The Mother's Recompense, Volume 2

"You are not formed for sorrow, my poor Emmeline," she said internally, as she prepared herself for her night's visit by assuming warmer clothing. "Oh, that your grief may speedily pass away; I cannot bear to see one so formed for joy as you are grieved. My own sorrows I can bear without shrinking, without disclosing by one sign what I am internally suffering. I have been nerved from my earliest years to trial, and it would be strange indeed did I not seem as you believe me. I know not what it is to love. I know not the pang of that utter hopelessness which bows my poor cousin to the earth. Ah, Emmeline, you know not such hopelessness as mine, gloomy as are your prospects; you can claim the sympathy, the affection, the consolation, of all those who are dear to you; 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, for no such mitigation attends its loss of peace. I dare not seek for sympathy, or say I love; but why—why am I encouraging these thoughts?" and she started as if some one could have heard her scarcely-audible soliloquy. "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 of my dearest relative I dare not ask. Oh, wherefore do I feel it shame to love one so good, so superior, so holy? because, because he does not love me, save with a brother's love; and I know he loves another."

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

Emmeline had awoke from her brief and troubled slumbers, more restless and feverish than when she had first sought her couch; and, suffering as she was from that nervous and anxious state peculiar to approaching fever, 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 remaining with her, assuring her she did not feel so ill or as unhappy as she should have done had she been alone. Anxious as she was, Ellen would not arouse her aunt, but at the first break of day she softly entered the housekeeper's room, and succeeded in arousing without alarming her, informed her of Emmeline's restless state, and implored her to send at once for Mr. Maitland. Hastily rising, Ellis accompanied Ellen to her cousin's room, and instantly decided on complying with her request. The household were already on the alert, and a servant was speedily despatched; but, relieved as she was on this point, Ellen would not comply with the good housekeeper's request to repose herself for a few hours; she had resolved not to relinquish her post by the bedside of the young sufferer to any save her aunt herself. Ellis desisted, for a word from her favourite, almost her darling, as Ellen from many circumstances had become, was to her always sufficient.

Mrs. Hamilton and Mr. Maitland met at Emmeline's door, to the astonishment and at first alarm of the former—an alarm which subsided into 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 and painfully increased, and for a week her parents hung over her couch almost despairing of her recovery; their fond hearts almost breaking, as they heard her sweet voice, in the wild accent of delirious intervals, calling aloud on Arthur, and beseeching their consent and blessing to restore her to health; and scarcely less painful was it in her lucid hours to see her clasp her mother's hands repeatedly, and murmur, in a voice almost inarticulate from weakness—

"Do not be anxious or grieved for me, my own dear mamma, I shall soon get well, and be your happy Emmeline again. I cannot be miserable, when I have you and papa and Ellen to love me so tenderly," and then, she would cling to her mother's neck, and kiss her till she would sink to sleep 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 of suffering, to all who had loved her so fondly before; they had deemed it almost impossible that affection could in any way be increased, and yet it was so. Strange must be that heart which can behold a being such as Emmeline cling to it, as if its protection and its love were now all that bound her to earth, and still remain unmoved and cold. Affection is ever strengthened by dependence—dependence at least like this; and there was something peculiarly touching in Emmeline's present state of mental weakness. Her parents felt, as they gazed on her, that they had occasioned the anguish which had prostrated her on a bed of sickness; and yet their child clung to them as if, in the intensity of her affection for them, and theirs for her, she would strive to forget her unhappy love, and be once more happy.

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

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

Had her parents doubted what had weighed on Emmeline's mind, the sudden light beaming in those saddened eyes, the flush kindling on those pale cheeks, the rapid movement with which she caught her father's hand, and looked in his face, as if fearful he would deceive her, all these minute but striking circumstances must have betrayed the truth. In a voice almost inarticulate from powerful emotion, she implored him to tell her every particular, and tenderly he complied.

He had followed, he said, her advice, and confronted Nurse Langford with the unprincipled man who had dared accuse a fellow-creature of a crime in reality committed by himself, and reckless as he was, he had shrunk in guilt and shame before her accusation, which was indeed the accusation of the dying, and avowing himself the real perpetrator of the sin, offered her a large bribe for secrecy, which, as might be expected, the widow indignantly refused. It was easy to perceive, his arts had worked on the old woman, Mary's grandmother, to believe him her friend and Arthur her foe; the poor old creature's failing intellect assisted his plans, while the reports he had insidiously circulated against the unfortunate young man also confirmed his tale. Little aware that the Widow Langford had been almost a mother to the poor girl his villainy had ruined, and that she was likely to have heard the truth, being quite unconscious she had attended her dying moments, he published this falsehood, without any feeling of remorse or shame, hoping by so doing, effectually to serve his employers, effect the disgrace of Myrvin, and completely screen himself. Mrs. Langford now found it was time indeed for her to come forward and perform her promise to Emmeline by proving young Myrvin's innocence, but hesitated how to commence. She was therefore both relieved and pleased at the entrance and inquiries of Mr. Hamilton, and promised to obey his directions faithfully, only imploring him to clear Mr. Myrvin's character, and expel Farmer Jefferies from the village, which, from the time of his settling there, she said, had been one scene of anarchy and confusion; frankly avowing, in answer to a question of Mr. Hamilton, that it was for Miss Emmeline's sake she was so anxious; she was sure she was interested in Mr. Myrvin's fate, and therefore she had mentioned the unhappy fate of poor Mary Brookes, to prove to her the young man had attended to his duty. Many other startling proofs of Jefferies' evil conduct had the good widow, by silent but watchful attention, been enabled to discover, as also convincing evidence that the young curate had not been so neglectful or faulty as he had been reported. All her valuable information she now imparted to her master, to be used by him in any way his discretion might point out, promising to be ever ready at the slightest notice to prove all she had alleged. Mr. Hamilton carefully examined every circumstance, reflected for a brief period on his mode of action, and finally, assembling all the principal inhabitants around him, in the public school-room of the village, laid before them all the important facts he had collected, and besought their impartial judgment. He owned, he said, that he too had been prejudiced against Mr. Myrvin, whose life, while among them, many circumstances had combined to render unhappy, but that now, he heartily repented his injustice, for he felt convinced the greater part of what had been alleged against him was false. Those evil reports he proved had all originated from the machinations of Jefferies, and he implored them to consider whether they could still regard the words of one, against whom so much evil had now been proved, as they had formerly done, or could they really prove that their young curate had in truth been guilty of the misdemeanours with which he had been charged.

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

Nothing is more sudden and complete than changes in popular feeling. The shameful act of Jefferies, in casting on the innocent the stigma of shame and crime which was his own, was quite enough for the honest and simple villagers. At once they condemned themselves (which perhaps they might not have been quite so ready to do, had not Mr. Hamilton and their rector shown them the example), and not only defended and completely exculpated Myrvin, but in an incredibly short space of time, so many anecdotes of the young man's performance of his duty were collected, that had not Mr. Hamilton been aware of the violent nature of popular feeling, those defects which still remained, though excused by the recollection of the mental tortures Myrvin had been enduring, would undoubtedly have departed, as entirely as every darker shade on his character had done.

Convinced that Arthur's attention to parochial affairs, as well as his conduct in other matters, had been very opposite to that which had been reported, neither Mr. Howard nor Mr. Hamilton could feel satisfied till they had written to him, frankly avowing their injustice, and asking his pardon and forgetfulness of the past, and assuring him that, if his conduct continued equally worthy of approbation as it was at the present time, 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 in what manner to word it he was somewhat perplexed. He could not speak of his daughter, and yet Myrvin's conduct towards her had created a feeling of gratitude and admiration which he could not suppress. Many fathers would have felt indignation only at the young man's presumption, but Mr. Hamilton was neither so unreasonable nor so completely devoid of sympathy. It was he himself, he thought, who had acted imprudently in allowing him to associate so intimately with his daughters, not the fault 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 as he had done, when conscious that his affection was returned with all the enthusiasm and devotedness of a disposition such as Emmeline's. How few but would have played with those feelings, tortured her by persuasions to forget duty for the sake of love; but Arthur had not done this, and the father's heart swelled towards him in gratitude and esteem; even while he knew the hopelessness of his love, he felt for the anguish which his sympathy told him Arthur must endure. After more deliberation and thought than he could have believed necessary for such a simple thing as to write a letter, Mr. Hamilton did achieve his object, retaining a copy of his epistle, to prove to his child he had been earnest in his assurances that Arthur's character should be cleared. Painfully agitated by the tale she had heard, and this unexpected confidence of her father, Emmeline glanced her eye over the paper, and read as follows:—

"To the Rev. Arthur Myrvin, Hanover.

"MY DEAR MYRVIN.—You will be no doubt astonished at receiving this letter, brief as I intend it to be, from one with whom you parted in no very friendly terms, and who has, I grieve to own, given you but little reason to believe me your friend. When a man has been unjust and prejudiced, it becomes his peremptory duty, however pride may rebel, to do all in his power to atone for it by an honourable reparation, both in word 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 best to express my sense of your honourable conduct and my own injustice, which occasioned a degree of harshness in my manner towards you when we separated, which, believe me, I now recall both with regret and pain. Circumstances have transpired in the parish once under your care, which have convinced not only me, but all those still more violently prejudiced against you, that your fair fame was tarnished by the secret machinations and insidious representations of an enemy, and not by the faulty nature of your conduct; and knowing this, we most earnestly appeal to the nobleness of your nature for forgetfulness of the past, and beg you will endeavour henceforward to regard those as your sincere friends whom you have unhappily had too much reason to believe otherwise.

"For myself, my dear Myrvin, I do not doubt that you will do this, for candidly I own, that only now I have learned the true nature of your character. When I first knew you, I was interested in your welfare, as the chosen friend of my son, and also for your father's sake, now it is for your own. The different positions we occupy in life, the wide distance which circumstances place between us, will, I feel sure, prevent all misconception on your part as to my meaning, and prevent your drawing from my friendly words conclusions opposite to what I intend, therefore I do not hesitate to avow that I not only esteem, but from my heart I thank you, Myrvin, for your indulgence of those honourable feelings, that perfect integrity which bade you resign your curacy and depart from Oakwood. I did you wrong, great wrong; words can but faintly compensate injury, though words have been the weapon by which that injury has been inflicted, yet I feel confident you will not retain displeasure, natural as it was; you will consent once more to look on and appeal, if you should ever require it, to the father of Herbert as your willing friend. Believe me, that if it be in my power to assist you, you will never appeal in vain. Lord Malvern, I rejoice to find, is your staunch friend, and nothing shall be wanting on my part to render that friendship as permanent as advantageous. Mrs. Hamilton begs me to inform you, that in this communication of my feelings, I have transcribed her own. Injustice indeed she never did you; but admiration, esteem, and gratitude are inmates of her bosom as sincerely as they are of my own. Continue, my young friend, this unwavering regard to the high principles of your nature, this steady adherence to duty, spite of prejudice and wrong, if indeed they should ever again assail you, 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 ceased to read. She returned the paper to her father in that same silence, and turning from his glance, buried her face in her hands. Mr. Hamilton guessed 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; "you have 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 left the room. For about an hour she might have remained absent, and Mrs. Hamilton would not disturb her; and when she returned there was no trace of agitation, pale she was indeed, and her eye had lost its brightness, but that was too customary now to be deemed the effect of excited emotion, and no further notice was taken, save that perhaps the manner of her parents and Ellen towards her that night was even fonder than usual.

Once again Mr. Hamilton mentioned Arthur Myrvin; to speak of the pleasing and satisfactory letters both he and Mr. Howard had received from him. He addressed himself to Ellen, telling her, Arthur had written in a manner tending to satisfy even her friendly feelings towards him. Emmeline joined not in the conversation. Her father did not offer to show her the letter, and she stilled the yearnings of her young and loving heart. From that hour the name of Arthur Myrvin was never heard in the halls of Oakwood. There was no appearance of effort in the avoidance, but still it was not spoken; not even by Percy and Herbert, nor by Caroline or her husband. Even the letters of Lady Florence and Lady Emily Lyle ceased to make him their principal object. Emmeline knew the volatile nature of the latter, and therefore was not surprised that she had grown tired of the theme; that Lady Florence should so completely cease all mention of the tutor of her favourite brother was rather more strange, but she did so perhaps in her letters to Ellen, and of that Emmeline had not courage to ask. St. Eval would speak of Lord Louis, expressing hopes that he was becoming more steady; but it so chanced that, although at such times Emmeline, spite of herself, ever longed for somewhat more, the magic name that would have bidden every pulse throb never reached her ears, and her excited spirit would sink back in despondency and gloom, increased from the momentary excitement which expectation had vainly called forth.

Astonished indeed had Arthur Myrvin been at the receipt of his letters from Oakwood and the Rectory. Mr. Howard's was productive of gratification alone; that of Mr. Hamilton afforded even greater pleasure, combined with a more than equal measure of pain. He had hoped Emmeline would have answered his letter. She did not, but he knew her influence had been exercised in his favour; and agony as it was, he acknowledged she had acted wisely. There was too much devotedness in Emmeline's character for Myrvin to encourage one lingering doubt that his affections were returned; and as he thought on her steady discharge of filial duty, as he recalled their parting interview, and felt she had not wavered from the path she had pointed out, his own energies, notwithstanding that still lingering, still acute suffering, were roused within him, and he resolved he would obey her. She should see her appeal had not been made in vain; she should never blush for the man she had honoured with her love; he would endeavour to deserve her esteem, though they might never meet again. He felt he had been too much the victim of an ill-fated passion; he had by neglect in trifles encouraged the prejudice against him, lost himself active and willing friends; this should no longer be, and Myrvin devoted himself so perseveringly, so assiduously to his pupil, allowing himself scarcely any time for solitary thought, that not the keenest observer would have suspected there was that upon the young man's heart which was poisoning the buoyancy of youth, robbing life of its joy, and rendering him old before his time.

That Mr. Hamilton, the father of his Emmeline, that his feelings should have thus changed towards him, that he should admire and esteem instead of condemn, was a matter of truly heartfelt pleasure. Hope would have shook aloft her elastic wings, and carried him beyond himself, had not that letter in the same hour dashed to the earth his soaring fancy, and placed the seal upon his doom. He could not be mistaken; Mr. Hamilton knew all that had passed between him and Emmeline, and while he expressed his gratitude for the integrity and forbearance he (Myrvin) had displayed, he as clearly said their love was hopeless, their union never could take place.

Myrvin had known this before, then why did his heart sink in even deeper, darker despondency as he read? why were his efforts at cheerfulness so painful, so unavailing? He knew not and yet struggled on, but weeks, ay, months rolled by, and yet that pang remained unconquered 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 of her father's friends, might still have deemed her so; but alas! a mother's love strove vainly thus to be deceived. Health returned, and with it appeared to come her wonted enthusiasm, her animated spirits. Not once did she give way to depression; hers was not that pining submission which is more pain to behold than decided opposition, that resignation which has its foundation in pride, not in humility, as its possessors suppose. Emmeline's submission was none of these. Her duties as daughter and sister and friend, as well as those to the neighbouring poor, were, if possible, more actively and perseveringly performed than they had even been before. Not one of her former favourite employments was thrown aside. The complete unselfishness of her nature was more clearly visible than ever, and was it strange that she became dearer than ever to those with whom she lived? Her parents felt she was twining herself more and more around their hearts, and beheld, with inexpressible anguish, that though her young mind was so strong, her fragile frame was too weak to support the constant struggle. She never complained; there was no outward failing of health, but there was a nameless something hovering round her, which even her doting parents could not define, but which they felt too forcibly to shake off; and notwithstanding every effort to expel the idea, that nameless something brought with it alarm—alarm defined indeed too clearly; but of which even to each other they could not speak.

Time passed, and Herbert Hamilton, as the period of his ordination was rapidly approaching, lost many of those painfully foreboding feelings which for the last three years had so constantly and painfully assailed him. He felt stronger in health than he had ever remembered to have done, and the spirit of cheerfulness, and hope, and joy breathing in the letters of his Mary affected him with the same unalloyed feelings of anticipated happiness; sensations of holiness, of chastened thanksgiving pervaded his every thought, the inward struggle appeared passed. There was a calm upon his young spirit, so soothing and so blessed, that the future rose before him unsullied by a cloud; anticipation was so bright, it seemed a foretaste of that glorious heaven, the goal to which he and his Mary looked—the home they sought together.