownaccord he came back to her; he had tried the pleasures of the world, andproved them hollow; he had formed friendships with the young, the gay, the bright, the lovely, and he had found them all wanting in stabilityand happiness. Amid them all his heart had yearned for home and fordomestic love; that mother had not prayed in vain. 

Softly and beautifully fell the light of a setting sun around thepretty little cottage, on the banks of the Dart, which was now theresidence of Mrs. Greville; the lattice was thrown widely back, and theperfume of unnumbered flowers scented the apartment, which Ellen's handhad loved to decorate, that Mrs. Greville might often, very often forgetshe was indeed alone. It was the early part of September, and adelicious breeze passed by, bearing health and elasticity upon its wing, and breathing soft melody amid the trees and shrubs. Softly and calmlyglided the smooth waters at the base of the garden. The green verandahrunning round the cottage was filled with beautiful exotics, whichEllen's hand had transported from the conservatory at Oakwood. It was asweet and soothing sight to see how judiciously, how unassumingly Ellendevoted herself to the desolate mother, without once permitting thatwork of love to interfere with her still nearer, still dearer ties athome. She knew how Herbert would have loved and devoted himself to themother of his Mary, and in this, as in all things, she followed in hissteps. Untiringly would she listen to and speak on Mrs. Greville'sfavourite theme, her Mary; and now she sat beside her, enlivening bygentle converse the hours that must intervene ere Alfred came. There wasan expression of such calm, such chastened thanksgiving on Mrs. Greville's features, changed as they were by years of sorrow, that nonecould gaze on her without a kindred feeling stealing over the heart, andin very truth those feelings seemed reflected on the young and lovelycountenance beside her. A pensive yet a sweet and pleasing smile restedon Ellen's lips, and her dark eye shone softly bright in the light ofsympathy. Beautiful indeed were the orphan's features, but not thedazzling beauty of early youth. If a stranger had gazed on hercountenance when in calm repose, he would have thought she had seensorrow; but when that beaming smile of true benevolence, that eye ofintellectual and soul-speaking beauty met his glance, as certain wouldhe have felt that sorrow, whatever it might have been, indeed had lostits sting. 

"It was such an evening, such an hour my Mary died, " Mrs. Greville said, as she laid her hand in Ellen's. "I thought not then to have reflectedon it with feelings such as now fill my heart. Oh, when I look back onpast years, and recall the prayers I have uttered in tears for my son, my Alfred, the doubts, the fears that have arisen to check my prayer, Iwonder wherefore am I thus blessed. "

"Our God is a God of truth, and He promiseth to answer prayer, dearestMrs. Greville, " replied Ellen, earnestly; "and He is a God of love, andwill bless those who seek Him and trust in Him as you have done. "

"He gave me grace to trust in Him, my child. I trusted, I doubted not Hewould answer me in another world, but I thought not such blessing wasreserved for me in this. A God of love--ay, in my hour of affliction. Ihave felt Him so. Oh, may the blessings of His loving-kindness showerdown upon me, soften yet more my heart to receive His glorious image. "

She ceased to speak, but her lips moved still as in inward prayer. Somefew minutes elapsed, and suddenly the glowing light of the sun wasdarkened, as by an intervening shadow. The mother raised her head, andin another instant her son was at her feet. 

"Mother, can you forgive, receive me? Bid me not go forth--I cannot, may not leave you. "

"Go forth, my son, my son--oh, never, never!" she cried, and claspinghim to her bosom, the quick glad tears fell fast upon his brow. Shereleased him to gaze again and again upon his face, and fold him closerto her heart, to read in those sunken features, that faded form, thetale that he had come back to her heart and to her home, never, nevermore to leave her. 

In that one moment years of error were forgotten. The mother only feltshe hold her son to her heart, a suffering, yet an altered and a betterman; and he, that he knelt once more beside his mother, forgiven andbeloved. 

CHAPTER XII. 

CONCLUSION

And now, what can we more say? Will not the Hamilton family, and thoseintimately connected with them, indeed be deemed complete? It was ourintention to trace in the first part of our tale the cares, the joys, the sorrows of parental love, during the years of childhood and earliestyouth; in the second, to mark the _effect_ of those cares, when those onwhom they were so lavishly bestowed attained a period of life in whichit depends more upon themselves than on their parents to frame their ownhappiness or misery, as far, at least, as we ourselves can do so. It mayplease our Almighty Father to darken our earthly course by the trial ofadversity, and yet that peace founded on religion, which it was Mr. AndMrs. Hamilton's first care to inculcate, may seldom be disturbed. Itmay please Him to bless us with prosperity, but from characters such asAnnie Grahame happiness is a perpetual exile, which no prosperity haspower to recall. We have followed Mr. Hamilton's family from childhood, we have known them from their earliest years, and now that it has becometheir parts to feel those same cares and joys, and perform thoseprecious but solemn duties which we have watched in Mrs. Hamilton, ourtask is done; and we must bid farewell to those we have known and lovedso long; those whom we have seen the happy inmates of one home, o'erwhom--

 "The same fond mother bent at night, "

who shared the same joys, the same cares, whose deepest affections wereconfined to their parents and each other, are now scattered in differentparts of their native land, distinct members of society, each with hisown individual cares and joys, with new and precious ties to divide thatheart whose whole affection had once been centred in one spot and in onecircle; and can we be accused in thus terminating our simple annals ofwandering from the real course of life. Is it not thus with very manyfamilies of England? Are not marriage and death twined hand in hand, torender that home desolate which once resounded with the laugh of manygleesome hearts, with the glad tones of youthful revelling and joy?True, in those halls they often meet again, and the hearts of theparents are not lone, for the family of each child is a source ofinexpressible interest to them; there is still a link, a precious linkto bind them together, but vain and difficult would be the attempt tocontinue the history of a family when thus dispersed. Sweet andpleasing the task to watch the unfledged nestlings while under amother's fostering wing, but when they spread their wings and fly, whereis the eye or pen that can follow them on their eager way?

Once more, but once, we will glance within the halls of Oakwood, andthen will we bid them farewell, for our task will be done, and the lastdesires of fancy, we trust, to have appeased. 

It was in the September of the year 1830 we closed our narrative. Let usthen, for one moment, imagine the veil of fancy is upraised on the firstday of the year, 1838, and gaze within that self-same room, which twentyyears before we had seen lighted up on a similar occasion, theanniversary of a new year, bright with youthful beauty, and enlivened bythe silvery laugh of early childhood. But few, very few, were thestrangers that this night mingled with Mr. Hamilton's family. It wasnot, as it had been twenty years previous, a children's ball on which weglance. It was but the happy reunion of every member of that truly happyfamily, and the lovely, mirthful children there assembled were, with theexception of a very few, closely connected one with another by the nearrelationship of brothers, sisters, and cousins. In Mr. And Mrs. Hamilton, Mrs. Greville, Montrose Grahame, Lucy Harcourt, and Mr. Morton, who were all present, time had comparatively made but littledifference; but it was in those who twenty years before had so wellacted the part of youthful entertainers to their various guests that thechange was striking, yet far, very far from being mournful. 

On one side might be seen Percy Hamilton, M. P. , in earnest yetpleasurable conversation with Mr. Grahame. It was generally noticed thatthese two gentlemen were always talking politics, discussing, wheneverthey met, the affairs of the nation, for no senator was more earnest andinterested in his vocation than Percy Hamilton, but certainly on thisnight there was no thoughtful gravity of a senator imprinted on hisbrow; he was looking and laughing at the childish efforts of the littleLord Manvers, eldest child of the Earl of Delmont, then in his seventhyear, to emulate the ease and dignity of his cousins, Lord Lyle andHerbert and Allan Myrvin, some two or three years older than himself, who, from being rather more often at Oakwood, considered themselvesquite lords of the soil and masters of the ceremonies, during thepresent night at least. The Ladies Mary and Gertrude Lyle, distinguishedby the perfect simplicity of their dress, had each twined an arm in thatof the gentle, retiring Caroline Myrvin, and tried to draw her from heryoung mother's side, where, somewhat abashed at the number that nightassembled in her grandfather's hall, she seemed determined to remain, while a younger sister frolicked about the room, making friends withall, in such wild exuberance of spirits, that Mrs. Myrvin's gentle voicewas more than once raised in playful reproach to reduce her to order, while her husband and Mr. And Mrs. Hamilton seemed to take delight inher movements of elasticity and joy. The Countess St. Eval, as majesticand fascinating in womanhood as her early youth had promised, one momentwatched with a proud yet softly flashing eye the graceful movements ofher son, and the next, was conversing eagerly and gaily with her brotherPercy and the young Earl of Delmont, who were standing near her; sevenyears had wrought but little change in him, whom till now we have onlyknown by the simple designation of Edward Fortescue. Manhood, in hisprime, had rather increased than lessened the extreme beauty of his faceand form; few gazed on him once but turned to gaze again, and the littlesmiling cherub of five years, whose soft, round arms were twined roundMiss Fortescue's neck, the Lady Ellen Fortescue, promised fair toinherit all her father's beauty and peculiar grace, and endeared her toher young mother's heart with an increased warmth of love, while thedark flashing eyes of Lord Manvers and his glossy, flowing, ebon curlsrendered him, Edward declared, the perfect likeness of his mother, andtherefore he was the father's pet. Round Mr. Hamilton were grouped, inattitudes which an artist might have been glad to catch for naturalgrace, about three or four younger grandchildren, the eldest notexceeding four years, who, too young to join in the dance and sports oftheir elder brethren, were listening with eager attention to theentertaining stories grandpapa was relating, calling forth peals oflaughter from his infant auditors, particularly from the finecurly-headed boy who was installed on the seat of honour, Mr. Hamilton'sknee, being the only child of Percy and Louisa, and consequently the petof all. It was to that group Herbert Myrvin wished to confine theattention of his merry little sister, who, however, did not choose to beso governed, and frisked about from one group to another, regardless ofher graver brother's warning glances; one minute seated on Mrs. Hamilton's knee and nestling her little head on her bosom, the nextpulling her uncle Lord St. Eval's coat, to make him turn round and playwith her, and then running away with a wild and ringing laugh. 

"Do not look so anxious, my own Emmeline, " Mrs. Hamilton said fondly, as she met her daughter's glance fixed somewhat anxiously on her littleMinnie, for so she was generally called, to distinguish her from LadySt. Eval's Mary. "You will have no trouble to check those wild spiritswhen there is need to do so; her heart is like your own, and then sweetis the task of rearing. "

With all the grateful fondness of earlier years did Mrs. Myrvin look upin her mother's face, as she thus spoke, and press her hand in hers. 

"Not even yet have you ceased to penetrate my thoughts, my dearestmother, " she replied; "from childhood unto the present hour you haveread my countenance as an open book. "

"And have not you, too, learned that lesson, my child? Is it not to youyour gentle, timid Caroline clings most fondly? Is it not to you Herbertcomes with his favourite book, and Allan with his tales of glee?Minnie's mirth is not complete unless she meets your smile, and evenlittle Florence looks for some sign of sympathy. You have not found thetask so difficult, that you should wonder I should love it?"

"For those beloved ones, oh, what would I not do?" said Mrs. Myrvin, ina tone of animated fervour, and turning her glistening eyes on hermother, she added, "My own mother, marriage may bring with it new tics, new joys, but, oh, who can say it severs the first bright links of lifebetween a mother and a child? it is now, only now, I feel how much youloved me. "

"May your children be to you what mine have ever been to me, myEmmeline; I can wish you no greater blessing, " replied Mrs. Hamilton, in a tone of deep emotion, and twining Emmeline's arm in hers, theyjoined Mrs. Greville and Miss Harcourt, who were standing together nearthe pianoforte, where Edith Seymour, the latter's younger niece, apleasing girl of seventeen, was good-naturedly playing the music of thevarious dances which Lord Lyle and Herbert Myrvin were calling in rapidsuccession. In another part of the room Alfred Greville and LauraSeymour were engaged in such earnest conversation, that Lord Delmontindulged in more than one joke at their expense, of which, however, theywere perfectly unconscious; and this had occurred so often, that many ofMrs. Greville's friends entertained the hope of seeing the happiness nowso softly and calmly imprinted on her expressive features, very shortlyheightened by the union of her now truly estimable son with an amiableand accomplished young woman, fitted in all respects to supply the placeof the daughter she had lost. 

And what had these seven years done for the Countess of Delmont, who hadcompletely won the delighted kiss and smiles of Minnie Myrvin, byjoining in all her frolics, and finally accepting Allan's blushinginvitation, and joining the waltz with him, to the admiration of all thechildren. The girlish vivacity of Lilla Grahame had not deserted LadyDolmont; conjugal and maternal love had indeed softened and subdued anature, which in early years had been perhaps too petulant; hadheightened yet chastened sensibility. Never was happiness more visiblyimpressed or more keenly felt than by the youthful Countess. Herhusband, in his extreme fondness, had so fostered her at times almostchildish glee, that he might have unfitted her for her duties, had notthe mild counsels, the example of his sister, Miss Fortescue, turnedaside the threatening danger, and to all the fascination of earlychildhood Lady Delmont united the more solid and enduring qualities ofpious, well-regulated womanhood. 

"I wonder Charles is not jealous, " observed Mrs. Percy Hamilton, playfully, after admiring to Lord Delmont his wife's peculiar grace inwaltzing. "Allan seems to have claimed her attention entirely. "

"Charles has something better to do, " replied his father, laughing, asthe little Lord Manvers flew by him, with his arm twined round hiscousin Gertrude in the inspiring galop, and seemed to have neither earnor eye for any one or anything else. "Caroline, do you permit yourdaughter to play the coquette so early?"

"Better at seven than seventeen, Edward, believe me; had she numberedthe latter, I might be rather more uneasy, at present I can admire thatpretty little pair without any such feeling. Gertrude told me to-day, she did not like to see her cousin Charles so shy, and she should do allshe could to make him as much at home as she and her brother are. "

"She has succeeded, then, admirably, " replied Edward, laughing, "for thelittle rogue has not much shyness in him now. Herbert and Mary have gotthat corner all to themselves; I should like to go slily behind them, and find out what they are talking about. "

"Try and remember what you used to talk about to your partners in thisvery room, some twenty years back, and perhaps recollection willsatisfy your curiosity, " said Lady St. Eval, smiling, but faintly, however; the names Herbert and Mary had recalled a time when those nameshad often been joined before, and the silent prayer arose that theirfates might not resemble those whose names they bore, that they might bespared a longer time to bless those who loved them. 

"Twenty years back, Caroline, what an undertaking. Allan is more likethe madcap I was then, so I can better enter into his feelings ofpleasure. By-the-bye, why are not Mrs. Cameron's family here to-night? Ihalf expected to meet them here yesterday. "

"They spend this season with Sir Walter and Lady Cameron in Scotland, "replied Lady St. Eval. "Florence declared she would take no excuse; theMarquis and Marchioness of Malvern, with Emily and Louis, are therealso, and Lady Alford is to join them in a week or two. "

"You were there last summer, were you not?"

"We were. They are one of the happiest couples I know, and their estateis most beautiful. Florence declares that, were Sir Walter Scott stillliving, she intended to have made him take her for a heroine, herhusband for a hero, and transport them some centuries back, to figure onthat same romantic estate in some very exciting scenes. "

"Had he killed Cameron's first love and rendered him desperate, and madeFlorence some consoling spirit, to remove his despair, instead of makinghim so unromantically enabled to conquer his passion, becauseunreturned. Why I could make as good a story as Sir Walter himself; ifshe will reward me liberally, I will set about it. "

"It will never do, Lord Delmont, it is much too common-place, " said Mrs. Percy Hamilton, smiling. "It is a very improper question, I allow, butwho was Sir Walter's first love?"

"Do you not know? A certain friend of yours whom I torment, by declaringshe is invulnerable to the little god's arrows, " he answered, joyously. 

"She may be invulnerable to Cupid, but certainly not to any other kindof love, " remarked Lady St. Eval, as she smilingly pointed out to Mrs. Percy's notice Miss Fortescue, surrounded by a group of children, andbearing on her expressive countenance unanswerable evidences of herinterest in the happiness of all around her. 

"And is it possible, after loving _her_ he could love another?" sheexclaimed, in unfeigned astonishment. 

"Disagreeably unromantic, Louisa, is it not?" said Lord Delmont, laughing heartily; "but what was the poor man to do? Ellen wasinexorable, and refused to bestow on him anything but her friendship. "

"Which he truly values, " interrupted Lady St. Eval. "You must allow, Louisa, he was wise, however free from romance; the character ofFlorence, in many points, very much resembles Ellen's. She is one of thevery few whom I do not wonder at his choosing, after what had passed. Doyou know, Edward, Flora Cameron marries in the spring?"

"I heard something about it; tell me who to. "

She complied, and Percy and Mr. Grahame joining them, the conversationextended to more general topics. 

"Nay, Allan, dear, do not tease your sister, " was Miss Fortesene'sgentle remonstrance, as Allan endeavoured, somewhat roughly, to drawMinnie from her side, where, however, she clung with a pertinacity nopersuasion or reproach could shake. 

"She will hurt Ellen, " replied the boy, sturdily, "and she has no rightto take her place by you. "

"But she may stand here too, there is room for us both, " interrupted thelittle Ellen, though she did not offer to give up her place in heraunt's lap to her cousin. 

"Go away, Allan, I choose to stand here, and aunt Ellen says I may, " wasMinnie's somewhat impatient rejoinder, as she tried to push her brotheraway, though her pretty little features expressed no ill-temper on theoccasion, for she laughed as she spoke. 

"Aunt Ellen promised to dance with me, " retorted Allan, "and so I willnot go away unless she comes too. "

"With me, with me!" exclaimed Lord Manvers, bounding forward to join thegroup. "She promised three months ago to dance with me. "

"And how often have I not performed that promise, Master Charlie?"replied Ellen, laughing, "even more often with you than with Allan, so Imust give him the preference first. "

Her good-natured smiles, the voice which betrayed such real interest inall that pleased her little companions, banished every appearance ofdiscontent. The magic power of affection and sympathy rendered everylittle pleader satisfied and pleased; and, after performing her promisewith Allan, she put the final seal to his enjoyment by confiding thelittle bashful Ellen to his especial care; a charge, which Myrvindeclared, caused his son to hold himself up two inches higher than hehad done yet. 

"Ellen, if you do not make yourself as great and deservedly a favouritewith my children as with your brother's and Emmeline's, I shall neverforgive you, " said the Earl St. Eval, who had been watching MissFortescue's cheerful gambols with the children for the last half hour, in extreme amusement, and now joined her. 

"Am I not so already, Eugene?" she said, smiling that peculiar smile ofquiet happiness which was now natural to her countenance. "I should besorry if I thought they did not love me equally; for believe me, withthe sole exception of my little namesake and godchild, my nephews andnieces are all equally dear to me. I have no right to make an exceptioneven in favour of my little Ellen, but Edward has so often called hermine, and even Lilla has promised to share her maternal rights with me, that I really cannot help it. Your children do not see so much of me asEmmeline's, and that is the reason perhaps they are not quite so freewith me; but believe mo, dear St. Eval, it will not be my fault if theydo not love me. "

"I do believe you, " replied the Earl, warmly. "I have but one regret, Ellen, when I see you loving and beloved by so many little creatures. "

"And what may that be?"

"That they are not some of them your own, my dear girl. I cannot tellyou how I regret the fact, of which each year the more and moreconvinces me, that you are determined ever to remain single. There arevery few in my list of female friends so fitted to adorn the marriagestate, very few who would make a better mother, and I cannot but regretthere are none on whom you seem inclined to bestow those endearing andinvaluable qualities. "

"Regret it then no more, my dear St. Eval, " replied Ellen, calmly, yetwith feeling. "I thank you for that high opinion which I believe youentertain of me, too flattering as it may be; but cease to regret that Ihave determined to live an old maid's life. To me, believe me, it has noterrors. To single women the opportunities of doing good, of makingothers happy, are more frequent than those granted to mothers and wives;and while such is the case, is it not our own fault if we are not happy?I own that the life of solitude which an old maid's includes, may, ifthe heart be so inclined, be equally productive of selfishness, moroseness of temper, and obstinacy in opinion and judgment, but mostfervently I trust such will never be my attributes. It can never bewhile my beloved aunt and uncle are spared to me, which I trust theywill be for many, many years longer; and even should they be removedbefore I anticipate, I have so many to love me, so many to dearly love, that I can have no time, no room for selfishness. "

"Do not mistake me, Ellen, " St. Eval replied, earnestly; "I do not wishto see you married because I dread your becoming like some single women;with your principles such can never be. Your society--your influenceover the minds of our children--is far too precious to be lightly wishedremoved, as it would be were you to marry. It is for your own sake, dearest Ellen, I regret it, and for the sake of him you might select, that you, who are so fitted to enjoy and to fulfil them, can never knowthe pleasures attendant on the duties of a happy wife and mother; thatby a husband and child, the dearest ties of earth, you will go down tothe grave unloved. "

"You are right, St. Eval, they are the dearest ties on earth; butpleasures, the pleasures of affection, too, are yet left to us, who maynever know them. Think you not, that to feel it is my place to cheer andsoothe the declining years of those dear and tender guardians of myinfancy must bring with it enjoyment--to see myself welcomed by smilesof love and words of kindness by all my brothers and sisters--to seetheir children flock around me as I enter, each seeking to be the firstto obtain my smile or kiss--to know myself of service to myfellow-creatures, I mean not in my own rank, but those beneath me--tofeel conscious that in every event of life, particularly in sickness orin sorrow, if those I so love require my presence, or I feel I may givethem comfort or sympathy, at least I may fly to them, for I shall haveno tie, no dearer or more imperious duty to keep me from them--are notthese considerations enough to render a single life indeed one ofhappiness, St. Eval? Even from this calm, unruffled stream of life can Inot gather flowers?"

"You would gather them wherever you were placed, my dear andnoble-minded Ellen, " said the Earl, with a warmth that caused her eye toglisten. "You are right: with a disposition such as yours, I have noneed to regret you have so steadfastly refused every offer of marriage. My girls shall come to you in that age when they think matrimony is theonly chance of happiness, and you shall teach them felicity dwells notso much in outward circumstances as in the temper of the mind. Perhaps, after all, Ellen, you are happier as it is. You might not find such ahusband as I would wish you, and I should be sorry to see your maternalcares rewarded as were poor Mrs. Greville's. "

"I rather think, in the blessedness of the present the past is entirelyforgotten, " observed Ellen, thoughtfully. "There are cares and sorrowsattendant on the happiest lot; but if a mother does her duty, in myopinion she seldom fails to obtain her recompense, however longdeferred. "

"You are right, my Ellen, " said Mrs. Hamilton, who had been listening tothe conversation some little time unobserved. "There are many sorrowsand many cares inseparable from maternal love, but they are forgotten, or only remembered to enhance the sweetness of the recompense that everfollows. Do you not think, to see my children, as I do now around me, walking in that path which alone can lead to eternal life, and leadingtheir offspring with them, bringing up so tenderly, so fondly theirchildren as heirs of immortality, and yet lavishing on me, as on theirfather, the love and duty of former years--is not this a preciousrecompense for all which for them I may have done or borne? Even as Iwatched the departing moments of my Herbert, as I marked the triumphantand joyful flight of his pure spirit to his heavenly home, --even thenwas I not rewarded? I saw the fruit of those lessons I had beenpermitted through grace to inculcate; his last breath blessed me, andwas not that enough? Oh, my beloved children, let no difficulties deteryou, no temptation, no selfish suffering prevent your training up thelovely infants now gambolling around you, in the way that they shouldgo;--solemn is the charge, awful the responsibility, but sweeter farthan words can give it, the reward which either in life or death willthen be yours. "

"Ah, could we perform our parts as you have yours, dearest mother, thenindeed might we hope it, " exclaimed the Countess St. Eval and Mrs. Myrvin at the same moment, as they drew closer to their mother, the eyesof both glistening with emotion as they spoke. 

"And if we do reap the happiness of which you spoke, to whom shall weowe it, mother?" demanded Percy, feelingly; for he too, attracted by hismother's emotion, had joined the group. "Whose care, under God'sblessing, has made us as we are, and taught us, not only by precept butexample, how to conduct ourselves and our children? yours and myfather's; and if indeed in after years our children look up to us andbless us as we do you, oh, my mother, the remembrance of you will minglewith that blessedness, and render it yet purer. "

"Truly have you spoken, my son, " said Mr. Hamilton, whose littlecompanions had about half an hour before been transported to theirnursery. "While sharing with your dear mother the happiness arising fromyour conduct, my children, often and often has the remembrance of mymother entered my heart to chasten and enhance those feelings. Gratitudeto her, reverence of her memory, have mingled with the present joy, andso will it be with you. Your parents may have descended to the gravebefore your children can be to you what you have been to us, but weshall be remembered. Long, long may you feel as you think on yourmother, my beloved children, and teach your offspring to venerate hermemory, that the path of the just is indeed as a shining light, whichshineth more and more unto the perfect day. "

THE END.