The Mother's Recompense, Volume 1

The Viscount for some little time endeavoured mildly to confute her arguments, and convince her that in doing so, she was only forming her own misery; but still she pleaded, and ungoverned fury at length burst forth. He had been too long the victim of passions always to keep them in bounds, even when most required; and for a few minutes they spurned restraint, and Caroline beheld him as he was, and saw in dim perspective the blackened future. She would have broken from him, but he detained her, and with a rapid transition of mood humbled himself before her, and with impassioned fervour and deep contrition besought her forgiveness, her pity. It was his fervid love, his fear of losing her, that bade him thus forget himself, and he conjured her not to condemn him to everlasting misery; that he was wretched enough already at having caused her one moment's pain. He spoke, and his softened voice, his imploring eyes, his protestations of unalterable love and gratitude, if she would but trust to his affections, and be his own as he proposed, had in a degree their effect. She was convinced it would only bring forth misery now to implore the sanction and blessing of her parents, and promised to resign all idea of so doing. But vainly she strove to forget that burst of ungoverned passion she had witnessed; it haunted her sleeping and waking thoughts, and his protestations of devoted love were dimmed beside it, they shared its blackened hue.

The appointed day came, and the Duchess, without question or remark, accepted Caroline's excuse for not accompanying her and her friends to the expected fête. The heavy eyes and pale cheeks of the misguided girl were more than sufficient excuse; she even seconded Caroline in refusing the kind offer of Lady Annie and Lady Lucy Melville to remain with her. She said she preferred being quite alone, as she was no companion for any one, and it appeared as if not even that obstacle would arise to prevent her flight.

The hours wore on; the noble guests could speak of nothing but the anticipated fête and its attendant pleasures, while they whiled away the intervening hours in the library, the music-room, the garden, wherever their taste dictated, for freedom was ever the password of Airslie; but Caroline joined them not. It was the second day that she had not seen the Viscount; for, fearing to attract notice, he had never made his visits unusually frequent, and well versed in intrigue, he had carried on his intercourse with Caroline in impenetrable secrecy. More than once in those lonely hours did she feel as if her brain reeled, and become confused, for she could not banish thought. She had that morning received letters from home, and in her present mood each line breathed affection, which her now awakened conscience told her was undeserved. Nature and reason had resumed their sway, as if to add their tortures to the anguish of those hours. The misery which had been her portion, since her acceptance of Lord Alphingham, had slowly but surely drawn the blinding film from her eyes. The light of reason had broke upon them with a lustre that would no more be darkened. At the same moment that she knew she did not love Lord Alphingham, her conduct to her parents, to St. Eval, appeared in their true colours. Yes! this was no fancy, she had been the victim of infatuation, of excitement; but clearer and clearer dawned the truth. She was sacrificing herself to one whom she did not love, whom she had never loved, with whom her life would be a dreary waste; and for this was she about to break the ties of nature, fly from her parents, perhaps draw down upon her head their curse, or, what she now felt would be worse, much worse, wring that mother's heart with anguish, whose conduct, now that reason had resumed her throne, she was convinced had been ever guided by the dictates of affection. She recalled with vivid clearness her every interview with Annie, and she saw with bitter self-reproach her own blindness and folly, in thus sacrificing her own judgment to false reasoning, in withdrawing her confidence and affection from the mother who had never once deceived her, to bestow them on one who had played upon her foolish weakness, heightened her scarcely-dawning fancy till it became infatuation, and finally recommended that plan of conduct from which Caroline's whole soul revolted. Why had she done this? Caroline felt, to bring down shame upon her head and suffering on her mother. Her parents' conduct changed towards her—oh! had not hers changed to them? had she not acted from the first of Annie's arrival in London as if under the influence of some spell? and now that it was rudely broken, recollections of the past mingled with and heightened her present sufferings. Her childhood, her early youth rushed like a torrent on her mind; faulty as they had been, they were innocent and pure compared with her present self. Then she had been ever actuated by truth, candour, respectful love, affectionate confidence towards her parents; now all had been cast aside. If her mother's words were true, and bitterly she felt they were, that her conduct to St. Eval had been one continued falsehood, what would her parents feel when her intercourse with Lord Alphingham was discovered. Lord Alphingham—she shuddered as his name rose to her lips. Her heart yearned with passionate intensity towards her mother, to hear her voice in blessing, to see her beaming smile, and feel her kiss of approbation, such as at Oakwood she had so often received: she longed in utter wretchedness for them. That night she was wilfully to cast them off for ever, flee as a criminal from all she loved; and if she could return home, confess all, would that confiding love ever be hers again? She shrunk in trembling terror from her father's sternness, her mother's look of woe, struggling with severity, the coldness, the displeasure she would excite—on all sides she beheld but misery; but to fly with Lord Alphingham, to bind herself for ever with one, whom every passing hour told her she did not, could not love—oh, all, all, even death itself, were preferable to that! The words of her brother sounded incessantly in her ears: "If you value my sister's future peace, let her be withdrawn from his society." How did she know that those words were wholly without foundation? the countenance of the Viscount as he had alluded to them confirmed them to her now awakened eye. Was she about to wed herself to crime? She remembered the perfect justness, the unwavering charity of her father, and in those softened moments she felt assured he would not have condemned him without good cause. Why, oh, why had she thus committed herself? where was she to turn for succour? where look for aid to guard her from the fate she had woven for herself? Where, in her childish faults, had her mother taught her to seek for assistance and forgiveness? Dare she address her Maker, the God whom, in those months of infatuated blindness, she had deserted; Him, whom her deception towards her parents had offended, for she had trampled on His holy laws, she had honoured them not?

The hour of seven chimed; three hours more, and her fate was irrevocably sealed—the God of her youth profaned; for could she ever address Him again when the wife of Alphingham? from whose lips no word of religion ever came, whose most simple action had lately evinced contempt for its forms and restrictions. The beloved guardians of her infant years, the tender friends of her youth insulted, lowered by her conduct in the estimation of the world, liable to reproach; their very devotion for so many years to their children condemned, ridiculed. An inseparable bar placed between her and the hand-in-hand companions of her youth; never again should she kneel with them around their parents, and with them share the fond impressive blessing. Oakwood and its attendant innocence and joys, had they passed away for ever? She thought on the anguish that had been her mother's, when in her childhood she had sinned, and what was she now about to inflict? She saw her bowed down in the depth of misery; she heard her agonized prayer for mercy on her child.

"Saviour of my mother, for her sake, have mercy on her unworthy child! oh, save me from myself, restore me to my mother!" and sinking on her knees, the wretched girl buried her face in her hands, and minutes, which to her appeared like hours, rolled on in that wild burst of repentant and remorseful agony.

CHAPTER VII

"Dearest mother, this is indeed like some of Oakwood's happy hours," exclaimed Emmeline, that same evening, as with childish glee she had placed herself at her mother's feet, and raised her laughing eyes to her face, with an expression of fond confiding love.

She and Ellen were sitting alone with Mrs. Hamilton, Miss Harcourt being engaged at a friend's, and Mr. Hamilton having been summoned after dinner to a private interview with his solicitor on the Myrvin affairs.

The lovely evening was slowly wearing on to twilight, and the sky, shadowed as it was by the towering mansions of Berkeley Square, yet bore all the rich hues which had attended the repose of a brilliant setting sun. The balcony of the drawing-room where they were sitting was filled with, flowers, and the window being thrown widely open, the gentle breeze of summer filled the room with their sweet fragrance. It was that hour of evening when even London is somewhat hushed. Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton had been more at home since Caroline's visit to Airslie, but yet not one evening had so vividly reminded Emmeline of her dear Oakwood as the present; it was thus in twilight she had often sought her mother, and given vent, by a thousand little innocent devices, to the warm emotions that filled her heart.

Ellen had been standing by the flowers, but on hearing her cousin's exclamation, she too had established herself on the couch by her aunt, and added—

"You are right, dear Emmeline; it is indeed."

There was an anxiety on Mrs. Hamilton's heart, which she could not define; but was yet unable to resist the innocent happiness of her young companions, and twining her arm playfully round Ellen, she abandoned her other hand to Emmeline, and answered—

"I am very glad, my dear children, that such a simple thing as my company can afford you so much pleasure."

"It is so very rare now to have you thus all alone, mamma, can it be otherwise than delight? I do not even want papa yet, we three make such a comfortable party."

"You are exceedingly polite to my uncle, Emmeline. I have a good mind to tell him when he rejoins us," said Ellen, laughing.

"Do so, my mischievous cousin, and I shall get a kiss for your pains. I know where mamma's thoughts are, though she is trying to be as merry as we are; she wants another to make this Oakwood hour complete."

"I ought not to wish for your sister, my love, she is happier where she is than she would be here, particularly to-night, for Lord D— gives a splendid fête at his beautiful villa, similar to that given by the Duchess ten days ago at which I should think Caroline must have been delighted, though she wrote but little of it."

"There is a tone in her letters, mamma, that tells me she will be as pleased as ourselves to be at Oakwood again, though, she may fancy fêtes, assemblies, and a long list of et ceteras, are the most delightful things in existence; and do you know, mamma, I will not permit you to say you ought not to wish for her, because she is happier where she is than she would be here; it is high treason in my presence to say or even think so."

"I must plead guilty, then, my Emmeline, and place my case in Ellen's hands as counsel for the defendant, or throw myself on your mercy."

"In consideration of the peculiar happiness of this evening, I pronounce pardon," answered Emmeline, laughing, as she kissed her mother's hand.

"A letter we received this morning tells us of one who longs to behold us all again, spite of the many and varied pleasures of his exciting life, does it not, my dear aunt?"

"It does indeed, my love. Our Edward's letters have been, ever since he left us, sources of consolation and delight to me, though I do excite my Ellen's jealousy at the greater length of his letters to me than of those to her," she added, smiling.

"My brother knows if his letters to you impart pleasure and satisfaction, he cannot bestow greater happiness on me, however short mine may be," answered Ellen, earnestly; "and when he writes so fully to you and so fondly to me, I have every reason to be quite contented; his time is not so much at his own disposal as mine is."

"I wonder where he can find time to write such lengthy epistles to mamma," observed the smiling Emmeline. "I peeped over her shoulder this morning as she was reading, and was astounded to perceive it was written nearly as closely as mine would be. I wonder how he manages, sailors are said to be such bad correspondents."

"Have you forgotten what I used so repeatedly to say to you, when you were a lazy little girl, Emmeline, and were ever ready to escape disagreeable tasks, by saying you were quite sure you never could succeed—Where there's a will there's a way?'"

"Indeed, I have not forgotten it, dear mamma; it often comes across me now, when I am ready to despair; and so I shall just read it to Master Ned when he returns, as a lecture for not writing to me."

"Nay, Emmeline, that would be demanding too much from our young sailor; there is moderation in everything, you know."

"Not in me, mamma," answered Emmeline, laughing. "You know I am always in extremes, up in the skies one minute, and down, down on the lowest earth the next. I sometimes wish I was like Ellen, always unruffled, always calm and collected. You will go through the world better than I shall, my quiet cousin."

"Shall I?" replied Ellen, faintly smiling. But Mrs. Hamilton could perceive that which the thoughtless Emmeline regarded not, a deep crimson staining apparently with pain the pale fair cheek of her niece, and she thought not with her daughter.

"And how much longer does Ned intend being away from us?" demanded Emmeline, after a long pause.

"He cannot give us any idea yet," answered her mother; "perhaps some time next year. They were to cruise off the shores of South America these autumnal months, and winter, Edward thinks, off Buenos Ayres. He is pleased at this, as he will see so very much more of the New World than he expected, when he left us.'"

"What an entertaining companion he will be when he returns," exclaimed Emmeline.

"Or rather ought to be, Emmeline," remarked Ellen, quietly.

"Now, what an insinuation! Ellen, you are too bad to-night, and against your brother, of all persons in the world. It is just like the ill compliment you paid him on his gallantry in saving the Syren and all her crew—absolutely would not believe that your brother Edward and the young hero of my tale were one and the same person."

"I can forgive her scepticism then," said Mrs. Hamilton, affectionately. "The extraordinary efforts you described were indeed almost beyond credence, when known to have been those of a lad but just seventeen; but I hope my Ellen is no longer a sceptic as to the future fame and honour of her brother," she added, kindly addressing her niece.

"Oh, I dare not indulge in one half the bright visions, the fond hopes that will intrude themselves upon my mind for him," exclaimed Ellen, with involuntary energy.

"Why, Ellen, are you sometimes a victim to the freaks of imagination as well as myself?" asked her cousin, laughing.

"I have frequently compelled myself to seek active employment," answered Ellen, "lest those hopes should be indeed but fading visions, and my disappointment more painfully bitter."

"You do your brother injustice in even fancying disappointment," said her aunt, playfully, "and I must act as defendant for the absent. I believe, say, and protest my firm belief, that the name of Edward Fortescue will stand one of the highest in naval fame, both as a commander and a man. The naval honour of my family will, I feel assured, have a worthy representative in my noble nephew, and I will not have one word breathed in doubt or mistrust on the subject."

"If you think so, then I may hope indeed," Ellen said with earnestness.

"And the recollection of the past"—

"Must heighten anticipations for the future, my dear girl, or I must sentence them to perpetual banishment. Condemn them never to be recalled," interrupted Mrs. Hamilton, still more playfully, and then added—

"Emmeline, have you no wish to know how the object of your kind sympathy, poor Lilla, parted from her father and me to day?"

"I quite forgot all about it, mamma; this Oakwood hour has made me so selfish. I thought of no one but ourselves," replied Emmeline. "Gratify my curiosity now. Did Lady Helen evince any sorrow at the separation?"

"Not so much as, for Lilla's sake, I could have wished. She has been so unfortunately prejudiced against her both by Annie and Miss Malison, that although I am convinced she loves her child, she never will evince any proof of it; and Lilla's unhappy temperament has, of course, increased this prejudice, which I fear will require years to remove, unless Annie be soon married, and Miss Malison removed from Lady Helen's establishment. Then Lilla's really excellent qualities will quickly be made evident."

"Mr. Grahame is already convinced she is a very different girl to that she has been represented, is he not?" asked Ellen.

"He is; and I trust, from the awakened knowledge, happiness is dawning upon them both. I could not see unmoved his struggle to part with her to-day, brief as the separation will be—scarcely six short months."

"I was quite sure Mr. Grahame loved his children, though Annie and Cecil did say so much about his sternness," said Emmeline, somewhat triumphantly.

"Mr. Grahame's feelings are naturally the very wannest, but disappointment in some of his dearest hopes has, in some cases, unfortunately caused him to veil them; I regret this, both for Cecil and Lilla's sake, as I think, had he evinced greater interest and affection for them in their childish years, they might both have been different in character."

"But it is not too late now?"

"I trust not for Lilla, but I greatly fear, from all I have heard, that Cecil's character is already formed. Terrified at his father's harshness, he has always shrunk from the idea of making him his friend, and has associated only with the young men of his mother's family, who, some few years older than himself, and devoted to fashion, and gay amusements, are not the very best companions he could have selected, but whose near relationship seems to have prevented all interference on the part of Mr. Grahame. Cecil must now be sixteen, and I fear no alteration in his father's conduct will efface the impressions already received."

"But, changed as Mr. Grahame is towards Lilla, was it still necessary for her to go to Mrs. Douglas? Could not her reformation have been effected equally well at home?"

"No, my love; her father delighted at finding he had engaged her affections, and that some of the representations he had heard were false, would, in all probability, have gone to the contrary extreme, and indulged her as much, if not more, than he had previously neglected her. Lilla has very many faults, which require steady yet not harsh correction, and which from her earliest age demanded the greatest care; being neglected, they have strengthened with her years. The discipline she will now be under will at first be irksome, and perhaps Lilla may find all I have said in Mrs. Douglas's favour very contrary to reality; but I have such a good opinion of her docility, when reasoned with kindly, that I do not doubt all such impressions will be effaced when she visits us at Christmas."

"Well, however kind Mrs. Douglas may be, I should not like to be in Lilla's place," observed Emmeline, and then added, with her usual animation, "Ah, mamma, how can we ever be sufficiently grateful to you for never sending us from you? I might have loved you very dearly, but I could not have looked upon you as my best and dearest friend, as I do now."

"It is sufficient recompense for all my care that you do look on me thus, my sweet child," exclaimed Mrs. Hamilton, with involuntary emotion, and she bent down to impress a kiss on Emmeline's forehead as she spoke, that she might conceal an unusual tear which had started to her eye, for the unrestrained confidence and unabated affection of her younger daughter, while it soothed, yet rendered the conduct of Caroline by its contrast more painful; and, almost unconsciously, she added—

"Oh, that this confidence and affection may never change, never be withdrawn."

"Change!" repeated Emmeline and Ellen at the same moment; but they checked themselves, for they knew where the thoughts of their much-loved relative had wandered, and they felt she had indeed sufficient cause for all her solicitude. Recovering herself almost instantly, Mrs. Hamilton resumed the conversation in a more cheerful tone, by demanding of Emmeline if her busy fancy had pictured how Oakwood was to look, on their return to it in a fortnight's time.

"She certainly must have done so," answered Ellen, laughing; "for she has had so many reveries over her drawing and work this week, that nothing less important could have occasioned them."

Emmeline shook her head archly, and answered gaily; and her dear old venerable home was the engrossing theme of conversation till the return of Mr. Hamilton, a short time afterwards.

"Congratulate me, all of you," he said, in a joyous tone; "my business is proceeding most favourably. Mr. Myrvin need know nothing about it till all is settled; the dishonourable conduct of his enemies brought to light, and himself reinstated in his little domain, once more the minister of Llangwillan. Thanks to the able conduct of Mr. Allan, all will soon be made clear. As soon as we are at Oakwood, Ellen, you shall write to Mr. Myrvin, and invite him to spend some little time with us; and when he leaves us, I trust it will be once more for Llangwillan and its own pretty vicarage."

"Dear, dear uncle!" exclaimed Ellen, starting up and clinging to his arm, "oh, how can I thank you for your interference in behalf of him who was the first friend I knew in England? the consoler of my mother—the"—

"The good man who first told us what a troublesome charge I should find in my niece," interrupted Mrs. Hamilton, playfully.

"I have indeed been a trouble to you," replied Ellen, with a suppressed yet heavy sigh, and her uncle's hand dropped from her grasp.

"Ellen!" said Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton at the same instant, in an accent of reproach.

"Have I not?" she continued, with unusual impetuosity. "Did I not cause you misery, you, who from the first moment you knew me, loved mo more than I deserved? Did I not make both of you ill in health and wretched in mind, and yet your kindness now is greater than before? There is not a wish—not a desire I express, but is granted on the instant; and I—oh, I have no power to—to"—

"You will, at least, have the power of making me seriously displeased if you speak in this way again, and thus turn my sportive words to gloom," said Mrs. Hamilton, gravely, but gently drawing the agitated girl with tenderness to her. "Come, come, Ellen, I will not have Emmeline's happy Oakwood hour thus alloyed. You may reward me yet for all, and one day, perhaps, make me your debtor. That may appear very impossible now," she added, smiling, as Ellen raised her large eyes incredulously to her face; "but more improbable things have come to pass."

"And where is Arthur to be while his father is with us?" demanded Emmeline, joyously, of her father. "Not as a servitor at college, I hope."

"No; I anticipate the pleasure of welcoming the friend of Herbert as my guest as well as his father, and then we shall deliberate on Arthur's future life. I should like much to place him under Mr. Howard for a year, and then establish him in a living of Lord Malvern's, in which I have little doubt I could succeed."

"Well, my fancy then will indeed be gratified. I shall see this proud persecuted youth, and judge for myself if he be deserving or not of my brother's friendship. Do you remember him, Ellen?"

"Perfectly well; he was so very kind to me. I well recollect his grief when I left the village, to live, he said, in such a very different style, that it was not likely we should ever meet again."

"But yet, you see, improbable as it appeared, you will meet again," said Mrs. Hamilton in a marked tone, as she smiled.