"Nor is it; Sir Edward sealed, directed, and put it up for him in his own to me. They had piped all hands, as he calls it, because the pirate ship was in sight, and an engagement did take place."

"And Edward--oh, uncle, is he hurt? I am sure, he is, by your face,"

exclaimed Ellen; trembling and all the little circle looked alarmed.

"Then my face is a deceiver," replied Mr. Hamilton, quite cheerfully.

"He only received a slight flesh wound in his right arm, which prevented his using it to complete his letter, and I rather think, he would have willingly been hurt still more, to receive such praises as Sir Edward lavishes on him. Listen to what he says--'Not a boy or man on board distinguished himself more than your nephew: in fact, I am only astonished he escaped as he did, for those pirates are desperate fighters, and when we boarded them, Fortescue was in the midst of them, fighting like a young lion. Courage and gallantry are such dazzling qualities in a young lad, that we think more of them perhaps than we ought, but I can not say too much for your nephew; I have not a lad more devoted to his duty. I was glad to show him my approbation by giving him some days' liberty, when we were off New York; but I have since told him, the air of land certainly did not agree with him, for he has looked paler and thinner ever since. He is growing very fast; and altogether, if I have occasion to send another prize schooner home, I think it not improbable I shall nominate him as one of the officers, that he may have the benefit of the healthful breezes of Old England, to bring back his full strength.' There Ellen, I think that is a still better birthday-present than even Edward's own letter. I am as proud of my nephew as Sir Edward is."

"And do you think he really will come?" asked Ellen, trying to conquer her emotion.

"We will hope it, dearest," replied her aunt, kindly. "But do not think too much about it, even if Sir Edward be not able to do as he says. His own ship will be coming home in a year or two, and you owned to me yourself this morning, it did not seem as long as it really is, since our dear sailor left us; so the remaining time will soon pa.s.s. Finish your breakfast, and go, love, and enjoy his letter again to yourself."

And Ellen gladly obeyed; for it was from no imaginary cause that the receipt of Edward's letters so often paled her cheek, and parched her lip with terror. She knew that concerning him which none else but Harding did; and even when those letters imparted nothing but that which she could read to her family, the dread was quite enough to banish any thing like the elastic happiness, natural to her age, and called for by the kindness of those she loved. His letter this time, however, had not a word to call for that sickness of the heart, with which she had received it, and she read it again and again; with a thankfulness, too intense for words.

"You dropped this, Ellen dear," said the voice of her cousin Emmeline at her door, ten minutes after she left the breakfast-room. "It was under the table, and I do not think you have read it; it is the inclosure I was so amused at."

"I dare say it is a letter written for some other opportunity, and forgotten to be sent; it is only a few words," replied Ellen as she looked at its length, not at its meaning, for the fearful lesson of quiet unconcern when the heart is bursting had been too early learned.

"Then I will leave you in peace: by-the-by, cousin mine, papa told me to tell you, that as the Prince William is soon going to cruise again, your answer to Edward must be ready this day week, the latest, and mamma says, if you like to write part of it now that all Edward's little love-speeches are fresh in your mind, you can do so; it is your birthday, and you may spend it as you like. How I shall enjoy making a lion of my cousin, when he comes!"--and away tripped the happy girl, singing some wild s.n.a.t.c.h of an old ballad about sailors.

Ellen shut the door, secured it, and with a lip and cheek colorless as her robe, an eye strained and bloodshot, read the following words--few indeed!

"Ellen! I am again in that villain's power, and for a sum so trifling, that it maddens me to think I can not discharge it without again appealing to you. I had resolved never to play again--and again some demon lured me to those h.e.l.ls! If I do not pay him by my next receipts from home, he will expose me, and what then--disgrace, expulsion, _death_! for I will not survive it; there are easy means of self-destruction to a sailor, and who shall know but that he is accidentally drowned? You promised me to save part of every allowance, in case I needed it. If you would indeed save me, send me five-and-thirty pounds! Ellen! by some means, I _must_ have it; but breathe it to my uncle or aunt--for if _she_ knows it, _he_ will--and you will never see me more!"

For one long hour Ellen never moved. Her brain felt scorched, her limbs utterly powerless. Every word seemed to write itself in letters of fire on her heart and brain, till she could almost have screamed, from the dread agony; and then came the heavy weight, so often felt before, but never crushing every thought and energy as now, the seeming utter impossibility to comply with that fearfully urged demand. _He_ called it a sum so trifling, and _she_ felt a hundred, ay, a thousand pounds were not more difficult to obtain. She had saved, indeed, denying herself every little indulgence, every personal gratification, spending only what she was obliged, and yet compelled to let her aunt believe she had properly expended all, that she might have the means of sending him money when he demanded it, without exposing herself to doubt and displeasure as before; but in the eight months since his last call, she had only been enabled to put by fifteen pounds, not half the sum he needed. How was she to get the rest? and she had so buoyed herself with the fond hope, that even if he did write for help again, she could send it to him so easily--and now--her mind seemed actually to reel beneath the intense agony of these desperate words. She was too young, too believing, and too terror-stricken to doubt for a moment the alternative he placed before her, with a vividness, a desperation, of which he was unconscious himself. Those words spoken, would have been terrible, almost awful in one so young--though a brief interval would have sufficiently calmed both the hearer and the speaker, to satisfy that they were _but words_, and that self-destruction is never breathed, if really intended: but _written_, the writer at a distance, imagination at liberty, to heighten every terror, every reality; their reader a young loving girl, utterly ignorant of the world's ways and temptations, and the many errors to which youth is subject, but from which manhood may spring up unsullied; and so believing, almost crushed by the belief, that her brother, the only one, her own--respected, beloved, as he was said to be--had yet committed such faults, as would hurl him from his present position to the lowest depth of degradation, for what else could tempt him, to swear not to survive it? Was it marvel, that poor Ellen was only conscious that she must save him?--Again did her dying mother stand before her--again did her well-remembered voice beseech her to save him her darling, beautiful Edward, from disgrace and punishment--reiterate that her word was pledged, and she _must_ do it, and if she suffered--had she not done so from infancy--and what was her happiness to his? Define why it should be of less moment, indeed, she could not. It was the fatal influences of her childhood working alone.

How that day pa.s.sed, Ellen never knew. She had been too long accustomed to control, to betray her internal suffering (terror for Edward seemed to endow her with additional self command), except by a deadly paleness, which even her aunt at length remarked. It was quite evening, and the party were all scattered, when Mrs. Hamilton discovered Ellen sitting in one of the deep recesses of the windows: her work in her lap, her hands clasped tightly together, and her eyes fixed on the beautiful scenery of the park, but not seeing a single object.

"My dear Ellen, I am going to scold you, so prepare," was her aunt's lively address, as she approached and stood by her. "You need not start so guiltily and look so very terrified, but confess that you are thinking about Edward, and worrying yourself that he is not quite so strong as he was, and magnifying his wound, till you fancy it something very dreadful, when, I dare say, if the truth were told, he himself is quite proud of it; come confess, and I will only give you a very little lecture, for your excessive silliness."

Ellen looked up in her face; that kind voice, that affectionate smile, that caressing, constantly-forgiving love, would they again all be forfeited, again give way to coldness, loss of confidence, heightened displeasure? How indeed she was to act, she knew not; she only knew there must be concealment, the very antic.i.p.ation of which, seemed too terrible to bear, and she burst into an agony of tears.

"Why, Ellen--my dear child--you can not be well, to let either the accounts of your brother, or my threatened scolding, so affect you, and on your birthday, too! Why, all the old women would say it was such a bad omen, that you would be unhappy all the year round. Come, this will never do, I must lecture, in earnest, if you do not try to conquer this unusual weakness. We have much more to be thankful for, in Sir Edward's account of our dear sailor, than to cry about; he might have been seriously wounded or maimed, and what would you have felt then? I wonder if he will find as much change in you as we shall in him. If you are not quite strong and quite well, and quite happy to greet him when he comes, I shall consider my care insulted, and punish you accordingly. Still no smile. What is the matter, dearest? Are you really not well again?"

Ellen made a desperate effort, conquered her tears, and tried to converse cheerfully. It was absolute agony to hear Edward's name, but she nerved herself to do so, to acknowledge she was thinking of him; and that it _was_ very silly to worry about such a slight wound: and when Mrs. Hamilton proposed that they should walk over to Greville Manor, and tell the good news to Mrs. Greville and Mary, acquiesced with apparent pleasure.

"Ah, do, mamma: you have not asked me, but I shall go notwithstanding,"

exclaimed Emmeline, springing through the open window, with her usual airy step.

"Why, Emmeline, I thought you were going to the village with your sister!"

"No; she and Miss Harcourt were talking much too soberly to suit me this evening. Then I went to tease papa but he let me do just what I pleased, being too engrossed with some disagreeable farmers, to notice me, so in despair I came here. Why, Ellen, you look as if this were any day but what it is; unless you cry because you are getting old, which I am very often inclined to do; only think, I am sixteen next December--how dreadful! I do wish my birthday were in June."

"And what difference would that make?"

"A great deal, mamma; only look how lovely every thing is now; nature is quite juvenile, and has dressed herself in so many colors, and seems to promise so many more beauties, that, whether we will or no, we must feel gay and young; but in December, though it is very delightful in the house, it is so drear and withered, without, that if born in such a season, one must feel withered too."

"When do you intend to speak in prose, Emmeline?"

"Never, if I can help it mamma; but I must learn the lesson before I go to London, I suppose; that horrid London! that is one reason why I regret the years going so fast; I know I shall leave all my happiness here."

"You will be more ungrateful, than I believe you, if you do," replied her mother. "So pray banish such foolish fancies as fast as you can; for if you encourage them, I shall certainly suppose that it is only Oakwood you love; and that neither your father nor myself, nor any member of your family, has any part in your affections, for we shall be with you, wherever you are."

"Dear mamma, I spoke at random, forgive me," replied Emmeline, instantly self-reproached. "I am indeed the giddy brain papa calls me; but you can not tell how I love this dear old home."

"Indeed I think I can, my dear child, loving it as I do myself; but come, we shall have no time for our visit, if we do not go at once."

Days pa.s.sed, and were each followed by such sleepless feverish nights, that Ellen felt it almost a miracle, that she could so seem, so act, as to excite no notice. The image of her dying mother never left her, night or day, mingled with the horrid scene of her father's death, and Edward disgraced, expelled, and seeking death by his own hand. There was only one plan that seemed in the least feasible, and that was to send to him, or sell herself the watch she had received on her birthday, and if that was not enough, some few trinkets, which had been her mother's, and which the last six months her aunt had given into her own care. She ventured casually to inquire if there were any opportunity of sending a parcel to Edward, but the answer was in the negative, and increased her difficulty. The only person she dared even to think of so far intrusting with her deep distress and anxiety for money, but not its cause, was widow Langford, the mother of Robert (the young gentlemen's attendant, whom we have had occasion more than once to mention, and the former nurse of all Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton's children). She occupied a cottage on the outskirts of the park, and was not only a favorite with all the young party, Ellen included (for she generally came to nurse her in her many illnesses), but was regarded with the greatest confidence and affection by Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton themselves. They had endeavored to return her unwavering fidelity and active service, by taking her only child Robert into their family, when only seven; placing him under the immediate charge of Morris, the steward, and of course living in the same house, of his mother also; and when fifteen, making him personal attendant to Percy and Herbert, who were then about ten and eleven years old. An older and more experienced domestic had, however, accompanied the young men to college, and Robert remained employed in many little confidential services for his master at Oakwood.

To widow Langford, Ellen tried to resolve that she would apply, but her fearful state of mental agony had not marked the lapse of time, or had caused her to forget that her letter must be ready in a week. The party were all going a delightful excursion, and to drink tea at Greville Manor, so that they would not be home till quite late; but in the morning, Ellen, though she had dressed for going out, appeared to have every symptom of such a violent headache, that her aunt advised her remaining quietly at home, and she a.s.sented with eagerness, refusing every offer of companionship, saying if the pain went off, she could quite amuse herself, and if it continued, quietness and Ellis's nursing were the best things for her.

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

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

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

The wind was unusually high, although the day was otherwise lovely, and she was scarcely able to stand against the strong breeze, especially as every breath seemed to increase the pain in her temples; but she persisted. The nearest path lay through a thick shrubbery, almost a wood, which the family never used, and, in fact, the younger members were prohibited from taking, but secrecy and haste were all which at that moment entered Ellen's mind. She felt so exhausted by the wind blowing the branches and leaves noisily and confusedly around, that on reaching a sort of gra.s.sy glade, more open than her previous path, she sat down a minute on a mossy stone. The wind blew some withered sticks and leaves toward her, and, among them, two or three soiled pieces of thin paper, stained with damp, one of which she raised mechanically, and started up with a wild cry, and seized the others almost unconsciously.

She pressed her hands over her eyes, and her lips moved in the utterance of thanksgiving. "Saved!--Edward and myself, too!--some guardian angel must have sent them!" if not actually spoken, were so distinctly uttered in her heart, that she thought she heard them; and she retraced her steps, so swiftly--so gladly, the very pain and exhaustion were unfelt.

She wrote for half an hour intently--eagerly; though that which she wrote she knew not herself, and never could recall. She took from the secret drawer of her desk (that secret drawer which, when Percy had so laughingly showed her the secret of its spring, telling her n.o.body but himself knew it, she little thought she should have occasion so to use), some bank notes, of two, three, and five pounds each, making the fifteen she had so carefully h.o.a.rded, and placed with them the two she had found. As she did so, she discovered that two had clung so closely together that the sum was five pounds more than she wanted. Still, as acting under the influence of some spell, she carelessly put one aside, sealed up the packet to Edward, inclosed it in her uncle's to Sir Edward Manly, and dispatched it full four hours before the hour Mr. Hamilton had named. It was gone; and she sat down to breathe. Some impulse, never experienced before, urged her, instead of destroying Edward's desperate letter, as she had done similar appeals, to retain it in a blank envelop in that same secret drawer. As she tried to rouse herself from a sort of stupor which was strangely creeping over her, her eye caught the five pound note which she had not had occasion to use, and a thought of such overwhelming wretchedness rushed upon her, as effectually, for the moment, to disperse that stupor, and prostrate her in an agony of supplication before her G.o.d.

"What have I done?"--if her almost maddening thoughts could have found words, such they would have been--"How dared I appropriate that money, without one question--one thought--as to whom it could belong? Sent me?

No, no! Who could have sent it? Great G.o.d of Mercy! Oh, if Thy wrath must fall on a guilty one, pour it on me, but spare, spare my brother! I have sinned, but I meant it not--thought not of it--knew not what I did!

Thou knowest, Thou alone canst know, the only thought of that moment--the agony of this. No suffering, no wrath, can be too great for me; but, oh! spare him!"

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

Thought after thought congregated in the poor girl's mind, as she thus lay; so fraught with agony that the physical suffering, which was far more than usual, was unfelt, save in its paralyzing effect on every limb. Her impulse was to confess exactly what she had done to her aunt, the moment she should see her, and conjure her to sentence her to some heavy chastis.e.m.e.nt, that must deaden her present agony; but this was impossible without betraying Edward, and nullifying for him the relief she had sent. How could she confess the sin, without the full confession of the use to which that money had been applied? Whose were the notes?

They were stained with damp, as if they must have lain among those withered leaves some time; and yet she had heard no inquiry made about them, as the loss of so large a sum would surely have demanded. The only plan she could think of, as bringing the least hope of returning peace, was still to beseech Mrs. Langford to dispose of her watch and trinkets, and the very first mention she heard made of the loss to return the full sum to the real possessor, if possible, so secretly as for it not to be traced to herself. She thought, too, that if she gave her trinkets, one by one, not all together, to Mrs. Langford, it would be less suspicious, and, perhaps, more easily prevail on her to grant her secrecy and a.s.sistance; and if she positively refused, unless Ellen revealed the reason of her desiring their disposal, and would solemnly promise secrecy, she would tell her so much of her intense misery, as might perhaps induce her to give her aid. If she did not demand the reason and betrayed her, she must endure the doubt and serious displeasure such a course of acting on her part would inevitably produce; but two things alone stood clear before her: she _must_ replace that money--she _must_ keep Edward's secret. She would have gone that very day to Mrs.

Langford, but she could not move, and Ellis, at seven o'clock, prevailed on her to undress and go to bed.

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

CHAPTER III.

A SUMMONS AND A LOSS.

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

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

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

"No, dearest; for what was the use of tormenting you with disagreeable antic.i.p.ations, when there really might have been no foundation for them.

The last accounts from Samboe, were, as you know, received nearly two years ago, telling me that Frederic Wilson was dead, but that his son had been received as his successor in the ministry, and as civil guardian of the island, with if possible, a still greater degree of popularity than his predecessors, from his having been educated in Denmark. His parents had lived on straitened means to give him superior advantages, which, as it proves, he would have been much better without.