The Mother's Recompense, Volume 2

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

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

"Pray let it go no farther, then, my dear uncle," said Ellen, very earnestly, as her needle fell from her hand, and she turned her eyes beseechingly on her uncle's face. "I thank Mr. Lacy for the high opinion he must have of me in making me this offer, but indeed I cannot accept it. Do not, by your consent, let him encourage hopes which must end in disappointment."

"My approbation I cannot withdraw, Ellen, for most sincerely do I esteem the young man; and there are few whom I would so gladly behold united to my family as himself. Why do you so positively refuse to hear him? You may not know him sufficiently now, I grant you, to love him, yet believe me, the more you know him the more will you find in him both to esteem and love."

"I do not doubt it, my dear uncle. He is one among the young men who visit here whom I most highly esteem, and I should be sorry to lose his friendship by the refusal of his hand."

"But why not allow him to plead for himself? You are not one of those romantic beings, Ellen, who often refuse an excellent offer, because they imagine they are not violently in love."

"Pray do not condemn me as such, my dear uncle; indeed, it is not the case. Mr. Lacy, the little I know of him, appears to possess every virtue calculated to make an excellent husband. I know no fault to which I can bring forward any objection; but"—

"But what, my dear niece? Surely, you are not afraid of speaking freely before your aunt and myself?"

"No, uncle; but I have little to say except that I have no wish to marry; that it would be more pain to leave you and my aunt than marriage could 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, my dear 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 with me in wishing to behold our gentle Ellen the wife of one so universally beloved 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 too attentively observing the fluctuation of Ellen's countenance; but now her tone was such as to check the forced smile with which her niece had tried to reply to Mr. Hamilton's suggestion of becoming old and irritable, and bring the painfully-checked tears back to her eyes, too powerfully to be restrained. She tried to retain her calmness, but the effort was vain, and springing from her seat, she flew to the couch where her aunt sat, and kneeling by her side, buried her face on her shoulder, 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 I could wish for in a husband; precious, indeed, would be his love to any girl who could return it, but not to me; oh, not to one who can give him nothing 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, while her 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 of you? Speak, then, my dear girl, without reserve; who has so secretly gained your young affections, that for his sake every other offer is rejected?"

Ellen raised her head and looked mournfully in her uncle's face. She tried to obey, but voice for the moment failed.

"My love is given to the dead" she murmured at length, clasping her aunt's hands in hers, the words slowly falling from her parched lips; then added, hurriedly, "oh, do not reprove my weakness, I thought my secret never would have passed my lips in life, but wherefore should I hide it now? It is no sin to love the dead, though had he lived, never would I have ceased to struggle till this wild pang was conquered, till calmly I could have beheld him happy with the wife of his choice, of his love. Oh, condemn me not for loving one who never thought of me save as a sister; one whom I knew from his boyhood loved another. None on earth can tell how I have struggled to subdue myself. I knew not my own heart till it was too late to school it into apathy. He has gone, but while my heart still clings to Herbert only, oh, can I give my hand unto another?"

"Herbert!" burst from Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton at the same instant, and Ellen, turning from their glance, hid her flushing and paling cheek in her hands; for a moment there was silence, and then Mrs. Hamilton drew the agitated girl closer to her, and murmuring, in a tone of intense feeling, "my poor, poor Ellen!" mingled a mother's tears with those of her niece. Mr. Hamilton looked on them both with extreme emotion; his mind's eye rapidly glanced over the past, and in an instant he saw what a heavy load of suffering must have been his niece's portion from the first moment she awoke to the consciousness of her ill-fated love; and how had she borne it? so uncomplainingly, so cheerfully, that no one could suspect that inward sorrow. When cheering himself and his wife under their deep affliction, it was with her own heart breaking all the while. When inciting Herbert to exertion, during that painful trial occasioned by his Mary's letter, when doing everything in her power to secure his happiness, what must have been her own feelings? Yes, in very truth she had loved, loved with all the purity, the self-devotedness of woman; and Mr. Hamilton felt that which at the moment he could not speak. He raised his niece from the ground, where she still knelt beside her aunt, folded her to his bosom, kissed her tearful cheek, and placing her in Mrs. Hamilton's arms, hastily left the room.

The same thoughts had likewise occupied the mind of her aunt, as Ellen still seemed to cling to her for support and comfort; but they were mingled with a sensation almost amounting to self-reproach at her own blindness in not earlier discovering the truth. Why not imagine Ellen's affections fixed on Herbert as on Arthur Myrvin? both were equally probable. She could now well understand Ellen's agitation when Herbert's engagement with Mary was published, when he performed the marriage ceremony for Arthur and Emmeline; and when Mrs. Hamilton recalled how completely Ellen had appeared to forget herself, in devotedness to her; how, instead of weakly sinking beneath her severe trials, she had borne up through all, had suppressed her own suffering to alleviate those of others, was it strange, that admiration and respect should mingle with the love she bore her? that from that hour Ellen appeared dearer to her aunt than she had ever done before? Nor was it only on this account her affection increased. For the sake of her beloved son it was that her niece refused to marry; for love of him, even though he had departed, her heart rejected every other love; and the fond mother unconsciously felt soothed, consoled. It seemed a tribute to the memory of her sainted boy, that he was thus beloved, and she who had thus loved him—oh, was there not some new and precious link between them?

It was some time before either could give vent in words to the feelings that swelled within. Ellen's tears fell fast and unrestrainedly on the bosom of her aunt, who sought not to check them, for she knew how blessed 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 torturing secret was revealed; she might weep now without restraint, and never more would her conduct appear mysterious either to her aunt or uncle. They now knew it was no caprice that bade her refuse every offer of marriage that was made her. How that treasured secret had escaped her she knew not; she had been carried on by an impulse she could neither resist nor understand. At the first, a sensation of shame had overpowered her, that she could thus have given words to an unrequited affection; but ere long, the gentle soothing of her aunt caused that painful feeling to pass away. Consoling, indeed, was the voice of sympathy on a subject which to another ear had never been disclosed. It was some little time ere she could conquer her extreme agitation, her overcharged heart released from its rigorous restraint, appeared to spurn all effort of control; but after that day no violent emotion disturbed the calm serenity that resumed its sway. Never again was the subject alluded to in that little family circle, but the whole conduct of her aunt and uncle evinced they felt for and with their Ellen; confidence increased between them, and after the first few days, the orphan's life was more calmly happy than it had been for many a long year.

The return of Lord St. Eval's family to England, and their meeting with Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton, was attended with some alloy. Caroline and her parents had not met since the death of Herbert, and that affliction appeared at the first moment recalled in all its bitterness. The presence of a comparative stranger, as was Miss Manvers, did much towards calming the excited feelings of each, and the exertions of Lord St. Eval and Ellen restored composure and cheerfulness sooner than they could 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 remaining scion of Mrs. Hamilton's own family, and she felt pleased that by her union with Percy the families of Manvers and Hamilton would be yet more closely connected. She had regretted much, at a former time, the extinction of the line of Delmont; for she had recalled those visions of her girlhood, when she had looked to her brother to support the ancient line, and gilding it with naval honours, bid it stand forth as it had done some centuries before. Mrs. Hamilton had but little of what is termed family pride, but these feelings were associated with the brother whom she had so dearly loved, and whose loss she so painfully deplored.

The season of Christmas passed more cheerfully than Ellen had dared to hope. The scene was entirely changed; never before had they passed a Christmas anywhere but at Oakwood, and that simple circumstance prevented the void in that domestic circle from being so sadly felt. That Herbert was in the thoughts of all his family, that it was an effort for them to retain the cheerfulness which in them was ever the characteristic of the season, we will not deny, but affliction took not from the calm beauty which ever rested round Mr. Hamilton's hearth. All appeared as if an even more hallowed and mellowed light was cast around them; for it displayed, even more powerfully than when unalloyed prosperity was their portion, the true beauty of the religious character. Herbert and Mary were not lost to them; they were but removed to another sphere, that eternal Home, to which all who loved them looked with an eye of faith.

Sir George Wilmot was the only guest at Richmond during the Christmas season, but so long had he been a friend of the family and of Lord Delmont's, when Mrs. Hamilton was a mere child, that he could scarcely be looked on in the light of a mere guest. The kind old man had sorrowed deeply for Herbert's death, had felt himself attracted even more irresistibly to his friends in their sorrow than even in their joy, and so constantly had he been invited to make his stay at Mr. Hamilton's residence, wherever that might be, that he often declared he had now no other home. The tale of Edward's peril interested him much; he would make Ellen repeat it over and over again, and admire the daring rashness which urged the young sailor not to defer his return to his commander, even though a storm was threatening around him; and when Mr. Hamilton related the story of Ellen's fortitude in bearing as she did this painful suspense, the old man would conceal his admiration of his young friend under a joke, and laughingly protest she was as fitted to be a gallant sailor as her noble brother.

On the character of the young heir of Oakwood the death of his brother appeared to have made an impression, which neither time nor circumstances could efface. He was not outwardly sad, but his volatile nature appeared departed. He was no longer the same wild, boisterous youth, ever on the look-out for some change, some new diversion or practical joke, which had been his characteristics while Herbert lived. A species of quiet dignity was now his own, combined with a devotedness to his parents, which before had never been so distinctly visible. He had ever loved them, ever sought their happiness, their wishes in preference to his own. Herbert himself had not surpassed him in filial love and reverence, but now, though his feelings were the same, their expression was different; cheerful and animated he still was, but the ringing laugh which had so often echoed through the halls of Oakwood had gone. It seemed as if the death of a brother so beloved, had suddenly transformed Percy Hamilton from the wild and thoughtless pleasure-seeking, joke-loving lad into the calm and serious man. To the eyes of his family, opposite as the brothers in youth had been, there were now many points of Herbert's character reflected upon Percy, and dearer than ever he became; and the love which had been excited in the gentle heart of Louisa Manvers by the wild spirits, the animation, the harmless recklessness, the freedom of thought and word, which had characterised Percy, when she first knew him, was purified and heightened by the calm dignity, the more serious thought, the solid qualities of the virtuous and honourable man.

Lieutenant Fortescue was now daily expected in England, much to the delight of his family and Sir George Wilmot, who declared he should have no peace till he was introduced to the preserver of his gallant boy, as he chose to call Edward. Lieutenant Mordaunt; he never heard of such a name, and he was quite sure he had never been a youngster in his cockpit. "What does he mean by saying he knows me, that he sailed with me, when a mid? he must be some impostor, Mistress Nell, take my word for it," Sir George would laughingly say, and vow vengeance on Ellen, for daring to doubt the excellence of his memory; as she one day ventured to hint that it was so very many years, it was quite impossible Sir George could remember the names of all the middies under him. It was much more probable, Sir George would retort, that slavery had bewildered the poor man's understanding, and that he fancied he was acquainted with the first English names he heard.

"Never mind, Nell, he has been a slave, poor fellow, so we will not treat him as an impostor, the first moment he reaches his native land," was the general conclusion of the old Admiral's jokes, as each day increased his impatience for Edward's return.

He was gratified at length, and as generally happens, when least expected, for protesting he would not be impatient any more, he amused himself by setting little Lord Lyle on his knee, and was so amused by the child's playful prattle and joyous laugh, that he forgot to watch at the window, which was his general post. Ellen was busily engaged in nursing Caroline's babe, now about six months old.

"Give me Mary, Ellen," said the young Earl, entering the room, with pleasure visibly impressed on his features. "You will have somebody else to kiss in a moment, and unless you can bear joy as composedly as you can 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, unless you 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 the young father caught his child from Ellen's trembling hands, and dancing her 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's beating heart. It was an agitating moment, for it seemed to Ellen's excited fancy that Edward was indeed restored to her from the dead, he had not merely returned from a long and dangerous voyage. The young sailor, as he released her from his embrace, looked with an uncontrolled impulse round the room. All were not there he loved; he did not miss Emmeline, but Herbert—oh, his gentle voice was not heard amongst the many that crowded round to greet him. He looked on his aunt, her deep mourning robe, he thought her paler, thinner than he had ever seen her before, and the impetuous young man could not be restrained, he flung himself within her extended arms, and burst into tears.

Mr. Hamilton hastened towards them. "Our beloved Herbert is happy," he said, solemnly, as he wrung his nephew's hands. "Let us not mourn for him now, Edward, but rather rejoice, as were he amongst us he would do, gratefully rejoice that the same gracious hand which removed him in love to a brighter world was stretched over you in your hour of peril, and preserved you to those who so dearly love you. You, too, we might for a time have lost, my beloved Edward. Shall we not rejoice that you are spared us? Emmeline, my own Emmeline, think on the blessings still surrounding us."

His impressive words had their effect on both his agitated auditors. Edward gently withdrew himself from the detaining arms of his aunt; he pressed a long, lingering kiss upon her cheek, and hastily conquering his emotion, clasped Sir George Wilmot's extended hand, after a few minutes' 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 burst of 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 either speech 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 sustain her, and therefore on her it had not weighed so heavily; and years had neither bent that graceful figure, nor robbed her features of their bloom. Hers had never been extraordinary beauty, it had been the expression only, which was ever the charm in her, an expression of purity of thought and deed, of gentle unassuming piety. Time cannot triumph over that beauty which is reflected from the soul; and Mordaunt gazed on her till he could scarcely restrain himself from rushing forward, and clasping her to his bosom, proclaim aloud who and what he was; but he did command himself, though his limbs trembled under him, and he was thankful that as yet he was unobserved. He looked on the blooming family around him—they were children, and yet to them he was as the dead; and now would she indeed remember him? Edward suddenly recalled the presence of his friend, and springing towards him, with an exclamation of regret at his neglect, instantly attracted the attention of all, and Mordaunt suddenly found himself the centre of a group, who were listening with much interest to Edward's animated account of all he owed him, a recital which Mordaunt vainly endeavoured to suppress, by declaring he had done nothing worth speaking of. Mrs. Hamilton joined her husband in welcoming the stranger, with that grace and kindness so peculiarly 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, the colour so completely faded from Mordaunt's sunburnt cheek, that Edward, declaring he was ill and exhausted by the exertions he had made from the first moment of their landing at Portsmouth, entreated him to retire to the 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—long since English faces and English hearts have thus blessed me, and would you bid me leave them, my young friend?"

His mournful voice thrilled to Mrs. Hamilton's heart, as he laid his hand appealingly on Edward's arm.

"Not for worlds," replied the young sailor, cheerfully. "Sir George Wilmot, 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 had withdrawn his attention from Edward, and he now replied somewhat gravely—

"Of the name of Mordaunt I have no recollection as being borne by any youngsters on board my ship, but those features seem strangely familiar to 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 convince you I have been on board your ship. Was there not one amongst us in the cockpit, a young lad whom you ever treated with distinguished favour, whom, however unworthy, you ever held up to his comrades as a pattern of all that was excellent in a seaman and a youth, whom you ever loved and treated as a son? I was near him when he flung himself in the sea, with a sword in his mouth, and entering the enemy's ship by one of the cabin-windows, fought his way to the quarter-deck, and hauling down the French standard, retained his post till relieved by his comrades; and when the fight was over, hung back and gave to others the meed of praise you were so eager to bestow. Have you forgotten this, Sir George?"

"No!" replied the Admiral, with sudden animation. "Often have I recalled that day, one amongst the many in which my Charles distinguished himself."

"And you told him he would rise to eminence ere many years had passed—the name of Delmont would rival that of Nelson ere his career had run."

The old Admiral looked on the stranger with increased astonishment and agitation.

"Delmont! you knew my brother, then, Lieutenant Mordaunt," Mrs. Hamilton could not refrain from saying. "Many, many years have passed, yet tell me when you saw him last."

"I was with him in his last voyage, lady," replied the stranger, in a low and peculiar voice, for it was evidently an effort to retain his calmness. Six-and-twenty years have gone by since the Leander left the coasts of England never to return; six-and-twenty years since I set foot in my native land."

"And did all indeed perish, save yourself? Were you alone saved? saw you my brother after the vessel sunk?" inquired Mrs. Hamilton, hurriedly, laying her trembling hand on the stranger's arm, scarcely conscious of what she did. "He too might be spared even as yourself; but oh, death were preferable to lingering on his years in slavery."

"Alas! my Emmeline, wherefore indulge in such fallacious hope?" said her husband, tenderly, for he saw she was excessively agitated.

"Mrs. Hamilton," said Sir George Wilmot, earnestly, speaking at the same moment, "Emmeline, child of my best, my earliest friend, look on those features, look well; do you not know them? six-and-twenty years have done their work, yet surely not sufficiently to conceal him from your eyes. Have you not seen that flashing eye, that curling lip before? look well ere you decide."

"Lady, Charles Manvers lives!" murmured the stranger, in the voice of one whom strong emotion deprived of utterance, and he pushed from his brow the hair which thickly clustered there and in part concealed the natural expression of his features, and gazed on her face. A gleam of sunshine at this instant threw a sudden glow upon his countenance, and Mr. Hamilton started forward, and an exclamation of astonishment, of pleasure escaped his lips, but Mrs. Hamilton's eyes moved not from the stranger's face.

"Emmeline, my sister, my own sister, will you not know me? can you not believe that Charles is spared?" he exclaimed, in a tone of excited feeling.