Aguilar_The_Mothers_Recompense.txt topic ['13', '324', '378', '393']
CHAPTER I.
From Emmeline Hamilton to Mary Grevine.
London, January, 18.
At length, dearest Mary, I may write to you ; at length in-
dulge my long-controlled wishes. My conscience has given me
permission now, though I once thought I never could again.
We parted in August, and it is now January; and except
during our little tour, you have not had one line from me, but
very many more than one from Caroline and Ellen. I used to
wrong them, but I am glad I adhered to mamma's advice and
my resolution, painful as it has been ; for it did seem hard that
I, who consider myself even more my dear Mary's own friend,
should not address you when my sister and cousin did. And
now to explain this riddle, for though mamma has excused my
silence to you, I am quite sure she has not told you the real
trutL She would not expose my silly weakness, and therefore
prepare yourself for a most humiliating confession, which will,
in all probability, lower me ten degrees in your estimation.
However, truth must be told, and so it shall be, with all the
necessary regularity and precision. You know, almost better
than any one else, how very much I disliked the thought of
leaving dear happy Oakwood, and residing any part of the year
in London. You often used to warn me, when I have thus
spoken, against permitting such fancies to obtain too much
dominion ; but I did not follow your advice, dear Mary, but
indulged them till, of course, they became so heightened that
the last month of our sojourn at Oakwood was embittered by
the anticipation. I saw you thought me foolish, and I knew
thai mamma and papa's plans could not be altered to please my
fancy, and that my confessed distaste to them would give pain
to both : therefore, I concealed my dislike, but instead of doing
nil I could to conquer it, encouraged every gloomy anticipation
to the very utmost. I found, during our delightful tour through
khe south of England, I could enjoy myself, Wt a\SV \\l^
1
2 THE mother's recompense.
thoughts of London, and masters, and strangers, and the fancj
our style of living would be so different in the metropolis tc
what it was at Oakwood, and that I should not see nearly as
much of mamma, all chose to come, like terrifying spectres, tc
scare away the present pleasure.
We visited Oxford, although completely out of our way, in
order that we might see the residence of my brothers. There
Percy's wild mirth and eloquent descriptions partly banished
my ill-humor, but, as I neared London, all my fancied evile
returned to me again. When we first arrived, which was in
September, this huge city was, comparatively speaking, a desert :
for all the fashionables were out ruralizing. Mamma was not.
I believe, sorry for this, for she wished us to have full six oi
seven months' hard study before she entered at all into society.
Ellen and I, of course, will have more, but Caroline is to make
her regular entree in March or April, and therefore must be
drilled accordingly. First-rate masters were instantly engaged :
indeed papa had written to many before we arrived, that nq
time should be lost, and as almost all their pupils were from
London, we had the choice of hours, which was very agreeable,
although at that time I did not feel inclined to think any thing
agreeable, being accustomed to no instruction save that bestowed
by Miss Harcourt and mamma ; professors of music, drawing.
French, Italian, German (which Caroline is seized with a violent
fancy to acquire, and which I design to learn, because I should
like to read Klopstock in the original,) and even what I term
a lady professor of embroidery, which Caroline has succeeded
in tormenting mamma to let her have entre ncnis, it is only
because she has taught Annie Grahame; all these, my deai
Mary, presented a most formidable array, and for the firsi
month I did not choose to profit by their instructions in the
least. I gave full vent to all the dislike I felt to them. ]
encouraged indolence to a degree that frequently occasioned a
reproof from Miss Harcourt. I could not bear their mode oi
teaching ; the attention so many things required was in my
present state a most painful exertion, and 1 almost made an
inward determination to show mamma that all her endeavors
were lost on me. I would not learn when every thing was so
changed. Do not throw away my letter in despair of yom
friend, dearest Mary ; only read to the end, and perhaps my
character may be in some measure redeemed. There was a
weight on my spirits I could not, because I would not, remove.
I became ill-tempered and petulant without cause; before papa
THE mother's RECOBfPENSE.
and mamma I tried to restrain it, but did not always saocecd.
Percy and Herbert both spoke to me on this unwarrantable
change ; and I think almost for the first time in my life I saw
Percy seriously angry with me, for I had even shown my irri-
tation at his interference. I told him I had a right to act and
feel as I pleased. Herbert looked sorry, and desisted in his
reasonings when he found I would not listen. Percy's endent
irritation and the reproaches of my own conscience added net
a little to my uncomfortable feelings, as you may suppose. I
looked back to what I had been at Oakwood, and the contract
of my past and present self really gave me much cause for
misery. It was just before my brothers returned to college I
wrote to you a long, very long letter, in which I gave more
than enough vent to my silly, I should say, sinful feelings.
Several hours I had employed in its composition, and to obtain
these, neglected my exercises, etc., for my masters, and caused
more than one for several days to make a formal complaint of
my indolence and carelessness to Miss Harcourt. Her re-
monstrances, I am ashamed to confess, only had the effect of
increasing my ill-temper. Well ; I concluded at length my
epistle to you, which, had you received it, would have been a
trial of patience indeed ; for it consisted of ten or twelve
closely-written pages, in which I had so magnified my feelings
of discontent and unhappiness, that any one must have fancied
I had not one single blessing left. I was folding and preparing
to seal it, when mamma entered my room. I must tell you
that as yet I had not one reproof from her lips, though I am
quite sure I deserved it long before ; I used to see her look
very grieved at any burst of petulance from me, but she had
never spoken on the subject. I almost trembled when she
appeared, for I knew that morning Miss Harcourt had said she
must inform her of Mons. Deville and Signer Eozzi's continued
complaints. Without entering on that subject, however, she
sat down by me, and with one of her own sweet smiles, which
reproached me a great deal more than words, she asked me if
I really were going to seal and send that long letter of con-
fidence to you without having shown or told any part of it to
her. She might well ask, dear Mary, for I had never written
a line before which I had kept from her ; but my conscience
told me she would not, could not approve of this, and therefore
I certainly did wish I could hate sent it without telling her
any thing about it. What deceit, too ! I hear you exclaim.
Yes, dear Mary; and before this tale of shame iaoN^T^-^ow
4 THE mother's recompense.
will see still more clearly how one fault makes many. I did
not answer her question, but remained sulkily silent.
^ Will my Emmeline think me a harsh intruder on her private
thoughts, if I say I cannot. let this letter go till I have seen
at least some parts of its contents?" she said very mildly, but
so firmly I had no power to resist her ; and when she asked if
I would not, as I always did, read her some portions, I answered
pettishly, if she read any she might as well read all. ^he
looked deeply grieved, and my heart painfully smote me the
moment the words were said ; but I was too proud at that
moment to show any marks of contrition, and all the time she
was reading I continued working myself up to increased
ill-humor.
" Are you indeed so. very unhappy, my dear Emmeline ?"
were the only words mamma said, as she laid down the last
sheet and looked in my face, with a tear trembling in her eye.
I turned away, for I felt too irritated and cross to give way to
the emotion I always feel when I see her grieved, and I was
determined not to answer. " And do you prefer," she continu-
ed, " seeking the sympathy of a young girl like yourself to that
of a mother, who has always endeavored not only to sympathize
with, but to soothe the sorrows of her children ?" Still I would
not answer, and she added, mildly, " Do you not think, Emme-
line, Mary would have been better pleased if you had written
to her rather in a lighter strain? do you not think, if you were
to try and shake ojff these painful fancies, you could write an-
other and less desponding letter- one that I might give you
my full and free permission to send, which, sorry as I am to
say it, I cannot with this ?"
Mild as were her words and manner, the import of what
she said put the finishing stroke to my ill-temper. " If I may
not write as I like, I will not write at all," I passionately ex-
claimed, and seizing the sheet nearest to me tore it asunder,
and would havejiWne the same with the rest, had not mamma
gently laid her hand on my arm, uttering my name in an accent
of surprise and sorrow; my irritable and sinful feelings found
vent in a most violent flood of tears.
Will you not think, dearest Mary, I am writing of Caroline,
and not of myself? does it not resemble the sceres of my sister*s
childhood ? Can you believe that this is an account of your
Emmeline, whose sweetness of temper and gentleness of dispo-
sition you have so often extolled ? But it was I who thus forgot
myself I, who once believe'd nothing ever could make me pas-
THE mother's recompense. 5
rionate or angry ; and in one minnte I was both had excited
myself till I became so even against my nature, and with whom?
even my mother, my kind, devoted mother, who has ever
done so much for me, whom in my childhood, when I knew her
worth much less than I do now, I had never caused to shod a
tear. Oh, Mary, I cannot tell you what I felt the moment
those passionate words escaped me. I may truly say I did not
cry from anger, but from the most bitter, the most painful self-
reproach. I think her usual penetration must have discovered
this, for if she had thought my tears were really those of passion,
she would not, could not have acted as she did.
She drew me gently to her, and kissed me without speak-
ing. I threw my arms round her neck, and in a voice almost
choked by sobs, implored her again and again to forgive me :
that I did not mean to answer her so disrespectfully that 1
knew I had become a very wicked girl, but, that I really did
feel very unhappy. For a few minutes she was silent, and I
could see was struggling to suppress the tears my unusual con-
duct had occasioned. I will make no apology, dearest Mary,
for entering on such minute details; for I know how you love my
mother, and that every word she says is almost as precious to you
as to her own children quite it cannot be ; and I give you this
account also, that you may know me as I am, and not imagine
I am so free from faults as I know you once believed me. Oh,
\7hen I have looked back on that day, I have felt so painfully
humiliated, I would gladly banish the recollection ; but it is
better for me to remember it, lest I should fancy myself better
than I am. Every word she said in that gentle and persuasive
tone was engraved upon my heart, even as she spoke. She
easily and fidly convinced me of my sinfulness in thus permit-
ting imaginary evils to make me so miserable : for that they were
but imaginary it was easy to discover. Not a single blessing
could I say I had lost. AH I loved were around me, in health
and happiness every comfort of life was the same ; and could
it be possible, mamma said, that the mere departure from a
favorite residence, and only for a few months, could render me
80 completely blind to the many blessings my Heavenly Father
bad scattered around me ? As she spoke, a film appeared re-
moved from my eyes, anS the enormity of my conduct stood for
the first time in its true colors before me. I saw I knew how
sinful I had been ; and bitterly I regretted that I had not con
fessed every feeling to mamma, instead of hiding them, as I
bad done, in my own heart, and brooding on them till it became
I
6 THE mother's REOOMFENSE.
a kind of pleasure to do so, and till fancied evils produced real
ones. I wept bitterly while she spoke, for to find how complete-
ly I had created misery for myself was no agreeable matter of
reflection, and my remorse was heightened when mamma said,
" You have disappointed us not a little, my dear Emmeline ; for
I will no longer conceal from you, that the little tour we took
on our way to London was originally planned by your father
and myself, to reconcile you to a change of residence. We saw
how much you regretted leaving Oakwood ; nor did we wonder
at it, for such feelings were most natural to one of your dispo-
sition ; and therefore, instead of travelling direct, and suddenly
changing the scenes of our beautiful Devonshire for the con-
finement of this huge city, we hoped by visiting various places,
and giving you new objects of reflection, to lessen your regret,
and make the change of residence less painfully abrupt." As
well as I could, I expressed my sorrow and repentance, and
promised to use every endeavor to atone for the past, and be-
come all that she and papa wished me.
" I believe you, my own Emmeline," my kind mother said,
as she again kissed me, and her voice was no longer so sorrow-
fully grave as it had been at first. " I am sure, now you knew
all the pain you were inflicting on both your parents, every eflfort
will be put in force to remove it." Did I deserve this speech,
dear Mary ? I do not think I did ; for I often saw by mammals
countenance I had grieved her, and yet made no eflfort to con-
trol myself, and so I told her. She smiled her own sweet,
dear smile of approbation, and thanking me for any candor,
said
'' If I say that by indulging in these gloomy fancies and
appearing discontented, and repining when so many blessings
are around you, my Emmeline will be doing her mother a real
injury, by rendering my character questionable, not only in the
eyes of the world, but of my most valued friends, will she not
do all in her power to become her own light-hearted self again ?"
" Injuring your character, dearest mother I" I exclaimed,
with much surprise ; " in what manner ?"
" I will tell you, my love," she replied ; " there are many,
not only of my acquaintances, but my friends, those whose
opinions T really value, who believe I have been acting very
wrongly all these years, in never having permitted you and
Caroline to visit London. They think by this strict retirement
I have quite unfitted you both for the station your rank demands
you should fill. That by constantly living alone with us, and
THE MOTHE&'S RECOMPENSE. 7
never mingling in society, you have imbibed notions that, to
Bay the least, may be old-fashioned and romantic, and which
will make you both feel uncomfortable when you are introduced
in London. These fears never entered my mind ; I wished
you to receive ideas that were somewhat different to the
generality of Fashion's dictates, and I did not doubt but that
the uncomfortable feeling, against which the letters of my
friends often warned me, would very quickly be removed. But
lince we have been here ^I do not wish to grieve you more,
*ny dear Emmeline I must confess your conduct has been
productive to me of the most painful self-reproach. I thought,
indeed, my friends were right, and that for years I had been
acting on an injudicious plan, and that instead of my measures
tending to future happiness, they were only productive of pain
and misery, which, had I done as other mothers of my station,
might have been avoided."
^' Oh ! do not, pray do not think so," I exclaimed, for she
had spoken so sorrowfully, I could not bear it. " I formed my
own misery, dearest mother ; you had nothing to do with it."
" You think so now, my love," she answered, with her usual
fondness; ^^but if my friends see you gloomy and sad, and
evidently discontented, longing for pleasures which are not
offered to you in London, only dwelling on visions of the past,
and notions tending to the indulgence of romance, what will
they think? will not my judgment be called in question ? And
more, they know how very much I prefer a country to a London
life, domestic pleasures, to those of society; and they mav
imagine, and with some probability, that to indulge my selfish
wishes, I have disregarded the real interests of my children."
" They cannot, they will not think so," I passionately said
" They can never have known you, who ^m such conclusions."
Would you not have agreed with me, dear Mary, and can you
not fancy the wretchedness mamma's words inflicted ?
" My love," she replied, with a smile, " they will not fancy
they do not know me ; they will rather imagine they must have
been deceived in their opinion ; that I am not what I may have
appeared to them some few years ago. The character of r
mother, my Emmeline, is frequently judged of by the conduct
)f her children ; and such conclusions are generally correct,
though, of course, as there are exceptions to every rule, there
are to this, and many a mother may have been unjustly in-
jured in the estimation of the world, by the thoughtless oi
criminal conduct of a wilful and disobedient child. ' I hav
8 THE mother's recompense.
been so completely a stranger to London society the last six'
teen years, that my character and conduct depend more upon
you and Caroline to be raised or lowered in the estimation of
my friends and also of the world, than on any of the yonng
people with whom you may mingle. On which, then, will
my Emmeline decide, to indulge in these gloomy fancies,
and render herself ill both in health and temper, as well as
exposing her mother to censure and suspicion; or will she,
spite of the exertion and pain it may occasion, shake off this
lethargy, recall all her natural j^nimation and cheerfulness,
and mih. her own bright smile restore gladness to the hearts
of her parents ?"
I could not speak in answer to this appeal, dear Mary, but
I clung weeping to mammals neck. I never till that m:)ment
knew all my responsibility, how much depended on my con-
duct ; but at that moment I inwardly vowed that never, never
should my conduct injure that dear devoted mother, who
endeavored so fondly to soothe my grief, and check my bitter
tears ; who had done so much for me, who had devoted herself
so completely to her children. Mentally I resolved that noth-
ing should be wanting on my part to render her character as
exalted in the eyes of the world as it was in mine. I could
not bear to think how ungratefully I had acted, and I cried
till I made my head and mamma's heart ache ; but I could not
long resist her fond caresses, her encouraging words, and before
she left me I could even smile.
" And what am I to say," she said, with her usual playful-
ness, " of the sad complaints that I have received the last few
days from Miss Harcourt, that she does not know what has
come to you, from IV^ns. Deville and Signor E.ozzi ? Now
what am I to say or to do to prove that this Mademoiselle Em-
meline does like Italian, and is not ill, as our polite pro-
fessors fancy ? must I lecture as I did when she was an idle
little girl, and liked her play better than her studies ? Sup-
pose these gentlemen are asked, which in all probability they
certainly are, what sort of pupils Mrs. Hamilton's daughters
are ; they ought to be something out of the way, for we hear she
has instructed them principally herself. What answer will be
given, what conclusions drawn, if you do not exert yourself
and prove that you can learn as well, when you like, as your
sister, and even quicker than your cousin ?*'
I felt so ashamed, dearest Mary, that I concealed my face
on her shoulder, and would not even look np to promise
THE MOTHEK^S RECOMPENSE. 9
unendment^ for I felt I was not certain of myself; but when
mamma spoke of my letter to yon, and asked me if I still wished
to send it, or if I would not write another, I made a desperate
effort, and answered as well as I could
^' I will not write again to Mary, dear mamma, till I have
conquered all these silly and sinful feelings, and can write as
usual ; and to be quite sure of myself, that I may not break
my resolution, I promise you that for six months I will not
give myself the pleasure of addressing her, and if even at the
end of that time you do not think I have sufficiently recoverea
my senses, which certainly appear to have deserted me, you
shall increase at your will my time of probation ; I deserve
some privation for my ungrateful conduct, and the not writing
to Mary now is the greatest I can think of" I tried to ap-
riar very heroic as I made tliis speech, but with all my efforts
completely failed. Mamma looked at me a moment in sur-
prise, but then, with more than usual fondness, she strained
me to her heart, and I felt a tear fall on my cheek.
" My own sweet child, my darling Emmeline !" she ex
elaimed, '*I did not expect this offered sacrifice, but I will
accept it, my own love, and let its pain be soothed to your
affectionate heart by the knowledge that in making it, yon
have given me the purest, most delicious sense of pleasure
you coud bestow. We will not say six months," she added,
more playfully, "we will see what the middle or end of
January brings. You will then still have nearly four months
to redeem your character. I have not the slightest doubt that
even before that period my Emmeline will be herself" Oh,
Mary, I felt so very happy as she thus spoke, that I thought
I must find it very easy to conquer myself, but I was mistaken,
painfully mistaken ; I had encouraged despondency and gloom
for so long a period, that it required every exertion, in the ^
very least, to subdue it. I had chosen to waste my time, and
be inattentive to all the means of improvement which were
offered me, and to command my attention sufficiently to re-
gain the good opinion of our sage professors was most dis-
agreeably difficult ; but I was no longer afraid to encounter
mamma's sorrowful or reproving glance, as I had been before,
and her fond encouragement and the marks of approval which
both she and papa bestowed, when I could not but feel I had
done little to deserve them, lightened the labor of my task, and
by causing me to wish earnestly to deserve their kindness, in
cremsed my efforts ; and at length, dearest Mary, these miser
\
10 THB MOTHB&*S RB00MPENS1L
ftble feelings so completely departed from me, that I was sur-
prised to perceive how very nearly I could be as happy in Lon*
don as at dear Oakwood ; quite as happy is imposible, because
I feel more and more how very much I prefer a quiet domestic
iife in the country to London and sooiety. You will perhaps
smile, as mamma does, and say I am not introduced yet, and
then I may change my mind ; but I do not think I shall. She
prefers the country, so it will not be very strange if I should ;
but when I see how completely, and yet how cheerfully she has
given up her favorite residence and employments, for the inter-
ists and happiness of her children, I feel ashamed at the egre-
jious selfishness which has been mine. Oh, Mary, when shall
t ever be like mamma 1 when can I ever be worthy of half,
Aay, one quarter of that respectful admiration which is be-
stowed upon her, even by those whose principles and conduct
4re directly opposite 1
In her conversations with me she had spoken more of the
^pinion of the world than she ever did at Oakwood, and one
ttay venturing to notice it, as being contrary to that which
Hue so carefully instilled, that to God and our conscience we
suould alone be answerable for our conduct, she answered with
a smile
" I have been long expecting this remark, my dear Emme-
line, and I have endeavored to be prepared with an answer.
To our Father in Heaven and to our own conscience we must
still look for our guide in life ; that not in one thing must we
transgress the love and duty we owe our Maker, or disregard
the warning or reproaches of our hearts ; but still, mingling
in the world as it is undoubtedly our duty to do ^for as I have
often told you, we do not live for ourselves, but for others
we must have due regard in minor things to the opinions of
those with whom we associate. When a woman has once set
up for an Independent, when, scorning the opinion of the
world, she walks forth conscious in her own integrity and vir-
tue, though no stain may have sullied her conduct or name,
though she may be innately amiable and good, yet every gen-
tle femaie will shrink from such a character, and tremble lest
they should become like her. Women are dependent beings ;
In Infinite Wisdom it was thus ordained, and why should we
endeavor to be otherwise ? When once we set up a standard
for ourselves, we have thrown aside our surest safeguard, and
exposed ourselves to censure and suspicion. When the ordi-,
aances of society do not interfere with the higher principle of
THE mother's recompense. 11
our liyes, thej should be obeyed, and in doing so we are fol*
lowing up the dictates of true religion, by doing our duty as
members of a community, as children of one common Father,
which, if we stand selfishly apart, we cannot do. I speak more
of the opinion of the world," mamma then continued, " to you
than either to your sister or your cousin. Caroline I would
rather check in her perhaps too great regard for admiration ;
and Ellen is at present too young, and in much too delicate
health, to go out with me as much as you will, even before you
are what is termed introduced: besides which, her natural
reserve and timidity banish all fears on that account for her.
But for you, Emmeline, I do sometimes feel fearful that, in the
indulgence of uncontrolled feeling, you will forget you are not
quite such an independent being as you were at Oakwood.
Many of your ideas are quite contrary to those generally en-
tertained by several with whom you may associate; and I
sometimes dread that by their unchecked expression, or the
avowed determination never to think as your companions do-
that you hate such confined ideas, or some such thing, which,"
and she smiled, " if I know my Emmeline rightly, is not at all
unlikely you may be exposing yourself to suspicion and dis-
like. I feel quite sure you never will wilfully offend, or that
you will really deserve such censure ; all I wish is, that you
will be a little more guarded and controlled in your intercourse
with strangers here, than you ever were in the happy halls of
Oakwood."
I did not answer, my dear Mary ; for I do not know why,
but there was something in her words that caused my eyes to
fill with tears. I think it was because it seemed such a pain-
ful task to maintain such a continued control over my words
and feelings, and mamma as usual divined the cause of my
sadness even before I could define it myself
" Do not look so very sad, my sweet girl," she said so fond-
ly, that like a simpleton I cried the more. " I do not wish to
see you changed, however different you may be to others. I do
not wish to chill one feeling in this affectionate little heart,
nor check one burst of enthusiasm. Your character has been
and is too great a source of unalloyed pleasure to your mother,
my Emmeliie ; it would be misery indeed to see it in any way
changed, though I do preach control so very much," she conti-
nued, more playfully, but with that same fond affection which,
while it made me cry, appeared to soothe every painful emo-
tion, " We shall not always be in society, Emmeline ; coma
12 THE mother's B.E00MFEN8B.
to me SB of old, and tell me every thought and feeling, and all
that has given you pain or pleasure. With me, dearest, there
must be no control, no reserve ; if there be the least appear*
ance of either, you will inflict more pain on my heart than
from your infancy you have ever done, for I shall think my
own counsels have alienated from me the confidence of my
chUd."
I never shall forget the impressive sadness with which she
spoke these words, dearest Mary, and clinging to her, I de-
clared and with truth, as long as I might speak and think and
feel without control when with her, I would be all, all she
wished in society that I never could be unhappy, and to be
reserved with her, I felt sure I never, never oould. She em-
braced me with the utmost tenderness, and banished all my
remaining sadness by the earnest assurance that she believed
me.
What a long letter have I written to you, my dearest
friend; will you not say I have atoned for my long silence?
If I have not atoned to you, I have at least gratified myself ;
for you know not how very often I longed, after such conver-
sations as I have recounted, to sit down and write them all to
you, as I had promised, when I could no longer tell in speech
all my kind mother's instructions.
I do not make any apology for writing so much of her and
myself, for I know to you it is unnecessary. I tried to write
all she said, that you may benefit by it likewise, and in doing
so I assure you I give you the sincerest proof of my affection ;
for to no one but my own Mary have I thus related the pre-
cious conversations I had alone with mamma. I know no one
but you whom I deem worthy of them. How I wish in return
you could solve a riddle for me. Why do I fear mamma so
much, when I love her so very dearly % When I do or even
think any thing that my conscience tells me is wrong, or at
least not right, I absolutely tremble when I meet her eye,
though she may know nothing for which to condemn me. I
have never heard her voice in anger, but its sorrowful tones
are far more terrible. I think sometimes if I had been in
Ellen's place eighteen months ago, I should have been as ill
from fear alone, as she was from a variety of emotions, poor
girl. Yet why should I feel thus? Caroline does not even
understand me when I speak of such an emotion. She says
she is always very sorry when she has displeased mamma ; but
f^ar is to her unknown ^we two certainly are complete oppo
THE mother's &ECOMPENSE. 13
riiett. I think Ellen's character resembles mine much more
than my sister's does. But you will like to know how my tim
of probation is thus shortened. For I should have kept my
resolution and waited the six months, pain as it was, but one
day about a week ago, mamma chanced to enter our study at
the very instant that the poor man who so politely believed
Mademoiselle Emmeline was too ill to appreciate his lessons
was praising me up to the skies for my progress ; that same
day Signer Bozzi had informed mamma, with all the enthusiasm
of his nation, that he was delighted to teach a young lady who
took such pleasure in the study of poetry, and so capable of
appreciating the beauties of the Italian poets. "In truth,
madam," he said, " she should be a poet herself, and the Tem-
ple of the Muses graced with her presence." There's for you,
Mary ! But jokes apart, I do love Italian ; it is, it must be the
natural language of poetry ; the sentiments are so exquisitely
lovely, the language, the words, as if framed to receive them
music dwells in every line. JPetrarch, Tasso, Dante, all are
open to me now, and I luxuriate even in the anticipation of the
last, ^but now I am digressing: That night mamma followed
me to my room as I retired to bed, and smiling, almost laugh-
ing, at the half terror my countenance expressed, for I fancied
she had come to reprove the wild spirits I had indulged in
throughout the day, she said, "Is not this little head half
turned with the flattery it has received to-day ?"
" No," I instantly replied. " It is only the approbation of
one or two that can put me in any danger of such a misfor-
tune."
" Indeed," she answered, again smiling ; " I fancied it was
the fine speeches you had been hearing to-day that had excited
such high spirits, but I am glad it is not; otherwise, I might
have hesitated to express what I came here to do ^my appro-
bation of my Emmeline's conduct the last few months."
I felt my color rising to my very temples, dear Mary, for I
did not expect this, but I endeavored to conceal all I felt by
seizing her hand, and imploring her. in a serio-comic, semi-
tragic tone, not to praise me, for she and papa were the two
whose praises would have the ejQfect on me she feared.
^ But you must endeavor to keep your head steady now,"
she continued, " because papa sends a packet to Oakwood next
week, and a long letter for Mary from my Emmeline must
accompany it ; her patience, I think, must be very nearly ex-
hausted, and I know if you once begin to write, a frank will
14 THE mother's B^COMPENSE.
not ooniAm all you will haye to say, will it?'' she added, with
an arch but such a dear smile.
All my high spirits seemed for the moment to desert me,
and I could not answer her, except to cover her hand with
kisses. I have told you what she said in the way of reproof
and advice, my dear Mary, but I cannot coolly write all she
said as encouragement and praise ; it was much more than I
deserved, and all, therefore, that I can do, is to continue my
endeavors to feel one day rather more to merit it. I have
risen every morning an hour earlier, that I might tell you all
I wished without encroaching on my allotted hours of study ;
for I hope you will not imagine I have written all this in one
or two, or even three sittings ; and now do I not deserve a let-
ter almost as long from you 7 If you do not thus reward me,
dread my vengeance, and write soon, for I long to have a letter
from you ; of you I have heard often but of and from, though
they may be both brothers of the family of the prepositions,
are very dijfferent in meaning. I have not written one word of
Caroline or Ellen. Am I not incurably egotistical? The
former declares she is sure you will Lave no time to, read a
letter from her, with such a volume as mine, and Ellen says
she has no time by this opportunity. I told her she ought to
get up as I did, she blushed, looked confused enough to awa-
ken my attention, and then said she supposed she was too lazy ;
and now I really must say farewell. Mind you write all con-
cerning yourself and your dear mother, to whom present my
very loving respects, and as for yourself, dear Mary, let this
long letter prove the sincere affection and perfect confidence
of your giddy friend, Emmeline.
P. S. No young lady can write without a postscript. Mamma
has absolutely had the patience to read through my letter, and
except that she said so much of her was certainly needless, she
approves of it almost as much as she disapproved of my other,
which she has just compelled me to read. What a tissue of
absurdity it contained, ^worse, it is sinfuL I have had the
pleasure of burning it, and I hope and trust all my silly repi-
nings are burnt with it. Once more, adieu. E. H.
IVom ildfrs. Hamilton to Miss Greviik.
I cannot, my dear Mary, suffer Emmeline's long letter to
be forwarded to you without a few lines from me, to remove
all lingering fears which you may perhaps have had, that I
do not approve of your correspondence. Believe me, my
THE mother's bjboompensb. 15
dear girl, that to see yon the chosen friend of mj giddj but
warmhearted Emmeline is still, as it has ever been from jour
diildhood, a source of real pleasure both to Mr. Hamilton
and myself Female friendships are, I know, often regarded
with contempt, not only by men, but frequently by the sterner
principles of our own sex; they are deemed connections of
folly ; that the long letters which pass between young ladies
set down by the world as intimate friends, are but relations
of all the petty incidents they may hear or see. Such letters
are also considered tending to weaken the mind and produce
false sensibility, by the terms of affection they force into their
service the magnified expression of momentary and fleeting
emotions. That such may sometimes be the xenor of some
young people's correspondence, I do not pretend to deny, and
when that is the case, and such letters are treasured up in
secret and requested to be burnt, lest any eyes save those for
whom they are intended should chance to encounter them,
then, indeed, I too might disapprove of similar intimacies,
and it was to prevent this I would not permit Emmeline to
send the first letter to which she has alluded. Every feelins
was magnified and distorted, till you must have fancied ^had
not the real cause been told ^that some very serious evil had
happened, or was impending over her. I did not in the least
doubt but that you would have used all your influence to com-
bat with and conquer this sinful repining ; but still I thought
your very replies might have called forth renewed ebullitions
of sensibility, and thus in the frame of mind which she was then
indulging, your hinted reproaches, however gentle, might have
been turned and twisted into a decay of friendship or some
such display of sensitiveness, which would certainly have re-
moved your afleetion and injured herself When, therefore,
she so frankly acknowledged her error, and oflered to sacrifice
the pleasure I knew it Vas to write to you, I accepted it, spite
of the pain which I saw she felt, and which to inflict on her,
you may believe gave her, and now I certainly feel rewarded
for all the self-denial we both practised. Emmeline is again
the same happy girl she was at Oakwood, although I can per-
ceive there is nothing, or at best but very little here, that can
oompensate for the rural pleasures she has left. I do not won-
der at this, for in such feelings I trace those which, from my
girlhood, were my own. I hope, therefore, my dear young
friend, that nothing in future will check your intercourse with
Emmeline, but that your correspondence may long continue
16 THE mother's EEOOHFENSE
sonroe of pleasure to both of you. I love to see the perfect
oonfidence with which Emmeline has written, it proves she re-
gards you as you deserve to be regarded, as indeed her friend,
not her companion in frivolity and sentiment ; and believe me,
you may thus have it in your power to improve and strengthen
ner perhaps rather too yielding character. The manner in
which, through the mercy of our compassionate God, you have
been enabled, young as you are, to bear your trials, which
are indeed severe, has inspired her with a respect for your
character, which the trifling difference in your ages might
otherwise have prevented, and therefore your letters will be
received with more than ordinary interest, and your good ex-
ample, my dear girl, may do much towards teaching her to bear
those evils of life from which we cannot expect her to be ex-
empt, with the same patient resignation that characterizes yoa
Write to her, therefore, as often as you feel inclined, and do
not, I beg, suppress the thoughts her candid letter may have
produced. I will not ask you to read her confession charitably,
for I know you will, and I assure you she has completely re-
deemed her fault. The struggle was a very severe one to sub-
due the depression she had encouraged so long ; but she has
nobly conquered, and I do not fear such feelings of discontent
ever agairf obtaining too great an ascendency.
Tell your dear mother, with my affectionate love, that she
will be pleased to hear Ellen's health is improving, and has
not as yet suffered in the least from the winter or the more con-
fined air of London, which I almost dreaded might be baneful
to one so delicate as she was when we left Oakwood. I think
our little tour did her much good, though the idea of the exer-
tion at first appeared painful. She is ever cheerful, though I
sometimes wish she would be more lively, and cannot help fan-
cying, notwithstanding her melancholy as a child was remarka-
ble, that her sufferings both bodily and mental, the last eigh-
teen months have made her the very pensive character she is.
I had hoped before that unfortunate affair she was becoming as
animated and light-hearted as my Emmeline, but as that can-
not be, I endeavor to be thankful for the health and quiet, and.
I trust, happiness she now enjoys. We receive, every opportu-
nity, from Edward very satisfactory and pleasing letters,
which, as you will believe, tend not a little to lessen the anxi-
ety of both his sister and myself His new captain is a far
sterner character and even more rigid in discipline than was Sir
Edward Manly ; but our young sailor writes that this is rather
THE mother's recompense. 17
A source of pleasure to bim, for it will be the greater merit to
win bis regard, which he has resolved to use every endeavor to
maintain.
I must not forget, in thus writing of my family, to mention
that Herbert never writes home without inquiring after his fa-
vorite Mary, and if his sisters do not answer such queries very
particularly, they are sure in the next letter to obtain as severe
a reproach as can flow from his pen. Will you not return such
little tokens of remembrance, my dear girl ! Herbert has only
lately changed the term by which in his boyhood he has so
often spoken of you ^his sister Mary ; and surely friends in
such early childhood may continue so in youth. The season
has not, and will not yet commence here. Caroline is antici-
pating it with a delight which I could wish less violent. I
certainly never observed the very striking contrast between my
daughters as I do now, though I always knew they were very
unlike. You, dear Mary, would, I think, even more than Em-
meline, shrink from the life which for a few months in every
year we must now lead, if we would do our duty in the station
we are ordained to fill. I think one season will prove to Caro-
line that it is not in gayety she will find true and perfect hap-
piness, and if it do so, I shall join in society next year with a
less trembling heart. And now, adieu, my dear young friend.
If by Emmeline's long silence you have ever permitted your-
self to entertain a suspicion that I did not approve of your cor-
respondence, let this letter from me prove your error, and re-
member, if ever sorrow in your young yet checkered life should
assail you, and you would conceal them from your revered pa-
rent, fearing to increase her griefs, write to me without hesita-
tion, without fear, and I will answer you to the best of my
ability ; for sympathy, believe me, you will never appeal to me
in vain, and if you require advice, I will give it you with all
the affection I feel towards you. Q-od bless you, my dear girL
Yours, most affectionately, E. Hamilton.
lE^om Emmdine Hamilton to Mary ChrevUle,
A month, actually a whole month has elapsed, dearest Mary,
since I wrote to you last, and not a line from you. Q-ranting
it wfts nearly a week on the way, three weeks are surely long
enough for you to have written an answer, when I entreated
you to write so soon. What can be the cause of this silence ?
i will not upbraid you, because I tremble when I think what
may perhaps have occasioned it. Mamma has become almosi
18 THE MOTHERS EECOHFENSB.
as anzioos as myself, therefore, as soon as yon can, pray write;
if it be bnt one line to say yon are well and at peace, I do not^
will not ask more. I scarcely like to write on indifferent sub-
jects in this letter, but yet as you have given me nothing to
answer, I must do so to fill up my paper : for if what I dread
be not the case, you will not thank me for an epistle containing
but a dozen lines. London is becoming rather more agreeable,
and the fogs have given place to fine weather. The Court
arrived from Brighton yesterday, and they say the town will
now rapidly filL Caroline is all joy, because early next month
Mr. Grahame's family leave Brighton. They have a fine house
in Piccadilly not very far from us, and Caroline is anticipating
great pleasure in the society of Annie. I wonder what my
sister can find to like so much in Miss G-rahame ; to me this
friendship has been and is quite incomprehensible. She does
not possess one quality that would attract me ; what a fortu-
nate thing it is we do not all like the same sort of people.
Congratulate me, my dear friend, I am overcoming in a degree
my dislike to the company of strangers. Some of papa and
mamma's select friends and their families have been calling on
us the last month, and we have lately had rather more society
in the evening ; not any thing like large parties, but nice little
conversaziones, and really the lords and ladies who compose
them are much more agreeable than my fancy pictured them.
They are so intelligent and know so much of the world, and
the anecdotes they relate are so amusing, and some so full of
good-natured wit, that in one evening I became more advanced
in my favorite study, that of character, than I do in weeks
spent in retirement. Caroline is very much admired, and I
sometimes look at her with surprise ; for she certainly looks
much better, and makes herself more agreeable among stran-
gers than she cdioays does at home. Mamma would call that
perhaps an unkind reflection, but I do not mean it for such ;
some people are more fascinating out than at home. I am
contented to remain in the shade, and only speak when I am
spoken to, like a good little girl ; that is to say, I converse with
those who are good-natured enough to converse with me, and
many agreeable evenings have I passed in that way. There is
her Grace the Duchess D ^ a very delightful woman, with
elegant manners, and full of true kindness. I like the way she
speaks to her daughters, at least her two youngest the rest
are married Lady Anne and Lady Lucy ; they appear very
uiee young women, agreeable companions : as yet we have but
THE MOTHE&'S RECOMPENSB. 19
IHile conversation in comtnon, though they appear to get on
remarkably well with Caroline. The Countess Elmore, a nou-
telle marine, but a delightful creature, so exquisitely lovely-
such eyes, hair, teeth; and yet these rare charms appear
entirely forgotten, or displayed only for the Earl her husband,
who is worthy of it alL He has talked to me so often, that his
wife also takes a great deal of notice of me, and when they are
of our party I always pass^ an agreeable evening. The Earl is
well acquainted with our beautiful Devonshire, dearest Mary ;
he admires country as I do, and he asked so much about it
one night last week, that I quite forgot all my intentions about
control, and actually talked and apostrophized the Dart as I
would to one of my own brothers. I forgot every body else in
the room, till I caught mamma's glance fixed earnestly on me,
and then, my dear friend, I did not feel over comfortable, how-
ever, I was soon at ease ag^in, for I saw it was only warning^
not repromng ; and the next morning, when I sought her to
tell her all my delight of the proceeding evening, she shared in it
all, and when I asked her, half fearfully, if her glance meant
I was passing the boundary she had laid down, she said, ^^ Not
with the Earl of Elmore, my dear Emmeline ; but had you
been talking in the same animated strain to the Marquis of
Alford, who, I believe, took you in to supper, I should say you
had."
" But I did not with him," I exclaimed. " No, my love,
she answered, laughing at the anxiety that was, I felt, imprint-
ed on my face. '^ But why are you so terrified at the bare
suggestion ?"
" Because," I said, and I felt I blushed, " he is a single man ;
and I never can speak with the same freedom to unmarried
as to married men."
^ And why not ?" she asked, and fixed her most penetrating
glance on my face.
I became more and more confused, dear Mary, for I felt
even to my own mother it would be difficult to express my
feelings on that subject. I managed, however, with some diffi-
culty, to say that I had often heard Annie say she hated as-
semblies where there were only married men, though there might
be some fun in endeavoring to excite the jealousy of their wives ;
but it was nothing compared to the triumph of chaining young
men to her side, and by animated conversatian and smiles
make each believe himself a special object of attraction, when,
m reality she cared nothing for either. " Rathejf tbxi do that,"
20 TOE mother's recompeksb.
I exclaimed, startlDg from the stool which I had occupied ai
mamma's feet, and with an energy I could not restrain, " 1
would bury myself forever in a desert, and never look upon a
face I loved ; rather than play upon the feelings of my fellow-
creatures, I would I know not what I would not endure. Moth-
er," I continued, " mother, if ever you see me for one instant for*
get myself, and by word or sign approach the borders of what ia
termed coquetry, promise me faithfully you will on the instant
prevent farther intercourse, you will not hesitate one moment
to tell me of it ; even though in your eyes it may appear but
earnest or animated conversation. Mother, promise me this,"
I repeated, for I felt carried so far beyond myself, that when I
look back on that conversation, it is with astonishment at my
own temerity. "Annie has laughed 'at me when I expressed
my indignation; she says it is what every woman of fashion
does, and that I am ridiculous If I hope to be otherwise.
Mother, you will not laugh at me. Spare me, spare me from
the remorse that will ensue, if such ever be my conduct."
" Fear, not, my dear and noble child," she exclaimed (her
voice I knew expressed emotion), and she pressed me fondly
to her heart ; " I promise all, all you wish. Ketain these no-
ble feelings, these virtuous fears, and I shall never have occa-
sion to do what you desire. Oh, that your sister thought th9
same !" she added ; and oh, Mary, I shall never forget the tone
of anxiety and almost distress with which those last words
were said.
" She doesj she will, she must," I said, vehemently, for I
would .have given worlds to calm the anxiety I know she feels
for Caroline, and I do wish that on some points my sister
thought as I do, not from vanity, my dear Mary, believe me,
but for her own happiness. I cannot describe each member of
our circle, d?ar Mary, in this letter, but you shall have them
by degrees. The Earl and Countess Elmore are my favorites.
I was very sorry mamma did not permit me to join a very
small party at their house last week ; the Countess came her-
self to beg,, but mamma's mandate had gone forth long ago,
and therefore I submitted I hope with a good grace, but I
doubt it. She wishes me only to join in society at home this
year, but next year I may go out with her as often as I please.
Lord Henry D'Este is one of the most amusing creatures I
ever met with, he has always some droll anecdote to relate that
ealls forth tlniversal merriment ; but of single men, the Earl
of St. Eval, eldest son of the Marquis of Malvern, is the moat
THE MOTREll's RECOMPENSE. 21
agreeable. He is not partienlarly handsome, but has an elo-
quent sjnilei and persuading voice, very tall and noble in hia
carriage. He has talked to me much of Oxford, where for
about six or seven months he was acquainted with my brothers,
of whom he spoke in such high terms, dear Mary, and quite
regretted he could not enjoy their society longer. He has
Bince been on the Continent, and relates so delighfully all he
has remarked or seen among foreigners, that it is evident he
travelled really for pleasure and information, not for fashion.
He appears much attracted with Caroline. I am sure he ad-
mires her very much, and I only wish she would be as pleased
with him as I am, but she always provokes by saying he has
not sufficient esprit ; nor is he quite handsome enough to please
her ; and yet she never refuses his attentions or shrinks from
his conversation, as, if I disliked him (as when we are alone she
appears to do), I know I should. Do not tremble for my
peace, dear Mary, as you read these flowing descriptions. In
society they are most agreeable, but as the partner of my life,
I have not yet seen one to whom, were the question asked,
I could with any hope of happiness give my hand. These
scenes are well for a time, but they are not those in which I
would wish to pass my life. My wishes are humbler, much
humbler ; but I do not yet Understand them sufficiently even
to define them to myself. It is much the same with the young
ladies of rank with whom I now frequently associate ; they
are agreeable companions, but not one, no, not one can supply
your place, dearest Mary. Not one can I love as I do you. We
have no ideas in common ; amiable and good as in all proba-
bility they are, still, as my intimate friends, I could not re-
gard them ; and yet strange contradiction you will say I
wish Caroline could find one amongst them to supply the place
of Annie Grahame in her heart. Why I am so prejudiced
against her, you will ask. Mary, I am prejudiced and I cannot
help it. Something tells me my sister will obtain no good from
this intimacy, I never did like her, and of late this feeling has
increased. Ellen is pleased, too, when her health permits her
to join our agreeable little coteries. She appears overcoming
her very great reserve, but does not become more lively. She
looks always to me as if she felt a stain yet lingers on her
character, and though mamma and papa treat her even more
kindly than they did before, if possible, still there are times
when to me she appears inwardly unhappy. Strangers would
only pronounce her more pensive than usual for her years ; foi
^ THE mother's EECuMFENSE.
her slight figure and very delicate features, as well as retiriiig :
manner, make her appear even younger than she is, but I
sometimes fancy I read more. She is always calm and gentle
as she used to be, and I never can discover when any thing
vexes her except by her heightened color, which is more easilj
visible now than when her health was better.
I am summoned away, dear Mary, to go with mamma ta
ride, and as this leaves to-night, I mubt not write more now,
but I intend teasing you with letters every week till you write
to me, if you are not well, in the sincere wish to arouse you
and draw your thoughts from what may be unpleasing subjects :
and if you are idle, to spur you to your task. Adieu, my
dearest friend. Your ever affectionate Emmeline.
l^rom Mary Crreville to Emmdine Hamilton.
Greville Manor, March 13.
How can I thank you sufSciently, my dearest Emmeline,
for the affectionate letters which I have received so regularly
the last month. I am still weak, so that much writing is for-
bidden me, and therefore to reply to them all as my affection
dictates is impossible. But I know your kind heart, my Em-
meline ; I know it will be satisfied, when I say your letters
have indeed cheered my couch of suffering ; have indeed suc-
ceeded not only in changing my thoughts from the subject
that perhaps too much engrosses them, But sometimes even my
poor mother's. Your first long letter, dated January, you tell
me you wrote to let me know you as you are, that all your
faults may be laid bare to my inspection ; and what is to be
the consequence ^that you are, as you said you would be, low-
ered in my estimation % no, dear and candid girl, you are not,
and while you retain such ingenuousness of disposition, you
never can be. Wrong you certainly were to encourage such de-
spondency, when so very many blessings were around you ; but
when once you become sensible of an error, it is already with you
corrected. Mamma has, I know, some weeks ago, written to
Mrs. Hamilton, to tell her Greville Manor is to be sold. We
shall never return to it again ; the haunts I so dearly loved,
the scenes in which I have spent so many happy hours, all will
pass into the hands of strangers, ^it will be no longer our
own ; we shall be no longer together, as for so many years we
have been. In changing my residence thus, I feel as if every
tie I loved was torn asunder. # # * # #
I thought I could have written caVmly oii Wi\& \]XiVi^'Lj \sji^
THE mother's REOOMPENSB. 23
Emmeline, but I believed myself stronger, both in mind and
body, than I am. I have been very ill, and therefore let
that be my excuse. Plead for me with your mother, Emme-
line ; tell her she knows not how I struggle to conceal every
pang from the watchful eyes of that mother who has hung over
my couch, with an agony that has told me plainer than words
I am indeed her only joy on earth. My spirit has been so
tortured the three months of my stern father^s residence at
home, that I feel as if I would oh ! how gladly ^flee away
and be at rest: but for her sake, I pray for life, for
strength ; for her sake, I make no resistance to the advice of
Mr. Maitland, that for a year or two we should live in Italy or
Switzerland, though in leaving England I feel as if I left I know
not what, but somewhat more than the mere love for my native
land. Why, why is my health so weak ? why does it ever suffer
when my mind is unhappy ? Oh, Emmeline, you know not the
fierce struggle it is not to murmur ; to feel that it is in mercy
my Father in Heaten afflicts me thus. If I might but retain
my health, my mother should never suspect my sufferings, I
would, I know I would, hide them from every eye ; but she
reads them in my filing frame and pallid features, when I
would by every means in my power prove to her that while she
is spared to me, I cannot be wholly unhappy. It was not ill-
ness of body that prevented my replying to your first long
letter ; but papa and Alfred were both at home, and my nerves
were so frequently shaken, that I knew it would be impossible
to write, and therefore did not attempt it, even at the risk of
offending, or at least giving pain to you. I begged mamma to
write to Mrs. Hamilton, and tell her all that had occurred, on
the receipt of your second, dated February ; for I thought
while explaining our silence it would relieve herself, which I
think it did. It is six weeks since then and I am only now
allowed to write, and have been already obliged to pause more
than once in my task ; so forgive all incoherences, my dearest
Emmeline. The Manor is to be sold in June ; for my sake,
mamma ventured to implore my father to dispose of another
estate, which has lately become his, instead of this, but he would
not listen to her ; and I implored her not to harrow her feelings
by vain supplications again. Alfred is to go to Cambridge,
and this increased expense, as it is for him, papa seems to
think nothing of, but to my poor mother it is only another sub-
ject of uneasiness, not so much for our sakes as for his own.
Temptations of every kind will be around him ; his own little in*
f
24 THE mother's recobipense.
oome will never.be snfficient to enable bim to lead tbat life wbiob
bis inclination will bid bim seek. Misfortune on every side ap-
pears to darken tbe future ; I cannot look forward. Pray for
me my dearest friend, tbat I may be enabled to trust so impli-
citly in tbe Most Higb tbat even now my faitb sbould not for
a moment waver. Ob ! Bmmeline, in spite of all barsbness,
bis coldness, and evident dislike, my beart yearns to my fatber.
Would be but permit me, I would love and respect bim as
fondly as ever cbild did a parent, and wben, affcer bebolding bis
cruelty to my motber, my beart bas sometimes almost involun-
tarily reproacbed bim, and risen in rebellion against bim, tbe
remorse wbicb instantly follows adds to tbat beavy burden
wbicb bows us to tbe eartb. We leave England in May, if I
am sufficiently strong. I do not tbink we shall visit London,
but travel leisurely along tbe coast to Dover. I wisb I could
see you once more, for I know not if we sball ever meet again,
dear Emmeline ; but perhaps it is better not, it would only
heighten tbe pain of separation. I sbould likfi much to have writ-
ten to your kind, good motber with this, but I fear my strength
will not permit, yet perhaps, if she have one half-hour's leisure,
she will write to me again ; her letters indeed are my com-
forts and support. I thank your brother Herbert for bis many
kind and affectionate messages ; tell bim all you will of our
plans, and tell bim ^tell bim ^bis sister Mary will never forget
the brother of her childhood the kind, the sympathizing com-
panion of her youth. To Percy, too, remember me ; and say all
your own affection would dictate to Caroline and Ellen. I
would have written to tbe latter, but my weakness will I know
Erove my best excuse. Before:! quite conclude, let me say
ow pleased I am to think that, although you still regret Oak-
wood, you can find some pleasures in your present life. Tbe
society you describe must be agreeable. I could scarcely,
however, refrain from smiling at your simplicity, my dear Em-
meline, in imagining that all who visited at your father's bouse
' would be as delightful and estimable as those whom your
second letter so eloquently described. Why are we so con-
stantly commanded to be charitable in our intercourse one
with another? Must it not be because our Great Master knew
that we all bad failings, some more than others 1 if all were as
worthy and virtuous as some appear, there woUld be no need
to practise such a virtue ; but it is in a mixed society it is more
frequently called into play. More, would we preserve our own
virtue and piety, we must be charitable. We must look on tb*
THE mother's recompense. 2S
weaknesses of our fellow-creatures with mercy and kindness, or
how can we demand it for ourselves ? I am no advocate for
seclusion in general, though my own feelings prefer a quiet
life. I think a life of retirement is apt to render us selfish,
and too positive in the wisdom and purity of our own notions,
too prejudiced against the faults of our fellows. Society is a
mirror, where we can see human character reflected in a va-
riety of shades, and thereby, if our minds be so inclined, wo
miy attain a better knowledge of ourselves. If, before we
condemned others, we looked into our own hearts, we are likely
to become more charitable and more humble at the same mo-
mont, and our own conduct necessarily becomes more guarded.
But with your mother, my Emmeline, and your open heart
unsophisticated as it may be ^you will never go far wrong.
Idamma is looking anxiously at me, as if she feared I am exert-
iwj myself too much. 1 feel my cheeks are painfully flushed,
and therefore I will obey her gentle hint. Farewell, my Em-
meline ; may you long be spared the sorrows that have lately
wrung the heart of your attached and constant friend,
Mary Greville.
From Mrs. Hamilton to Miss Greville.
London, March 30th.
Your letter to Emmeline, my dear young friend, I have read
with feelings both of pain and pleasure, and willingly, most
willingly, do I comply with your request, that I would write to
you, however briefly. Your despondency is natural, and yet
it is with delight I perceive through its gloom those feelings of
faith and duty, which your sense of religion has made so pecu-
liarly your own. I sympathize, believe me, from my heart, in
those trials which your very delicate health renders you so little
able to bear. Iwill not endeavor by words of consolation to alle-
viate their severity, for I know it would be in vain. In your
earliest youth I endeavored to impress upon your mind that we
are not commanded to check every natural feeling. We are
but told to pour before God our trouble, to lean on His mercy,
to trust in His providence, to restrain our lips from murmur-
ing, and if we do so, though our tears may fall, and our heart
feel breaking, yet our prayers will be heard and accepted on
high It is not with you, my poor girl, the weak indulgence
of sorrow that ever prostrates you on a couch of suffering, it is
the struggle of resignation and concealment, that is too fierce
for the delicacy of your constitution ; and do you not think
2
S6 THE mother's recompense.
that strife is marked by Him, who, as a father, pitietL his chit
dron ? Painful as it is to yoa, my dear Mary, your sufferings
may be in a degree a source of mercy to your mother. Ago-
nizing as it is to the heart of a parent, to watch the fevered
couch of a beloved child, yet had she not that anxiety, the
conduct of your father and brother might present still deeper
wretchedness. For your sake, she dismisses the harrowing
thoughts that would otherwise be her own ; for your sake, she
rallies her own energies, which else might desert her; and
when you are restored to her, when, in those intervals of peace
which are sometimes your own, she sees you in health, and
feels your constant devotion, believe me, there is a well of com-
fort, of blessed comfort, in her fond heart, of which nothing
can deprive her. For her sake, then, my dearest Mary, try to
conquer this reluctance to leave England. I do not reproach
your grief, for I know that it is natural. But endeavor to
think that this residence for a few years on the Continent, may
restore your mother to a degree of peace, which, in England, at
present she cannot know ; and will not this thought, my love,
reconcile you to a short separation from the land of your birth,
and the friends you so dearly love ? We shall all think of and
love our Mary, however widely parted. We will write very
frequently, and every information I can obtain of your brother
shall be faithfully recorded. Mr. Hamilton has ever felt for
your mother as a brother would, and for her sake, her misguid-
ed son will be ever an object of his dearest care. Do not fear
for him, and endeavor to soothe your mother's anxiety on that
head also. Herbert has written to you, I inclose his letter ;
and he entreats most earnestly that you will not only permit
him to continue to write, but answer him, during your residence
abroad. He has been deeply grieved at the intelligence we
have reported of you, and I hope and think, if your mother do
not disapprove of your correspondence, that the humble yet fer-
vent faith which breathes in the religion of my son, may long
prove a source of consolation as well as interest to you, who,
from your childhood, could sympathize with all his exalted
feelings. Poor Emmeline has shed many bitter tears over
vour letter ; she cannot bear to think of your leaving England,
tut yet agrees with me in believing it will be a beneficial
change for both yourself and Mrs. Greville, but her letter shall
speak her own feelings. I will not write more now, but will
very soon again. Do not exert yourself too much to answer
either Emmeline or myself ; we will not wait for regular replies.
THE mother's recompense. 517
I hnve written to yonr mother also, therefore this brief epistle
is entirely for yourself, as you wished it. Mr. Hamilton will
meet you at Dover, which will afford me much satisfaction, as
I shall know more than I could ever learn by a letter, and he
will. I trust, be enabled to set your mother's heart at rest on
some points which must be now subjects of anxiety. God bless
youj^my Mary, and restore you speedily to health and peace.
Yours, with the warmest affection,
E. Hamilton.
CHAPTER II.
An early April sun was shining brightly tli rough one of the
windows of an elegantly furnished boudoir cf a distinguished-
looking mansion, in the vicinity of Piccadilly. There was
somewhat in the aspect of the room, in the variety of toys
scattered on every side, in the selection of the newest novels
which wef'e arranged on the table, and an indescribable air
which pervaded the whole, that might have aroused a sus-
picion in any keen observer who could discover character by
trifles, that the lady to whom that apartment belonged pos*
sessed not the very strongest or most sensible mind. A taste
which frivolous trifles could alone gratify appeared evident ;
and the countenance of the lady, who was reclining listlessly
on the couch, would have confirmed these surmises. She did
not look above forty, if as much, but her features told a tale of
lassitude and weariness, at variance with the prime of life,
which was then her own. No intellect, no emotion was ex-
pressed on her countenance ; it never varied, except, perhaps,
to denote peevishness or sullenness when domestic affairs an-
noyed her, which appeared to be the case at present. A
volume of the last new novel was in her hand, in which she
appeared sufficiently interested as to feel still more annoyed
at the interruption she was constantly receiving from a young
lady, who was also an inmate of her room.
Striking, indeed was the contrast exhibited in the features
of the mother and daughter, for so nearly were they connected,
and yet to some the inanimate expression of the former would
have been far preferable to the handsome but scornful coun-
tenance of the latter. She could not have been more than
eighteen, but the expression of the features and the tone of
cbararacter were already decided to no ordinar3i| degree.
There was an air of fashion in her every movement ; an easy ar
88^ THS mother's &ECOMPENSB.
Burance and independence of spirit wfaioh might have made
her mother respected, but which in one so young were intoler-
able to all save those whom she had contrived to make her de^
voted admirers. Spite of the natural beauty of her face,
haughtiness, pride, and some of the baser passions of human
nature, were there visibly impressed ; at least whenever she
appeared in her natural character, when no concealed designs
caused her to veil those less amiable emotions in eloquent
smiles and a manner whose fascination was felt and unresisted,
even by those who perhaps had been before prejudiced against
her. Various were the characters she assumed in society as-
sumed to suit her own purpose, made up of art ; even at home
she sometimes found herself seeking for design, as if it were
impossible to go straight forward, to act without some reason.
We shall find, however, as wo proceed, that she had one confix
dant at home, to whom, when, eidiausted by the fatigue of plan-
ning, she would confess herself, and who was generally the
hearer and abettor of the young lady's schemes. This was a
person who had lived for many years in the family as govern-
ess ; although that office with the elder of her oharges had
ever been but nominal, and with the younger it was neglected
for the office of friend and confidant, which Miss Malison very
much preferred.
It was evident this morning that the effi)rts of the young
lady had not succeeded quite so well as usual in veiling the
discontent in which she inwardly indulged. She was amusing
herself at that moment in opening every book on the table,
glancing sulkily on their contents, and then throwing them
down again with a violence that not only had the effect of
making her mother start, but of disturbing the quiet repose of
some of the fragile toys in their vicinity, to the manifest dan-
ger of their destruction.
" I wish you would oblige me, Annie, by endeavoring to
amuse yourself in a quieter manner," observed her mother, in
a very languid tone. " You have no pity on my poor nerves.
You know when I have these nervous headaches, the least
thing disturbs me."
" You may be certain, mamma, it is reading that makes
them worse, not my noise. You had much better put away
the bock, and then you have some chance of being free from
them."
' ^yi yo^ ^^^^ *o ^ ^^^^ instead ? I assure you I should
muchpmerit."
THE MOTHER'S RECOMPENSE. 29
^/read aloud ! I could not do it to please the most agree-
able person in the world ; and as you are so very obliging to
me in I^fdsing so deddedly to go with me to-night, you cannot
expect I should oblige you."
Lady Helen Grahame's placid countenance gave no evi-
dence of inward disturbance at this undutiful speech : she was
too much used to it, to feel the pain it might otherwise have
produced; and too indifferent to be either indignant or dis-
pleased.
" You are very ungrateful, Annie," she replied, in that
same languid tone, but with so very little expression in her
voice, no emotion was visible. " I tell you I will send round
to Lady Charlton or the Countess St! Aubyn ; either of them,
I know, will be very happy to chaperon you. Surely you can
let me be quiet for one evening."
^' Lady Charlton I cannot bear ; she is the most detestable
oreature I know. I would rather be buried alive in the coun-
try, than join in London society under her care ; with her long
speeches of prudery and virtue, and the modest reserve of
young ladies, and a hundred other such saint-like terms, when
all the time she is doing all she can to catch husbands for her
three great gawky daughters, who in mamma's presence are all
simplicity and simper sweet girls just introduced ; when I am
very much mistaken if the youngest is not nearer thirty than
twenty. And as for Lady St. Aubyn, you know very well,
mamma, papa declared I should never go out with her again ;
it is just the same as if I were alone. She has not a word or
thought for any one but herself: she thinks she may act with
as much coquetry now as before she married. I do believe
that woman only married that she might be more at liberty
and go out by herself."
" Then, if you like neither of them, write a note to Mrs.
Hamilton. Your father would be better pleased if you were
to go under her care, than of any other."
" Mrs. Hamilton I I would not for worlds. Every plea-
sure I might otherwise enjoy would vanish before the stern
majesty of her presence. I wonder how Caroline can bear the
thraldom in which her mother holds ler it is complete
slavery."
" I will not hear a word against Mrs. Hamilton," exclaimed
Lady Helen, with more display of feeling than had yet been
perceivable. " She is a truer friend both to your |||^6f and
myself than any of those with whom we associate he
t
$0 ' THE MOTHERS RECOMPENSE.
" It is well you think so, my lady mother," replied MiM
Grahame, in a peculiar tone. " It is fortunate you are not
troubled with jealousy, and that this paragon of perfection, this
Mrs. Hamilton, is your friend as well as papa's. If I heard
my husband' so constantly extolling another woman in my pre-
sence, I should not be quite so easy."
If a flush rose to Lady Helen's pale cheek at these words,
it was so faint as scarcely to be perceivable, and she took no
notice, except to say
" If your great desire to go to this ball is to be with Caro-
line the first night of her entr^e^ I should think Mrs. Hamilton
was the best chaperon you could have."
" I tell you, mother, I will not go with her. She has tot
bewitched me as she has you and papa. If you would only be
quiet for a few hours, I am sure your head would be sufficient-
ly well for you to go with me ; and you know I never do enjoy
an evening so much as when you accompany me, dear mamma,"
she continued, softening the violence with which she had at
first spoken into one of the most persuasive eloquence ; and
bumbling her pride and controlling the contempt with which
she ever looked on her weak but far more principled mother,
she knelt on a low stool by her side, and caressingly kissed
Lady Helen's hand.
" Dear mamma, you would oblige me, I am sure you would,
if you knew how much your presence contributes to my enjoy-
ment. A ball is quite a different thing when I feel I am under
your wing, and you know papa prefers my going out with you
to any one else."
Annie spoke truth, though her words appeared but flattery
The extreme indolence of Lady Helen's natural disposition,
which was now heightened by the lassitude attendant on really
failing health, rendered her merely a chaperon in name. Annip
felt very much more at liberty when with her than with any
other ; she could act as she pleased, select her own companions,
coquette, talk, dance, without ever thinking of her mother or
being sought for by her, till the end of the evening. It was
enough she was with Lady Helen, to silence all gossiping
tongues and to satisfy her father, who, one of the most devoted
members of the Lower House, scarcely ever visited such places
of amusement, and therefore knew not the conduct of either his
wife or daughter. He long since discovered his authority was
as nothiijK to his children ; he felt most painfully his sternness
tadaUmted their affections, and be now Ta\.\ieT ^ViXMnk ft^m
THE mother's recompense. 31
their society ; therefore, even at home he was a solitary man,
and yet Grahame was formed for all the best emotions, the
warmest affections of our nature. He was ignorant that his
wife now very frequently suffered from ill-health, for he had
never seen her conduct different even when in youth and per-
fectly welL Had he known this, and also the fact that, though
trembling at his sternness, she yet longed to receive some
token of his affection that she really loved him, spite of the
many faults and the extreme weakness of her character, he
might have been happy.
Deceived by her daughter's manner, Lady Helen began to
waver in the positive refusal she had given to accompanying
her^ and Annie was not slow in discovering her advantage ; she
continued the persuasions she knew so well how to use, con-
cealing the inward struggle it was to veil her disconteut at this
unwonted humiliation, and suppressing the violence that was
ready to break forth, at length succeeded. Though really feel-
ing too languid for the exertion, the wavering mother could not
resist the unusually gentle manner of the persevering daugh-
ter, and Miss Grahame flew to her confidante to impart the
joyful tidings.
Miss Malison was employed in endeavoring, by commands,
exhortations, and threats, to compel her pupil to practise a dif-
ficult sonata, which her music-master had desired might be pre-
pared by the time of his next visit. Now it happened that
Lilla Grahame had not the slightest taste for music, and that
Miss Malison did not possess the patient perseverance requi-
site to smooth the difficulty of the task, nor the gentleness ne-
cessary to render it more pleasing to her pupil ; therefore, in
these practising lessons discord ever prevailed over harmony,
and the teaoher was ever ^eady to seize the most trifling excuse
to neglect her office, and leave Lilla to practise or not as she
pleased.
^' Malison, c^ere Malison," exclaimed Annie, in a tone of glee,
as she entered, '^ do leave that stupid girl and come with me ;
I have some charming intelligence to communicate. And it
really is no use boring yourself with Lilla ; she will never play,
try as hard as she can."
" According to you, I shall do nothing," burst angrily from
her sister's lips, for her temper, naturally good, though some-
what hasty, had been completely ruined by careless, and mis-
taken treatment. " If I had been properly taw^Xg^ ^Qivi\i^
hare ddne aa others do : if Miaa Malison had c^O&l\Q \"i!&A
32 THE mother's eecohpensb.
the same pains with me as Miss Haroourt does with Emmeline
Und Ellen, I should have been a very different girl."
" Insolent, ungrateful girl I do you dare say I have neglected
my duty ?" exclaimed the gouvernante^ enraged beyond bounds
at this display of insubordination in one whose spirit she had
left no means untried to bend to her will, and forgetting her-
self in the passion of the moment, enforced her words by wha^
is termed a sound box on the ear.
" Now go and tell mamma, pretty dear ; or papa, if you like
it better," Miss Grahame said, in a whining tone.
But Lilla answered her not. A crimson flush for the mo-
ment spread over her very temples at the infliction of this in-
dignity, which very quickly gave way to a deadly, almost livid
paleness, on which the marks of Miss Malison's ready Angers
were the only spots of red. Without a word in reply, she
hastily rose from the piano and left the room.
"Will she hlah?^^ was the elegant question that was asked
as the door closed.
* Not she," replied Annie, laughing. " She dare not tell
papa, and she knows it is of no use appealing to mamma, who
implicitly believes all you tell her of Miss Lilla's excessive
obstinacy, idleness, and passionate temper in which she so con-
stantly indulges ; your deep regrets that either of Lady Helen
Grahame's daughters should be such a character have succeeded
so admirably. I have had such a struggle to obtain mamma's
promise to go with me to-night, that I really feel exhausted,"
and the young lady threw herself in a most graceful attitude
of listlessness on a sofa that stood invitingly beside her.
" But have you succeeded?"
*' Admirably ! at length mamma thinks I am most amiable.
My persuasions were so eloquent, that the most obdurate per-
son could not have resisted them. I tried violence and sulki-
ness at first, thinking to frighten or worry her into compliance ;
but finding both fail, I was compelled to have recourse to humi-
liation and persuasion. If it had continued much longer, ]
should have choked by the way ; it is quite a relief to breathe
freely again. What do yon think of her wishing me to go
under the care of Mrs. Hamilton to-night? I really could
hardly control my horror at the idea."
"Horrible, indeed ! What would have become of all youi
plans, if you had?"
" M^^ar creature, I would not have gone with her foi
worlds ;iPit, however, I think my plans are in too go^d train
THE MOTHE&^S KECOlAPENSE. 3^1
ing for one night spent under her eyes to injure them. Caro*
line is beginning, I think, to feel somewhat like a slave under
this keen surveillance of her paragon mother, and to pine for
the freedom of thought and act which I so unboundedly en-
joy. She only wants a little of my good adyioe and better
example, to become really a girl of spirit."
^ But take care the spirit you are calling forth does not
turn against you," observed Miss Malison.
^ Not at all likely, 7na chtre, I am careful only to excite
it to serve my own purposes. She likes me, I believe, and I
can make her what I please. Let her confidence in her
mother be once destroyed, you will see jf^he does not act as
foolishly as I can desire. She has been buried in the country
so long, she is a mere infant with regard to all that concerns
a life of fashion ; and, therefore, will be gladly led by one
she considers so completely aufait at its mysteries as myself.
I used to like her in the country, because she always listened
so eagerly to all I said about London. I saw she envied me
even when we were children, and therefore fancied myself a
most important personage."
" And do you like her now ?"
" You are laughing at me, ckere Malison. You know I
cannot bear a rival, and this girl's dazzling beauty will com-
pletely cast me in the shade."
^ You don't mean to say her beauty can be compared to
yours ?" interrupted Miss Malison.
" Perhaps not in the sterling worth of the two," replied
Annie, glancing complacently on a large mirror ; " but she is
new. Malison quite new. Her mother only kept her so long
away that she might shine with the greater brilliancy when
introdueed. As for Caroline, I like her, as far as she assists
my plans, and by her silly, or, if that would serve me better,
criminal conduct, takes somewhat away from her mother's
perfection, and by the pain Mrs. Hamilton will foel, gratify
my overpowering detestation. Malison, you look delighted.
Your assistance I am sure of, if I require it ; for you dislike
this paragon of her sex almost as much as I do."
" Indeed I do. I have never forgotten nor forgiven hei
presumption a year or two ago, in hinting so broadly I wag
mistaken in my treatment of Lilla, and that gentleness would
have much better effect ; gentleness indeed, with a girl that
would tire the patience of a saint. She is always wQ|se afbei
haying been with this Mrs. Hamilton, and I suppoiW it will
S4 THE mother's recompense.
be all over again now. I wish, with your charming plans, my
dear Miss Grahame, yon would find one to prevent all inter-
course between the Hamiltons and your sister."
" At present, ma chere, such a thing is out of my power,
but we will not despair 5 although the more you would say
about Miss Lilla being undeserving of such indulgence, tho
more papa would answer, let her go and she will learn to be
better there. I heard him give mamma peremptory orders
the other day, when we prevented her going, never to refuse
whenever Mrs. Hamilton invited her. Severity is. a most ad'
mirable method, my good Malison ; you will break her spirit
if you persevere, notwithstanding all the amiable Mrs. Ham*
ilton may do or say."
" I wish I may ; but you have not told me all yet. How
proceed your schemes with Lord Alphingham ?"
i' To perfection ! I have given Caroline a distaste for ev-
ery other kind of person. She has met him, you know, once
or twice here, and that was sufficient to fascinate her. She
thinks him the handsomest and most delightful man she ever
knew. It is enough for Mr. Hamilton to see him a friend of
papa's to be attracted towards him ; in all probability he will
be introduced at his house, and then my scheme will be still
easier. It will not be difficult to talk Caroline into fancying
herself desperately ii^ love with him, and he with her ^he is
already attracted; and when I see the aspect of affairs far
vorable, I will just get some kind friend to whisper into Mrs.
Hamilton's ear some of the pretty tales I have heard of this
Viscount, and you will see what will follow. These on dits
are, fortunately for my plans, only known among my coterie.
With us, they only render Lord Alphingham more interest-
ing ; but with Mrs. Hamilton they would have the effect of
banishing him for ever from her presence and from the notice
of her daughter: the catastrophe, my dear creature, shall
be the perfection of diplomacy, but of that hereafter. I owe
Lord Alphingham a spite, which 1 will pay off one day, for his
desertion of me the moment Caroline appeared. I may do all
I wish with one word. All my present intention is, by a gra-
dual yet sure process, to undermine Caroline's confidence in
her mother, and make me her confidante instead, and if I do
that, the rest is easy."
" You know you have never failed in any scheme, there-
fore yoij^may feel secure in this," replied Miss Malison, with
ready flattery ; for she knew Miss Grahame's love of designing
TBE mother's RECOlfPENSE 35
and really felt gratified at any plan tending to iDjure Mrs.
Hamilton, whom she detested with all the malevolence of a
mean and grovelling mind, which despised the virtue that was
too exalted for its comprehension.
Some little time longer this amiable pair conversed, bat
their farther conversation it is needless to record. We have
-ftlready seen that Emmeline Hamilton's prejudices againt Annie
Grahame was not unfounded, and that at present is enough.
Before, however, we quit Lady Helen's mansion, we may say a
few words on the character of Lilla, in whom, it may be recol-
lected, Mrs. Hamilton had ever felt interest Eufficient to in-
dulge a hope that she might render her one day a greater
comfort to her father than either of his other children. As a
child, her temper was naturally good, though somewhat hasty
and self-willed ; high-spirited, but affectionate to a degree that
would have made the task of training and instruction easy to
any one who possessed sufficient gentleness to win her affection,
and with patience, yet firmness, to guide her in the right way.
Unfortunately, Miss Malison possessed neither ; extremely pas-
sionate herself, where her interests did not interfere to control
it, she was not at all the person to guide a passionate child.
Severity was her weapon, and every means used to break the
spirit, which she could plainly perceive would soon endeavor to
throw her off her control. Lilla revolted at this treatment,
and many evil qualities were thus introduced in her disposi-
tion, which, when they fell under her eye, Mrs. Hamilton was
convinced was completely the fruits of mistaken manage-
ment. From being merely hasty, her passionate anger and
hatred of her governess had now increased to such height, as
to be really alarming not only to her weak-minded mother, but
to Mrs. Hamilton, who, however, was certainly never aware of
their extent ; for before her Lilla was generally gentle and
controlled. Something always occurred to call forth these
bursts of passion in Lady Helen's presence, and consequently,
the actual conduct of Lilla confirmed the statement of Miss
Malison, as to her violence and other evil qualities. Mr. Gra-
hame, too, was compelled to believe all that was told him, and
his sternness towards his unhappy child frequently caused her
to fly from his presence in dread ; although ner warm heart
yearned towards hii^ with such deep affection, which could he
have guessed one-half of its extent, would have twined her
fondly round his heart, and forced him to examine more
Strictly than he did the conduct of Miss Malison. HUa's dis
36 THE mother's recompense
like to her more favored sister was almost as yiolent as that
she bore to her governess; and the conviction that all htr
mother's family looked on her as a passionate, evil-minded girl^
of course, increased every bitter feeling. Often, very often,
did Mrs. Hamilton long to implore Mr. Grahame to dismiss
Miss Malison, and place Lilla under the care of some lady
more fitted for the task ; but she felt that such advice might be^
looked upon with some justice by Lady Helen's friends as most
unwarrantable interference. Miss Malison had been most
highly recommended to Lady Helen by her mother, the
Duchess of , and as, in the opinion of that branch of the
family, Annie abundantly displayed the good effects of her
management, it was very naturally supposed that Lilians oppo-
site character proceeded from an innate evil disposition, and
not from any fault in her governess. She was now nearly
fourteen, and each year Mrs. Hamilton's hopes for the future
worth of her character became fainter ; yet still she determined
to do all in her power to counteract Miss Malison's plans, and
subdue Lilla's fearful passions, and those longings for revenge,
not only on her governess but her sister, which, by many little
things, she could perceive were lurking round her heart. Mon-
trose Grahame had been, as we already know, from his earliest
youth the intimate friend of Mr. Hamilton, and notwithstand-
ing the increasing cares of their respective families, this friend-
ship had continued, and, if possible, increased, and Mrs.
Hamilton sharing the sentiments of her husband, the qualities
of Grahame speedily caused him to become her friend like-
wise She had ever seen with regret his sternness to his
children, she saw also that he was pained, deeply pained, as
their characters became more matured ; and, spite of the diffi-
culties of the task, her benevolent mind determined to leave
no means untried to make one child at least his comfort
Lilla's affection for her was as violent as her other feelings,
and on that she resolved at first to work. It was strange, too,
how devotedly attached this wild and headstrong girl became
to one, who of all others appeared least suited to her, and that
one the mild and pensive Ellen. It appeared as if it were a
relief to meet one so widely different to herself, and therefore
she loved her. The high spirits and animation of Emmeline
appeared less congenial to her affections than the gentle sweet-
ness of Ellen. Caroline was Annie's friend, and that was
enough for her ; not even her being Mrs. Hamilton's daughter
could make her an object of interest. On the day we have
THB MOTHE&'S RECOMPl^SB. 37
liiontioned, Lilla had sat for above an hour in her room ; in-
dignation at the insult she had received swelling in every vein,
and longing with sickening intensity for some means to free
herself from such galling thraldom. She did not give vent to
her injured feelings in tears, but her countenance so clearly
expressed the emotions of her heart, that it actually startled a
servant who entered with a message a request from Mrs.
Hamilton, that her young friend would spend that evening
with her daughter and niece. Lilla started up with a wild
exclamation of delight, and the anticipation of th9 evening
hours enabled her to obey with haughty calmness the sum-
mons of Miss Malison. Before, however, she departed on hex
visit, a fresh ebullition had taken place between the sisters in
the presence of their mother, to the great terror of Lady
Helen, whose irritation at Lilla's violence increased, as she
could perceive nothing in Annie's words or manner to call
for it. Had she been less indolent, she might easily have
discovered that her elder daughter never permitted a single
opportunity to escape without eliciting Lilla's irritability. As
it was, she coldly rejected the offered caresses the really affec-
tionate girl would have lavished on her, as she wished her
good night, and therefore it was with a heart bursting with
many mingled emotions she sought the happy home of her be-
loved friends.
There gladly will we follow her, for the scenes of violence
and evil passion we have slightly touched on, are not subjects
on which we love to linger.
CHAPTER IIL
The&e was thought, deep thought, engraved on Mrs. Hamil-
ton's expressive countenance, as she sat beside a small table,
her head leaning on her hand, anxious, perhaps even painful,
visions occupying her reflective mind. The evening was gra-
dually darkening into twilight, but still she did not move, nor
was it till a well-known tap sounded at the door, and her bus-'
band stood before her, that she looked up.
" Will you not let your husband share these anxious
thoughts, my Emmeline ?" he said, as he gazed earnestly on
her face.
" My husband may perhaps think them silly and unfound-
ed fancies," she replied, with a faint smile.
38 THE mother's recompense.
' He is so prone to do so,'' answered Mr. Hamilton, in an
accent of playful reproach ; " but if you will not tell naie, I
must guess them ^you are thinking of our Caroline !"
''' Arthur, I am," she said, with almost startling earnestness ;
" oh, you cannot tell how anxiously ! I knew not whether I
am right to expose her to the temptations of the world ; I
know her disposition, I sec the evils that may accrue from it,
and yet, even as if I thought not of their existence, I expose
her to them. Oh, my husband, can this be right ? can I bo
doing a parent's duty ?"
" We snould not, my beloved, be fulfilling the duties of our
station, did we not sometimes mingle in society : all our duty
is not comprised in domestic life. It is when we retain our
integrity unsullied, our restraining principles unchanged in
the midst of temptations, that we show forth, even to the
thoughtless, the spirit that actuates us, and by example may
do good. Besides, remember, dearest, we are^not about to enter
into continued and incessant dissipation, which occupies the ex-
istence of so many ; we have drawn a line, and Caroline loves her
parents too well to expect or wish to pass its boundary. Bemem-
ber, too, the anxious fears which were yours, when Percy was
about to enter scenes of even stronger temptation than those
which will surround his sister ; and have they had foundation?
Has not the influence of his mother followed him there, and re-
strained him even at the moment of trial, and will not the in-
fluence of that mother do the same for Caroline ?"
" Percy is, indeed, all my heart could wish," replied Mrs.
Hamilton, still somewhat sadly ; ^* but his disposition is dif
ferent to that of Caroline's. I know his confidence in me is
such, and his affection so strong, that for my sake he would do
more than those who but slightly know him would imagine.
When a son really loves his mother, it is a different, perhaps a
more fervid, feeling than that ever known by a daughter. He
feels bound to protect, to cherish, and that very knowledge of
power heightens his affections."
" You do not doubt your daughters' love, my Emmeline ?
must I accuse you of injustice, too ?"
'' No, dearest Arthur, I do not doubt their love ; for my
Emmeline I do not tremble. Her confidence I shall never
lose ; her affections, however I may be called upon to exert
my authority, will never waver, and completely opposite as are
the feelings with which she and Percy regard me, their love
may be equally intense. But forgive me, my dear husband, I
THE mother's becohpensc 99
may be unjust, and if I am may my child forgive me ; I am
not oh, t5iat I were equally confident in my Caroline. She
loves me, but that affection, I know, does not prevent her
thinking me harsh and unkind, if my wishes interfere with
hers. My authority is not the same with her as it is to her
sister and cousin. She seeks another confidential friend be-
sides her mother, for she dreads my opinions differing from
hers. I have marked her thus in early childhood, and it still
exists, though her temper is more controlled, her disposition
moredmproved. The last few years she has been thrown al-
most entirely with me, and not much above a twelvemonth
since she shrunk from the idea of confiding in any one as she
did in me."
" And while that confidence exits, my Emmeline, you surely
have no right to fear."
" But it is waning, Arthur. The last month I know, I feel
it is decreasing. She is no longer the same open-hearted girl
with me as she was so lately at Oakwood. She is withdraw-
ing her confidence from her mother, to bestow it on one whom
I feel assured is unworthy of it."
" Nay, Emmeline, your anxiety must be blinding you ; you
are too anxious."
His wife answered him not in words, but she raised her
expressive eyes to his face, and he saw they were filled with
tears.
" Nay, nay, my beloved !" he exclaimed, as he folded her
to his bosom, struck with sudden self-reproach. " Have my
unkind words called forth these tears ? forgive me, my best
love ; I think I love my children, but I know not half the
depths of a mother's tenderness, my Emmeline, nor that clear-
sightedness which calls for disquietude so much sooner in her
gentle heart than in a father's. But can we in no way pre-
vent the growth of that intimacy of which I know you disap-
prove?"
" No, my dearest Arthur, it must now take its course. Pain
as it is to me, I will not rudely check my child's affections, that
will not bring them back to me. She may, one day, discover
her error, and will then gladly return to that love, that tender-
ness, of which she now thinks but lightly. I must endeavor
to wait till that day comes, with all the patience I can teach
my heart to feel," she added, with a smile. " Perhaps I am
demanding more than is my due. It is not often we find
young girls willing to be contented with their mother only at
40 THE mother's recoupense.
a friend ; they pine for norelty, for companions of their own
age, whom they imagine can sympathize better in their feelings.
A child is all in all to a mother, though a parent is but one
link in the life of a child ; 3'et my children have so long looked
on me as a friend, that, perhaps, I feel this loss of confidence
the more painfully."
^^ But you will regain it, my Emmeline ; our Caroline is
only dazzled now, she will soon discover the hollowncss of
Annie's professions of everlasting friendship."
Mrs. Hamilton shook her head.
" I doubt it, my dear husband. The flattering warmth with
which Annie first met Caroline has disappointed me. I thought
and hoped that here, surrounded by all her fashionable ac-
quaintances, she would rather have neglected her former
friends, and Caroline's pride taking umbrage, their intimacy
would have been at once dissolved. Instead of this, Annie
never fails to treat her with the most marked distinction, evi-
dently appearing to prefer her much above her other friends :
and, therefore, as in this instance Caroline has found my warn-
ings and suspicions needless and unjust, she is not likely to per*
mit my opinion of Annie to gain much ascendency."
" But deceived as we have been in this instance, my dear
Emmeline, may we not be so in other points of Annie's cha-
racter ? She is evidently devoted to fashion and fashionable
pleasures, but still there may be some good qualities lurking
round her heart, which her mtimacy with Caroline may bring
forward."
" I hope it may be so," replied Mrs. Hamilton, fervently,
though somewhat doubtingly. " For her father's sake, as well
as that of my child's, I wish her disposition may be different
to that which I, perhaps uncharitably, believe it. You must
give me a portion of your sanguine and trusting hopes, my
dearest Arthur," she continued, fondly laying her hand in his.
Mr. Hamilton returned a playful answer, and endeavored to
turn the thoughts of his wife to other and more pleasurable
subjects. Anxiety such as hers could not be entirely dis-
pelled, but it was lessened, for she had imparted it to her
husband, and his watchful care would combine with her own to
guard their child.
Very different were Caroline's feelings on this importint
night. Mrs. Hamilton's fears and Annie's hopes were both
well founded. We have known the character of Caroline from
a child j and though the last three or four yeais it had so im-
THE mother's RECOlfPENSE. 4
proved, that at Oakwood Mrs. Hamilton had ventTired to hau-
ish fear, and indulge in every pleasing hope, yet there was a
degree of pride still remaining/ that revolted very frequently
from the counsels even of her mother ; that high and inde-
pendent spirit sometimes in secret longed to throw off the
very slight restraint in which she felt held at home. She could
not bear to feel that she was in any way controlled ; she long-
ed for the exercise of power, and by the display of that beauty,
those qualities, she knew she possessed, force herself to be
acknowledged as a girl of far more consequence than she ap-
peared to be when in the quiet halls of Oakwood. There
nothing ever occurred to call these feelings forth, but they
were only dormant, and in London they obtained much great-
er sway. She felt more controlled than ever by her mother.
Secretly she pined to free herself from that which she magni-
fied into thraldom, but which was but the watchful tenderness
of a devoted parent ; and when the representations, sympathy,
and persuasions of Annie were listened to, no wonder these
feelings increased. Cautiously Miss Grahame had worked:
she continually spoke of the freedom she enjoyed ; she intro-
duced her friend to some young ladies who were continually
speaking of the delights of independence both in act and word.
Once introduced, they said they were emancipated from the
labor of the schoolroom, they could employ themselves as they
liked, go out when they pleased, and their mothers never in-
terfered with their amusements, except to see that they were
becomingly dressed, chaperon them to balls, and *fifioud all
their efforts- at fascination.
The restraint which, when compared with these Caroline
could not but feel was hers at home, of course became more
and more intolerable. In confidence, she imparted to Annie
her discontent. For the first time she confided in another,
feelings she shrunk from imparting to her mother, and once
such a confidential intimacy commenced, she neither could nor
would draw back. Annie artfully appeared to soothe, while
in reality she heightened the discontent and even indignation
of her friend. Yes ; Caroline by slow degrees became even
indignant at the conduct of that mother whose every thousrht.
whose most fervent prayer was for the happiness of her chil-
dren ; and she looked to this night as the beginning of a new
era, when she allowed herself to hope, with the assistance ot
Annie, she would gradually escape from control, and act as
other girls of spirit did.
42 THE MOTHB&'S RECOMPENSE.
Theie was another subject on which, by the advice of
Annie, Caroline carefully refrained from speaking at home,
and that was Lord Alphingham, a handsome and elegant vis-
eount, who it may be remembered had been mentioned in
Annie's conversation with Miss Malison ; and yet it would
appear strange that such was Miss Grahame's counsel, when
Mr. Hamilton frequently spoke of the viscount with every
mark of approbation due to his public conduct ; of his private,
little was known, and still less inquired. He was famous in
the Upper House an animated and eloquent speaker se-
conding and aiding with powerful influence all Grahame's en-
deavors in the Lower House, and rendering himself to the lat-
ter a most able and influential friend. His brilliant qualities,
both as a member of parliament and of polite society, rendered
him universally courted ; yet notwithstanding this, Mr. Hamil-
ton had never invited him to his house.
" His public character, as far at least as it meets our eye,
is unquestionably worthy of admiration," he had said one day
to his wife, " but I know nothing more ; of his private charac-
ter and conduct I am and must remain ignorant, and there-
fore I will not expose my children to the fascination of his so-
ciety in the intimacy of home."
Mrs. Hamilton had agreed with him, but it required not
the " intimacy of home" to give Annie an opportunity of per-
suading Caroline towards secretly accepting his attentions, and
making an impression in his favor on her heart ; and the latter
looked to her entrie with the more pleasure, as she hoped, and
with some justice, it would give her many more opportunities
of meeting him than she now enjoyed. She saw before her, in
imagination, a long train of captives whom she would enslave,
still Lord Alphingham in all stood pre-eminent ; and visions of
varied nature, but all equally brilliant, floated before her eyes,
as she prepared for the grand ball which, for the first time in
her life, she was about to join.
The business of the toilette was completed, and we might
forgive the proud smile of exultation which curled round her
lip, as she gazed on the large pier glass which reflected her
whole figure. The graceful folds of the rich white silk that
formed her robe, suited well with the tall and commanding
form they encircled. The radiant clasp of diamonds securing
the braid of pearls which twined the dark glossy hair, glittered
with unusual brilliancy on that noble yet haughty brow, and
heightened the dazzling beauty of her countenance. The dark
THE mother's recompense. 43
eyes sparkling with animation, her cheek possessing the rose
of buoyant youth and health, the Grecian nose, the lip, which
even pride could not rob of its beauty, all combined to form a
face lovely indeed. Fanny had gazed and admired her young
lady with suppressed exclamations of delight, which were
strangely at yariance with the sigh that at that instant sounded
on Caroline's ear ; she turned hastily and beheld her mother,
who was gazing on her with looks of such excessive tenderness,
that a strange pang of self-reproach darted through her heart,
although I't was instantly banished by the fancy, that if it was
with a sigh her mother regarded her on such a night, how
could she look for sympathy in the pleasure then occupying
her mind. At Oakwood every feeling, every anticipation
would have been instantly imparted, but now she only longed
to meet Annie, that to her all might be told without restraint.
Painful, indeed, was this unwonted silence of a child to the
fond heart of Mrs. Hamilton, but she refused to notice it.
Much, very much, did she wish to say, but she saw by the
countenance of her daughter it might be considered mistimed ;
yet to launch the beautiful girl she saw before her into the
labyrinth of the world, without uttering one word of the
thoughts which were thronging on her mind, she felt was im-
possible. They might not have the effect she wished, yet she
would do her duty. Desiring Fanny to take her young lady's
shawl down stairs, she gently detained Caroline as she was
about to follow her.
" Listen to me but for a few minutes, my love," she said, in
that affectionate yet impressive tone, which seldom failed to
arrest the attention of her children, " and forgive me, if my
words fall harshly and coldly on your excited fancy. I know
well the feelings that are yours, though you perhaps think I do
not, by the involuntary sigh you heard, and I can sympathize
with them, though lately you have refused to seek my sympa-
thy. Bright as are your anticipations, reality for a time will
be still brighter. Brilliant will be the scenes of enchantment
in which you will mingle, ^brilliant, indeed, for you are beau-
Uful, my Caroline and admiration on all sides will be your
own. Why should you look on me with surprise, my child ?
that beauty on which perhaps my heart has often dwelt too
proudly, is not my gift nor of your creation. The Great
Being who has given you those charms of face and form will
mark how His gift is used ; and oh, forget not for one moment
His all-seeing eye is as much upon you in the crowded ball as
44 THE mother's recompense.
in the retirement of your own room. You will be exposed to
more temptations than have jet been yours ; the most danger-
ous temptations, adulation, triumph, exciting pleasures of every
kind, willbe around you. The world in radiant beauty will
loudly call upon you to follow it alone, to resign all things to
become its votary ; the trial of prosperity will indeed be yours.
Caroline, my child,. for my sake, if not for your own, resist
th3m all. My happiness is in your hands. Seek your God in
this ordeal, even more than you would in that of adversity;
there the spirit naturally flies from earth, here it clings tena^
oiously to the world. Pray to Him to resist the temptations
that will surround-^-implore Him to teach you the best use of
those charms He has bestowed on you. Forsake Him not;
Caroline, I conjure you, be not drawn away from Him. Do
not let your thoughts be so wholly engrossed by pleasure as to
prevent your bestowing on Him but one hour pf your day.
Let me clasp my child to my heart, when we return to Oak-
wood, unsullied, untouched by the stains of the world. Let me
have the blessed comfort of seeing my Caroline return to the
home of her childhood i^e same innocent happy being she was
when she left. I have ever endeavored to make you happy, to
give you those pleasures you naturally desire, to form your
character not only for the happiness of this world, but for that
of the next; then if you are ever tempted to do wrong, if no
higher consideration bids you pause, think on your mother,
Caroline ; remember my happiness or misery greatly depends
on yott; and, oh, if you have ever loved me, pause ere you pro-
ceed."
" Mother, do not doubt me ; Caroline Hamilton will never
sully th3 name she bears," replied Caroline, her eyes flashing,
and speaking proudly, to conceal the emotions her mother's
words had involuntarily produced.
Mrs. Hamilton gazed on the haughty and satisfied security
the features of her child expressed. A more softened feeling
would at that moment better have pleased the yearning heart
of the mother, but she checked the rising sigh of disappoint-
ment, and folding Caroline to her bosom, she imprinted a fond
kiss on her noble brow, and murmuring, " God in heaven bless
you, my child, and grant you sufl&cient strength," they descended
the stairs together.
Brilliant indeed was the scene that met the dazzled eyes of
Caroline, as she entered the elegant suite of rooms of the
Puchcss of Eothbury. The highest rank, the greatest talent,
TBE moiber's reoompenkb. 49
the loveliest of beantys daughters, the manliest and noblest of
her sons, were all assembled in that flood of light which every
apartment might be termed. Yet conld the varied counte-
nances of these noble crowds have clearly marked the charac-
ter within, what a strange and varied page in the book of hnman
life might that ball have nnfolded.
But various as are the characters that. compose an assem-
blage such as this, the tone is generally given by the character
and manner of the lady of the house, and her Grace the Duchess
of Rothbury was admirably fitted for the position she filled. A
daughter of fashion, bred up from her earliest years in scenes
of luxury and pomp, she had yet escaped the selfishness, the
artificial graces, which are there generally predominant. She
had married early in life, a marriage d la mode^ that is to say,
not of love, but of interest on the part of her parents, and on
her own, dazzled, perhaps, by the exalted rank of the man who
had made her an offer of his hand. They were happy. The
highly-principled mind of the Duchess revolted from that con-
duct, which would, even in the on dit of a censorious world,
have called the very ^stintest whisper on her name; and her
husband, struck by the unwavering honor and integrity of her
eonduct, gradually deserted the haunts of ignoble pleasures
which he had been wont to frequent, and paid her those marks
of consideration and respect, both in public and private life,
which she so greatly deserved. A large family had been the
fruits of this union, all of whom, except her two youngest
daughters and two of her sons, were married, and to the satis-
faction of their parents. There was a degree of reserve,
amounting to severity, in the character of the Duchess, which
prevented that same affectionate confidence between her and her
children as subsisted in Mr. Hamilton's family. Yet she had
been a kind and careful mother, and her children ever proved,
that surrounded as she constantly was by the fashionable and
tiie gay, she had presided over the education of her daughters,
and had been more than usually particular in the choice of
governesses. Violent as she might be considered in her preju-
dices for and against, yet there was that in her manner which
alike prevented the petty feelings of dislike and envy, and
equally debarred her from being regarded with any of that
warm affection, for which no one imagined how frequently she
had pined. She stood alone, respected, by many revered, and
she was now content with this, though her youth had longed
for somewhat more. Her chosen friend, spite of the diffeFeno
46 THE mother's recompense.
of rank, had been Mr. Hamilton's mother, and she had waiched
with the jealousy of true friendship the object of Arthur Ham-
ilton's love.
A brief yet penetrating survey of Emmeline Manvers' cha-
racter she took, and was satisfied. The devotion of Mrs. Ham*
ilton, for so many years, to her children, she had ever admired,
and frequently defended her with warmth when any one ven-
tured before her to condemn her conduct. Mr. and Mrs.
Hamilton regarded her with reverence and affection, and were
gratified at that kindness which insisted that the entrie of
Caroline should take place at her house.
The Earl and Countess Elmore were also pre-eminent among
the guests ^young, noble, exquisitely lovely, the latter at onoe
riveted all eyes, yet by the gracefid dignity of her manner,
repelled all advances of familiarity. She might have been
conscious of her charms, she could not fail to be, but she only
valued them as having attracted towards her the man she
loved. She only used them to endear him to his home ; and
it was when alone with the Earl, that the sweet playfulness of
her character was displayed to its full extent, and scarcely
could he then believe her the same being who in society
charmed as much by her dignity and elegance, as by her sur-
passing beauty. The family of the Marquis of Malvern were
also present; they had been long known to Mr. and Mrs.
Hamilton, who were glad to resume an intimacy which had
been checked by their retirement, but which had ever been
remembered with mutual pleasure. The Earl of St. Eval
eldest son of the Marquis, might have been thought by many,
who only knew him casually, as undeserving of the high renown
he enjof ed ; and many young ladies would have wondered at
Emmeline Hamilton's undisguised admiration. Handsome he
certainly was not ; yet intelligence and nobleness were stamped
upon that broad straight brow, and those dark eyes were capa-
ble at times of speaHng the softest emotions of the human
heart. But it was only when he permitted himself to speak
with energy that his countenance was displayed to advantage,
and then the bright rays of intellect and goodness which gilded
every feature, aided by the eloquent tones of his full rich voice,
would have made the most careless turn and look again, and
ask why they admired ; but such times were few. Keserved,
almost painfully so, he was generally prone in such scenes as
this to stand alone, for few indeed were those of either sex with
whom the soul of Eugene St. Eval could hold commune ; but
THS mother's eecomfeme. 47
tiiis night there was more animation than nsual glittering in
his dark eyes. He was the first of the admiring crowd to join
Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton's party, and petition for the hand of
Caroline in the next quadrille. It was with a smile of proud
satisfaction her father relinquished her to the young man, for
she had consented, although the watchful eye of her mother
observed her glance round the room, as if in search for some
other, and a shade of disappointment pass over her brow, that
said her search was fruitless ; that feeling was but momentary,
however. She joined the festive throng, and her young heart
beat quicker as she met the many glances of undisguised admi-
ration fixed constantly upon her. Seldom had Mr. Hamilton
been so beset as he was that night by the number of young men
who pressed forward to implore him for an introduction to his
beautiful daughter ; and Caroline's every anticipation of tri-
umph was indeed fulfilled. Her mother was right. Beality
was in this case far more dazzling than even imagination had
been. There were many in that splendid scene equally, per-
haps even more beautiful' than Caroline Hamilton, but she
possessed the charm of which almost all around her were
deprived, that of novelty. She was, indeed, a novice amid
scenes of fashion, and the genuine pleasure her countenance
expressed, appeared a relief when compared to many around
her. The name of Hamilton had never been entirely forgot-
ten in London. Their singularity in living so long in unbroken
retirement had been by many ridiculed, by others condemned,
as an attempt to appear better than their neighbors ; and many
were the speculations as to whether the saintly Mr. and Mrs.
Hamilton would really do such a wicked thing as introduce
their daughters into society ; or whether they would keep the
poor girls in the country like nuns, to be moped to death.
Great, therefore, was the astonishment of some, and equally
great the pleasure to others, when Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton
reappeared amongst their London friends ; and that night the
warm greetings of many old friends who thronged around them,
eager to introduce to their notice the young members of their
&milies, afforded a pleasing satisfaction to the heart of Mrs.
Hamilton, whose gentle courtesy and winning smile they found
had not in the least deserted her. The feelings of a mother
twelled warmly within her as she gazed on her child ; her fond
heart throbbed with chastened pride, as she marked the un-
feigned and respectful admiration Caroline received, and these
emotions, combined with the pleasure she felt at beholding
48 THE mother's REOOSfPENSE.
again well-remembered faces, and hearing the glad tones of
eager greeting, caused this evening to be equally as pleasura-
ble to her, though in a different way, as it was to Caroline.
The attentions of Eugene St. Eval to Miss Hamilton con-
tinued as unintermitting as they were respectful the whole of
that night ; and Caroline, if she did not encourage, certainly
forbade them not. She listened to him with more attention
she appeared more animated with him than with any of her
other partners, one, perhaps, alone excepted, and yet she had
taught her young heart to receive impressions to his prejudice,
which Annie never permitted an opportunity to pass without
carefully instilling. Why did she then permit his attentions ?
She knew not ; while listening to his voice, there was a fasci-
nation about him she could not resist, but in her solitary hours
she studiously banished his image to give place to one whom,
by the representations of Annie, she persuaded herself that
she loved alone.
Genuine, indeed, had been the enjoyment of Caroline
Hamilton, from the first moment she had entered the ball-
room ; but if it could be heightened, it was when, about the
middle of the evening. Lord Alphingham entered. A party
of gay young men instantly surrounded him, but breaking from
them all, he attached himself the greater part of the night to
Mr. Hamilton. Only two quadrilles he danced with Caroline,
but they were enough to aid the schemes of Annie. She was
at hand to excite, to an almost painful degree, the mind of her
friend, to speak in rapturous praise of Lord Alphingham, to
chain him now and then to her side, and yet so contrive, that
the whole of his conversation was with Caroline ; and yet the
conduct of Annie Grahame had been such that night as rather
to excite the admiration than the censure of Mr. Hamilton.
Playfully he combated the prejudice of his wife, who as sport-
ively owned that Miss Grahame's conduct in society was differ-
ent to that she had anticipated ; but her penetrative mind felt
not the more at ease when she thought on the friendship that
subsisted between Annie and her child.
" Am I dreaming, or is it Mrs. Hamilton I again behold ?"
exclaimed an elderly gentleman, as she came forward, and
hastily advancing, seized both her hands, and pressed them
with unfeigned warmth and pleasure, which greeting Mrs.
Hamilton as cordially returned. He was a very old friend of
ner father's, and had attained by promotion his present high
rank of Admiral of the Blue, but had been the first $aptain
THE mother's recompense. 49
nnder whose orders her lamented brother sailed. Very many,
therefore, were the associations that filled her mind as she be
held him, and her mild eyes for a moment glistened in uncon-
trollable emotion.
" How very many changes have taken place since we have
come alongside, Mrs. Hamilton," the old veteran said, gazing
on the blooming matron before him with almost paternal
pleasure. '^ Poor Delmont ! could his kind heart have borne
up against the blow of poor Charles's fate, he surely would have
been happy, if all the tales I hear of his daughter Emmeline
be true."
"Come and judge for yourself, Sir George; my home
must ever be open to my father's dearest friend," replied
Mrs. Hamilton, endeavoring by speaking playfully to conceal
the painful reminiscences called forth by his words, " I will
not vouch for the truth of any thing you may have heard about
us in London. You must contrive to moor your ship into the
harbor of Oakwood, and thus gratify us all."
^Ay, ay; take care that I do not cast anchor there so
long, that you will find the best thing will be to cut the cables,
send me adrift, and thus get rid of me," replied the old sailor,
delighted at her addressing him in nautical phrase. " Your
appearance here has belied half the stories I heard ; so now
that you have given me permission, I shall set sail to discover
the truth of the rest."
" You heard, I suppose, that Mr. Hamilton never intended
his children to visit London? They were too good, too
what may I term it ? ^too perfect to mingle with their fellow-
creatures ; is not that it. Admiral?" demanded Mrs. Hamil-
ton, with a smile.
" Ay, ay ; something very like it, ^but glad to see the
wind is changed from that corner. Don't like solitude, parti-
cularly for young folks, and how many are here ?"
" Of my children ?" The veteran nodded. " But one, my
eldest girL I do not consider her sister quite old enough to
be introduced."
" And you left her in harbor, and only permitted one
frigate to cruise. If she had any of her uncle Charles's spirit,
she would have shown some little insubordination at that piece
of discipline, Mrs. Hamilton," said the old man, joyously.
"Not if my authority is established somewhat like Sit
George's, on the basis of affection," replied Mrs. Hamiltoui
gain smiling.
3
50 THE UOTHEE's |liX:!OMPENSE.
*^Ay, you have learnt that secret of goyernment, haye
you ? Now who would think this was the little quiet girl I
had dandled on my knee, and told her tales of storm and war
that made her shudder ? And where are your ons ?"
Both at college."
"What, neither of them a chip of the old block, and
neither of them for the sea? Don't like their taste. N
spirit of salt-water within them."
^'' But neither of them deficient in spirit for a life on shore.
But, however, to set your heart at ease, for the naval honor ol
our family. Sir George, I have a nephew, who, I think, some
few years hence will prove a brave and gallant son of Neptune.
The accounts we have of him are most pleasing. He has
inherited all poor Charles's spirit and daring, as well as that
true courage for which you have said my brother was so re-
markable."
" Glad of it ^glad of it ; but what nephew % who is he %
A nephew of Mr. Hamilton's will not raise the glory of the
Delmont family ; and you had only one brother, if I remem-
ber rightly."
" Have you quite forgotten the beautiful girl who, when I
last had the pleasure of meeting you in such a scene as this,
was the object of universal attraction ? You surely remember
my father's favorite Eleanor, Sir George ?"
" Eleanor Eleanor ^let me think ;" and the old sailor for
a moment put himself in a musing attitude, and then starting,
exclaimed, " to be sure I do ; the loveliest girl I ever cast
eyes upon ; and what has become of her % By the by, there
Was some story about her, was there not ? She chose a husband
for herself, and ran off, and broke her poor father's heart
Where is she now ?"
" Let her faults be forgotten, my dear Sir George," replied
Mrs. Hamilton, with some emotion. " They were fully, pain-
fully repented. Let them die with her."
"Die! Is she, too, dead? What, that graceful sylph,
that exquisite creature I see before me now, in all the pride of
conscious loveliness !" and the veteran drew his rough hand
across his eyes in unfeigned emotion, then hastily recovering
himself, he said, "and this boy ^this sailor is her son. I
can hardly believe it possible. Why, he surely cannot be old
enough to go to sea."
" You forget the number of years that have passed. Sir
George. Edward is now eighteen, as old, if not older, than
his mother was when you last saw her."
THE mother's recompense. 51
" And when did poor Eleanor die ?"
-' Six years ago. She had been left a widow in India^ and
only reached her native land to breathe her last m my arms.
You will be pleased, I think, with her daughter, though, on
second thought, perhaps, she may not be quite lively enough
for you ; however, I must beg your notice for her, as her at-
tachment to her brother is so excessive, that all relating to the
sea is to her in the highest degree interesting."
"And do your sister's children live with you ^had their
father no relations?
" None ; and even if he had, I should have petitioned to
bring them up and adopt them as my own. Poor children,
when their mother died, their situation was indeed melancholy.
Helpless orphans of ten and scarcely twelve, cast on a strange
land, without one single friend to whom they could look for
succor or protection. My heart bled for them, and never
once have I regretted my decision."
The old man looked at her glowing cheek in admiration,
and pressing her hand, he said warmly, prefacing his words, as
he always did, with the affirmative " ay, ay."
" Your father's daughter must be somewhat different to
others of her rank. I must come and see you, positively I
must. Wind and tide will be strongly against me, if you do
not see me in a few days anchoring off your coast. No storms
disturb your harbor, I fancy. But what has become of your
husband ^your daughter ? let me see all I can belonging to
you. Come, Mrs. Hamilton, crowd sail, and tow me at once
to my wished-for port."
Entering playfully into the veteran's humor, Mrs. Hamil
ton took his arm and returned to the ball-room, where she was
speedily joined by her husband, who welcomed Sir George
Wilmot with as much warmth and cordiality as his wife had
done, and as soon as the quadrille was finished, a glance from
her mother brought Caroline and her partner, Lord Alphing-
ham, to her side.
The astonishment of Sir G-eorge, as Mrs. Hamilton intro-
duced the blooming girl before him as her daughter, was so
irresistibly comic, that no one present could prevent a smile ,
and that surprise was heightened when, in answer to his sup-
Position that she must be the eldest of Mrs. Hamilton's family,
Irs. Hamilton replied that her two sons were both older, and
Caroline was, indeed, the youngest but one.
Then I tell you what, Mrs. Hamilton," the old veteran
52 THE mother's KECOlfPENSE.
said, " Old Time has been playing tricks with me, and drawing
me much nearer eternity than I at all imagined myself, or else
he has stopped with me and gone on with you."
" Or, rather, my good friend," replied Mr. Hamilton, " you
ean only trace the hand of Time upon yourself, having no
children in whose increasing years you can behold him, and,
therefore, he is very likely to slip the cable before you are
aware ; but with us such cannot be."
" Ay, ay, Hamilton, suppose it must be so ^wish I had some
children of my own, but shall come and watch Time's progress
on these instead. Ah, Miss Hamilton, why am I such an old
man ? I see all the youngsters running off with the pretty
girls, and I canaot venture to ask one to dance with me."
" May I venture to ask you then. Sir G-eorge? The name
of Admiral Wilmot would be sufficient for any girl, I should
think, to feel proud of her J)artner, even were he much older and
much less gallant than you, Sir G-eorge," answered Caroline,
with ready courtesy, for she had often heard her mother speak
of him, and his manner pleased her.
" Well, that's a pretty fair challenge. Sir George ; you must
take up the glove thrown from so fair a hand," observed Lord
Alphingham, with a smile that, to Caroline, and even to her
mother, rendered his strikingly handsome features yet hand'
somer. '* Shall I relinquish my partner ?
" No, no, Alphingham ; you are better suited to her here.
At home at your oion home, Miss Hamilton, one night, I shall
remind you of your promise, and we will trip it together. Now
I can only thank you for your courtesy; it has done my heart
good, andf reconciled me to my old age."
" I may chance to find a rival at home, Sir George. If you
see my sister, you will not be content with me. She will use
every effort to surpass me in your good graces ; for when I
tell her I have seen the brave admiral whose exploits have
often caused her cheek to flush with pride ^patriot pride she
calls it she will be wild till she has seen you."
" Will she ^will she, indeed 1 Come and see her to-morrow ;
tell her so, with an old man's love, and that I scolded your
mother heartily for not bringing her to-night. Mind orders ;
let me see if you are sailor enough instinctively to obey an old
captain's orders."
" Trust me, Sir George," replied Caroline, laughingly, and
a young man at that instant addressing her by name, she bow-
ed gracefully to the veteran, and turned towards him who
spoke.
THE MOTUEH'S RECOMPENSX. 51
' Miss Hamilton, I claim your promise for this quadrille/'
said Lord Henry D'Este.
" Good bye," said Sir G-eorge. " I shall claim you for my
partner when I see you at home."
"' St Eval dancing again. Mercifol powers I we certainly
shall have the roof tumbling over our heads, exclaimed Lord
Henry, as he and Caroline found themselves vis avis \xi the
earl of whom he spoke.
" Why, is it so very extraordinary that a young man should
dance ?" demanded Caroline.
" A philosopher, as he is, decidedly. You do not know
him, Miss Hamilton. He travelled all over Europe, I believe,
really for the sake of improvement, instead of pnjoying all the
fan he might have had; he stored his brain with all sorts of
knowledge, collecting material and stealing legends to write a
book. I went with him part of the way, but became so tired
of my companion, that I turned recreant and fled, to enjoy a
more spirited excursion of my own. I tell him, whenever I
want a lecture on all subjects, I shall come to him. I call him
the Walking Cyclopaedia ; and only fancy such a personage
dancing a quadrille. What lady can' have the courage to turn
over the leaves of the Cyclopaedia in a quadrille ? let me see.
Oh, Lady Lucy Melville, our noble hostess's daughter. She
pretends to be a bit of a blue, therefore they are not so ill-
matched as I imagined ; however, she is not very bad ^not a
deep blue, only just tinged with celestial azure. Sweet crea-
ture, how you will be edified before your lesson is over. Look,
Miss Hamilton, on the other side of the Cyclopsadia. That
good lady has been the last seven years dancing with all her
night and main for a husband. There is another, striving by
an air of elegant hauteur, to prove she is something very great,
when really, she is nothing at all. There's a girl just intro-
duced, as our noble poet says."
" Take care, take caro. Lord Henry; you are treading on
dangerous ground," exclaimed Caroline, unable to prevent
laughing at the comic manner in which her companion criticised
the dancers. " You forget that I too have only just been re-
leased, and this is only my first glimpse of the world."
" You do me injustice. Miss Hamilton. I am too delight-
fully and refreshingly reminded of that truth to forget it for one
instant You may have only just made your dSnU^ but you
have not been schooled and scolded, and frightened into pro-
priety as that unfortunate girl hits. If she has smiled once
54 THE mother's recompense.
too naturally, spoken one word too much, made one step wrongs
or said sir, my lord, your lordship, once too often, she will have
such a lecture to-morrow, she will never wish to go to a ball
again."
" Poor girl !" said Caroline, in a tone of genuine pity, which
caused a smile from her partner.
*' She is not worthy of your pity. Miss Hamilton ; she is
hardened to it all. What a set we are dancing with, men and
women, all heartless alike ; but I want to know what magic
wand has touched St. Eval. I do believe it must be your eyes,
Miss Hamilton. He talks to his partner, and looks at you ;
tries to do two things at once, listen to her and hear your voice.
You are the enchantress, depend upon it."
A glow of triumph burned on the heart of Caroline at these
words. For though rather prejudiced against St. Eval by the
arts of Annie, still, to make an impression on one to whom she
had heard was invulnerable to all, to make the calm, and some
said, severely stoical, St. Eval bend beneath her power, was a
triumph she determined to achieve. That spirit of coquetry,
so fatal to her aunt, the ill-fated Eleanor, was as innate in the
bosom of Caroline ; no opportunity had yet afforded to give it
play, still the seeds were there, and she could not resist the
temptation now presented. Even in her childhood, Mrs. Ham-
ilton had marked this fatal propensity. Every effort had been
put in force to check it, every gentle counsel given, but arrest-
ed in its growth though it was, erased entirely it could not be.
The principles of virtue had been too carefully instilled, for
coquetry to attain the same ascendency and indulgence with
Caroline as it had with her aunt, yet she felt she could no lon-
ger control the inclination which the present opportunity affor-
ded her to use her power.
" Do you go to the Marchioness of Malvern's f^te, next
week?" demanded Lord Henry. Caroline answered in the
affirmative.
" I am glad of it. The Walking Cyclopaedia may make
himself as agreeable there as he has so marvelously done to-
night. You will be in fairy land. He has brought flowers
from every country and reared them for his mother, till they
have become the admiration of all for miles around. I told
him he looked like a market gardener, collecting flowers from
every place he went to. I dragged him away several times,
and told him be certainly would be taken for a country booby,
and scolded him for demeaning his rank with such ignoble
plersures,. and what wise answer do you think he made me ?"
THE mother's recompense. 55
^ A very excellent one, I have no doubt."
" Or it would not come from such a learned personage^
Miss Hamilton. Really it was so philosophic, I was obliged
to learn it as a lesson to retain it. That he, superior as he
deemed himself, and that wild flower which he tended with so
much care, were alike the work of Infinite Wisdom, and as
such, the stuc\ of one could not demean the other. I stared
at him, and for \he space of a week dubbed him the Preaching
Pilgrim ; but I was soon tired of that, and resumed hie former
one, which comprises all I wonder at what letter the walking
volume will be opened at his mother's f^te ?"
" I should imagine B," said Caroline, smiling.
" B B ^what does B stand for^^ I have forgotten bow to
spell ^let me see. Ah ! I have it, excellent, admirable ! Miss
Hamilton. Lecture on Botany firom the Walking Cyclopaedia
^bravo ! We had better scrape up all our learning, to prove
we are not perfect ignoramuses on the subject."
Caroline laughingly agreed ; and the quadrille being finish-
ed. Lord Henry succeeded in persuading her to accompany
him to the refreshment-room.
In the meanwhile, perfectly unconscious that he had been
the subject of the animated conversation of his vis a ins, St
Eval was finding more and more to admire in Miss Hamilton.
He conducted his partner to her seat as she desired, and then
strolled towards Mr. Hamilton's party, in the hope that Caro-
line would soon rejoin her mother ; but Annie had been in the
refreshment-room, and she did not reappear for some little
time. Mrs. Hamilton had at length been enabled to seek Lady
Helen Grahame, with whom she remained conversing, for she
felt, though the delay was unavoidable, she partly deserved the
reproach with which Lady Helen greeted her, when she enter-
ed, for permitting the-whole evening to pass without coming
near her. Mrs. Hamilton perceieved, with regret, that she was
more fitted for the quiet of her own boudoir, than the glare and
heat of crowded rooais. Gently she ventured to expostulate
with her on her endeavors, and Lady Helen acknowledged she
felt quite unequal to the exertion, but that the persuasions of
her daughter had brought her there. She was too indolent to
add, she had seen nothing of Annie the whole evening ; nor did
she wish to say anything that might increase the disapproba-
tion with which she sometimes felt, though Annie heeded it
[lot. Mrs. Hamilton regarded her child. It was admiration,
ilmost veneration, which Lady Helen felt for Mrs. Hamilton^
56 THE mother's recompense.
and no one could have imagined how very frequently the in-
dolent but well-meaning woman had regretted what she deemed
was her utter inability to act with the same firmness that cha*
racterized her friend. She was delighted at the notice Lilla
ever received from her ; but blinded by the artfril manners of
her elder girl, she often wished that Annie had been the favor*
ite instead. There was somewhat in Mrs. Hamilton's manner
that night that caused her to feel her own inferiority more than
ever; but no self-reproach mingled with the feeling. She
could not be like her, and then why should she expect or de-
plore what was impossible. Leaning on Mrs. Hamilton's arm,
she resolved, however, to visit the ball-room, and they reached
Mr. Hamilton at the instant Grahame joined theuL
" You here, Grahame !" exclaimed his friend, as he ap-
proached. " I thought you had forsworn such things."
" I make an exception to-night," he answered. " I wished
to see my fair friend Caroline where I have longed to see her."
" You are honored, indeed, Mrs. Hamilton," Lady Helen
could not refrain from saying. '^ He was not present at the
entree even of his own daughter."
" And why was I not, Lady Helen ? because I would not
by my presence give the world reason to say I also approved
of the very early age at which Miss Grahame was introduced.
If I do not mistake, she is four months younger than Caroline,
and yet my daughter is no longer a novice in such scenes as
these."
Lady Helen shrunk in terror from the stern glance of her
husband, who little knew the pain he inflicted ; and Mrs. Ha-
milton hastily, but cautiously drew her away to enter into con-
versation with the Marchioness of Malvern, who was near them,
which little manoeuvre quickly removed the transient cloud ;
and though soon again compelled to seek the shelter of the
quiet little room she had quitted, the friendly kindness of Mrs.
Hamilton succeeded in making Lady Helen's evening end
more agreeably than it had begun.
" Are you only just released, Grahame ?" demanded Lord
Alphingham, who still remained near Mr. Hamilton.
" You are less fortunate than I was, or perhaps you will
think, in parliamentary concerns, more so ; but as the ball was
uppermost in my thoughts this evening, I was glad to find
myself at liberty above an hour ago."
" Is there nothing, then, stirring in the Upper House ?"
^ Nothing ; I saw many of the noble members fast asleep^
TBE mother's recompensb. 57
and those who spoke said little to the purpose. When do yon
gentlemen of the Lower House send up your bill ? it will be a
charity to give us something to do."
" We shall be charitable then on Friday next, and I much
doubt if you do not have some warm debating work. If we
succeed, it will be a glorious triumph ; the Whigs are violent
against us, and they are by far the strongest party. I depend
greatly on your eloquence, Alphingham."
* It is yours to the full extent of its power, my good friend ;
it carries some weight along with it, I believe, and I would
gladly use it in a good cause."
" Did you speak to-night, Grahame?" Mr. Hamilton asked,
evincing by his animated countenance an interest in politics,
which, from his retired life, no one believed that he possessed.
Grahame eagerly entered into the detail of that night's debate,
and for a little time the three gentlemen were absorbed in po-
litics alone. The approach of Caroline and her mother, how-
ever, caused Grahame suddenly to break off in his speech.
"A truce with debates, for the present," he gayly ex-
claimed, " Hamilton, I never saw Caroline's extraordinary
likeness to you till this moment. What a noble-looking girl
she is ! Ah, Hamilton, I could pardon you if you were much
prouder of your children than you are."
An involuntary sigh broke from his lips as he spoke, but
checking it, he hastened to Caroline, and amused her with
animated discourse, till Lord Alphingham and Eugene St.
Eval at the same instant approached, the one to claim, the
other to request, Caroline as his partner in the last quadrille
before supper. The shade of deep disappointment which
passed over the young EarPs expressive countenance as Caro-
line eagerly accepted the Viscount's offered arm, and owned
she had been engaged to him some time, at once confirmed to
her flattered fancy the truth of Lord Henry's words, and occa-
sioned a feeling near akin to pleasure in the equally observant
mother. Mrs. Hamilton shrunk with horror at the idea of in
troducing her child into society merely for the purpose of
decoying a husband ; but she must have been void of natural
feeling had not the thought very often crossed her mind, that
the time was drawing nigh when her daughter's earthly destiny
would, in all probability, be fixed for ever : and in the midst
of the tremblings of maternal love the natural wish would
mingle, that noble rank and manly virtue might be the endow-
ments of him who would wed her Caroline, and amonsgt those
3*
5b THE MOTHER^ EECOMPENSE.
nobiv youths with whom she had lately mingled, she had seei
but tyfte her fond heart deemed on all points worthy of her
ohild, and that one was the young Earl Eugene St. EvaL
That ne was attracted, her penetrating eye could scarcely
doubt, but farther she would not think ; and so great was her
eensitiveuess on this head, that much as she admired the young
man, she was much more reserved with him than she would
have been had she suspected nothing of his newly-dawning
feelings.
St. Eva! did not join in the quadrille, and after lingering
by Mrs. Hamilton till she was invited to the supper-room, he
aroused the increased merriment of his tormentor. Lord Henry,
by offering her nis arm, conducting her to supper, and devoting
himself to her, he declared, as if she were the youngest and
prettiest girl in the room.
'' Paying the agreeable to mamma, to win the good graces
of lafille. Admirable diplomacy ; Lord St. Eval, I wish you
joy of your new talent ;" maliciously remarked Lord Henry,
as the Earl and his companion passed him. A glance from
those dark eyes, severe enough to have sent terror to the soul
of any less reckless than Lord Henry, was St. Eval's only
reply, and he passed on ; and seldom did Mrs. Hamilton find a
companion more to her taste in a supper-room than the young
Earl. The leaves of the Walking Cyclopaedia were indeed
then opened, Henry D'Este would have said, for on very many
subjects did St. Eval allow himself that evening to converse,
which, except to his mother and sisters, were ever locked in
the recesses of his own reflecting mind ; but there w&s a kind-
ness, almost maternal, which Mrs. Hamilton unconsciously
used to every young person who sought her company, and that
charm the young and gifted nobleman never could resist. He
spoke of her sons in a manner that could not fail to attract a
mother's heart. The six months he had spent with them at
college had been suflSicient for him to form an intimate friend-
ship with Percy, whose endeavors to gain his esteem he had
been unable to resist; while he regretted that the reserved
disposition of Herbert, being so like his own, had prevented
his knowing him so well as his brother. He spoke too of a dis-
tant relative of Mrs. Hamilton's, the present Lord Delmont, in
whom, as the representative of her ancient family, she was much
interested. St. Eval described with eloquence the lovely villa
he occupied on the banks of Lago Guardia, near the frontiers
of the Tyrol, the health of his only sister, some few years
THE mother's recompense. 59
younger than himself, not permitting them to live in England ;
De had given up all the invitations to home and pleasure held
out to him by his father-land, and retiring to Italjj devoted
himself entirely to his mother and sister.
" He is a brother and son after your own heart, Mrs.
Hamilton," concluded St. Eval. with animation, ^ and that ia
\he highest compliment I can pay him."
Mrs. Hamilton smiled, and as she gazed on the glowing
Matures of the young man, she thought he who could so well
ippreciate such virtues could not be ^nay, she knew he was
Dot deficient in them himself, and stronger than ever became
her secret wish ; but she hastily banished it, and gave her sole
attention to the interesting subjects on which St. Eval con-
tinued to speak.
For some few hours after supper the ball continued, ^th
even, perhaps more spirit than it had commenced ; but St.
Eval did not ask Caroline to dance again. He fancied 9he
preferred Alphingham's attentions, and his sensitive mind
shrunk from being again refused. Caroline knew not the
heart of him over whom she had resolved to use her power,
perhaps if she had, she would have hesitated in her determina-
tion. The least encouragement made his heart glow with an
uncontrollable sensation of exquisite pleasure, while repulse
bade it sink back with an equal if not a greater degree of pain.
St. Eval was conscious of this weakness in his character ; he
was aware that he possessed a depth of feeling, which, unless
steadily controlled, would tend only to his misery ; and it was
for this he clothed himself in impenetrable reserve, and ob-
tained from the world the character of being proud and disa-
greeable. He dreaded the first entrance of love within his
bosom, for instinctively he felt that his very sensitiveness
would render the passion more his misery than his joy. We
are rather skeptics in the doctrine of love at first sight, but in
this case it was fervid and enduring, as if it had risen on the
solid basis of intimacy and esteem. From the first hour he
had spent in the society of Caroline Hamilton, Eugene St.
Eval loved. He tried to subdue and conquer his newly-awak-
ened feelings, and would think he had succeeded, but the next
hour he passed in her society brought the truth clearer than
ever before his eyes ; her image alone occupied his heart. He
shrunk, in his overwrought sensitiveness, from paying her
those attentions which would have marked his preference ; he
did not wish to excite the remarks of the world, nor did ho
feel that he possessed sufficient courage to bear the re)^ulae
60 THE mother's recompense.
with which, if she did not regard him, and if she were the girl
he fancied her, she would check his forwardness. But his
heart beat high, and it was with some difficulty he controlled
his emotion, when he perceived that Caroline refused to dance
even with Lord Alphingham, on several occasions to continue
conversing with himself How his noble spirit would have
chafed and bled, could he have known it was love of power
and coquetry that dictated her manner, and not regard, as for
the time he allowed himself to fancy.
The evening closed, the noble guests departed, and day-
light had resumed its reign over the earth by the time Mr.
Hamilton's carriage stopped in Berkeley Square. Animatedly
had Caroline conversed with her parents on the pleasures of
the evening during their drive ; but when she reached her own
room, when Martyn had left her, and she was alone, she was
not quite sure if a few faint whisperings of self-reproach did
not in a degree alloy the retrospection of this her first glimpse
of the gay world; but quickly ^perhaps too quickly they
were banished. The attentions of Lord Alphingham ^height-
ened in their charm by Miss Grahame's positive assurance to
her friend that the Viscount was attracted, there was not the
very slightest doubt of it and the proposed pleasure of com-
pelling the proud, reserved St. Eval to yield to her fascina-
tions, alone occupied her fancy. To make him her captive
would be triumph indeed. She wished, too, to show Annie
she was not so completely under control as she fancied; that
she, too, could act with the spirit of a girl of fashion ; and to
choose St. Eval, and succeed charm him to her side ^force
him to pay her attentions which no other received, would, in-
deed, prove to her fashionable companions that she was not so
entirely governed by her mother, so very simple and spiritless
as they supposed. Her power should do that which all had
attempted in vain. Her cheek glowed, her heart burned with
the bright hope of expected triumph, and when she at length
sunk to sleep, it was to dream of St. Eval at her feet.
Oh! were the counsels, the example, the appeal of her
mother all forgotten? Was this a mother's recompense?
Alas! alas!
CHAPTER IV.
NcjMERous were the cards and invitations now left at Mr.
Hamilton's door ; and the world, in its most tempting form.
THE HOTHS&'S KECOMFENSE. 61
wa.j indeed spread before Caroline, although, perhaps, com-
pared with the constant routine of pleasure pursued oy some
young ladies who attended two or three assemblies each of the
six nights out of the seven, her life could scarcely be called
gay. Mr. Hamilton had drawn a line, and, difficult as it was
to keep, he adhered to his resolution, notwithstanding the en-
treaties of his friends, and very often those of his daughter.
A dinner-party and a ball he would sometumes permit Caro-
line to attend in one day, but the flying from house to house,
*o taste of every pleasure offered, he never would allow. Nor
did he or any member of his family ever attend the Opera on
Saturday night, however great might be the attractions. To
Emmeline this was a great privation, as poetry and music had
ever been her chief delights, and the loss of even one night's
enjoyment was felt severely; but she acquiesced without a
murmur, appreciating the truth of her father's remark, that it
was impossible to pay attention to the Sabbath duties when
the previous evening had been thus employed. She knew,
too, how difficult it was to attend to her studies (due regard
for which her parents required amidst every recreation) on the
Wednesday, with every air she had so delighted in the previ-
ous night ringing in her ears. Those who were eager to con-
demn Mrs. Hamilton whenever they could, declared it was the
greatest inconsbtency to take Emmeline to the Opera, and per-
mit her to appear so often in company at home, and yet in
other matters be so strict ; why could she not bring her out at
once, instead of only tantalizing her? but Mrs. Hamilton
could never do any thing like any body else. Her daughters
were much to be pitied ; and as for her niece, she must pass a
miserable life, for she was scarcely ever seen. They had no
doubt, with all Mrs. Hamilton's pretensions to goodness, that
her poor niece was utterly neglected, and keptquite in the
background ; because she was so beautiful, Mrs. Hamilton was
jealous of the notice she might obtain.
So thought, and so very often spoke, the ill-natured half of
the world, who, in reality, jealous and displeased at being ex-
cluded from Mr Hamilton's visiting list, did every thing in
their power to lessen the estimation in which the family was
held. In this^ however they could not succeed, nor in causing
pain to to those whom they wished to wound. Such petty ma-
lice demanded not a second thought from minds so well regu-
lated as those of Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton. Mrs. Hamilton,
indeed, turned their ill-natured remarks to advantage, for in-
b2 THE mother's recompense.
stead of neglecting or wholly despising them, she considered
them in her own heart, and in solitary reflection pondered
deeply if she in any way deserved them. She knew that the
lesson of self-knowledge is never entirely learnt ; and she knew
too, that an enemy may say that in ill-will or malice which may
have some foundation, though our friends, aided by self-love,
may have hidden the truth from us. Deeply did this noble
woman think on her plan of conduct ; severely she scrutinized
its every motive, and she was at peace. Before entering upon
it she had implored the Divine blessing, and she felt that, in
the case of Emmeline and Cillen, her prayers for guidance had
not been unheeded. Perhaps her conduct, with regard to the
former, might have appeared inconsistent ; but she felt no ?ll-
will towards those who condemned, knowing the disposition of
her child, and certainly those who thus spoke did not.
Although there was little more than fourteen months'
diference between the age of the sisters, Emmeline was bo
much a child in simplicity and feeling, that her mother felt
assured it would neither be doing her good nor tending to her
happiness to introduce her with her sister ; as, from the little
difference in their ages, some mothers might have been inclined
to do. Yet she did not wish to keep her in such entire seclu-
sion as some, even of her friends advised, but permitted her
the enjoyment of those innocent pleasures natural to her taste.
Emmeline had never once murmured at this arrangement;
however it interfered with her most earnest wishes, her confi-
dence in ner parents was such, that she ever submitted to their
wishes with cheerfulness. Mrs. Hamilton knew and sympa-
thized in her feelings at leaving Oakwood. She felt there
were indeed few pleasures in London that could compensate
to a disposition such as Emmeline's for those she had left.
She had seen, with ;oy and thankfulness, the conquest of self
which her child had so perseveringly achieved ; and surely
she was not wrong to reward her, by giving her every gratifi-
cation in her power, and endeavoring to make her as happy
as she was at Oakwood. Emmeline was no longer a child,
and these pleasures interfered not with the attention her pa-
rents still wished her to bestow on the completion of her edu
cation. With all the innocence and quiet of a young child she
enjoyed the seletrt parties given by her mother with the same
zest, but with the poetic feelings of dawning youth. She ab-
solutely revelled in the Opera, and there her mother generally
iccompanied her once a week. An artist might have found a
THE MOTHEE's &ECOMPENSE. 63
pleasing study in the contemplation of that jonng, bright
&ee, as she sat entranced, every sense absorbed in the mosio
which she heard, the varying expression of her countenance
reflecting every emotion acted before her. At such moments
the fond mother felt it to be impossible to deny the young
enthusiast the rich treat these musical recreations afforded.
A smile or look of sympathy was ever ready to meet the often
oncontroUed expressions of delight which Emmeline could not
suppress, for in thus listening to the compositions of our great
masters, even those much older than Emmeline can seldom
entirely command their emotions. Natural as were the man-
ners of Caroline in public, they almost resembled art when
compared with those of her sister. Mrs. Hamilton's lesson
on self-control had not been forgotten. Emmeline generally
contrived to behave with perfect propriety, except in moments
of excitement such as these, where natural enthusiasm and al-
most childish glee would have their play, and her mother
could not, would not check them.
With regard to Ellen, the thoughtless remarks of the world
were indeed unfounded, as all who recollect the incidents de-
tailed in former pages will readily believe. Her he^th still
continued so delicate as frequently to occasion her aunt some
anxiety. Through the winter, strange to say, she had not suf-
fered, but the spring brought on, at intervals, those depressing
feelings of languor which Mrs. Hamilton hoped had been en-
tirely conquered. The least exertion or excitement caused her
to suffer the following day, and therefore, except at very small
parties, she did not appear even at home. No one could sus-
pect from her quiet and controlled manner, and her apparently
inanimate though beautiful features, that she was as enthusias-
tic in mind and in the delights of the Opera as her cousin
Emmeline. By no one we do not mean her aunt, for Mrs.
Hamilton could now trace every feeling of that young and sor-
rowful heart, and she saw with regret, that in her niece's pre-
sent state of health, even that pleasure must be denied her,
for the very exertion attendant on it was too much. Ellen ne-
ver expressed regret, nor did she ever breathe even to her aunt
how often, how very often, she longed once again to enjoy the
fresh air of Oakwood, for London to her possessed not even
the few attractions it did to Emmeline. She ever struggled to
be cheerful, to smile when h^r aunt looked anxiously at her,
and strove to assure her that she was happy, perfectly happy.
Her never appearing as Emmeline did, and so very seldom
64 THB MOTHE&'S EBCOBfPENSB.
even at home, certainly gave matter for observation to thoM
who, seeking for it, refused to believe the true reason of her
retirement. Miss Harcourt, though she steadfastly refused to
go out with her friend ^for Mrs. Hamilton never could allow
that she filled any situation save that of a friend and relation
of the family ^yet sometimes accompanied Emmeline to the
Opera, and always joined Mrs. Hamilton at home. Many,
therefore, were the hours Ellen spent entirely alone, but she.
persevered unrepiningly in the course laid down for her by the
first medical man in London, whom her aunt had consulted.
How she employed those lonely hours Mrs. Hamilton never
would inquire. Perfect liberty to follow her own inclinations
she should enjoy at least ; but it was not without pain that
Mrs. Hamilton so frequently left her niece. She knew that
the greatest privation, far more than any of the pleasures her
cousins enjoyed, was the loss of her society. The mornings
and evenings were now so much occupied, that it often hap-
pened that the Sabbath and the evening previous were the only
times Ellen could have intercourse of any duration with her.
She regretted this deeply, for Ellen was no longer a child ; she
was at that age when me is in general keenly susceptible to the
pleasures of society ; and reserved as was her disposition, Mrs.
Hamilton felt assured, the loss of that unchecked domestic
intercourse she had so long enjoyed at Oakwood was pain,
though never once was she heard to complain. These contrary
duties frequently grieved the heart of her aunt. Often she
accompanied Caroline when her inclination prompted her to
remain at home ; for she loved Ellen as her own child, and to
tend and soothe her would sometimes have been the preferable
duty ; but she checked the wish, for suffering and solitary as
was Ellen, Caroline, in the dangerous labyrinth of the world,
required her care still more.
There are trials which the world regards not trials on
which there are many who look lightly these productive of
no interest, seldom of sympathy, but with pain to the sufferer ;
it is when health fails, not sufficiently to attract notice, but
when the disordered state of the nerves renders the mind irri-
table, the body weak ; when, from that invisible weakness, little
evils become great, the temper loses its equanimity, the spirits
their elasticity, we scarcely know wherefore, and we reproach
ourselves, and add to our uneasiness by thinking we are becom-
ing pettish and ill-tempered, enervated and repining ; we dare
not confess such feelings, for our looks proclaim not failing
TEE mother's eeoompense. 65
health, and wlio would believe ns 1 when the yery straggle for
cheerfulness fills the eye with tears, the heart with heaviness,
and we feel provoked at our peevishness, and angry that we are
80 different now to what we have been ; and we fancy, changed
as we are, all we love can no longer regard us as formerly.
Such are among the trials of woman, unknown, frequently
unsuspected, by her nearest and dearest relations ; and bitter
mdeed is it wnen such trials befall us in early youth, when
liveliness and buoyancy are expected, and any departure there-
from is imagined to proceed from causes very opposite to the
ti uth. Such at present were the trials of the orphan ; but they
were softened by the kindness and sympathy of her aunt, who
possessed the happy art of soothing more effectually in a few
words than others of a less kindly mould could ever have accom-
plished.
It is in the quick perception of character, in the adaptation
of our words to those whom we address, that in domestic cir-
cles renders us beloved, and forms the fascination of society.
Sympathy is the charm of human life, and when once that is
made apparent, we are not slow in discovering or imagining
others. Some people find the encouragement of sympathy dis-
agreeable, for they say it makes them miserable for no purpose.
What care they for the woes and joys of their acquaintances ?
Often a tax, and never a pleasure. Minds of such nature know
not that there is a "joy in the midst of grief ;" but Mrs. Ham-
ilton did, and she encouraged every kindly feeling of her
nature. Previous to her marriage, she had been perhaps too
reserved and shrinking within herself, fancied there was no one
of her own rank at least who could understand her, and there-
fore none with whem she could sympathize. But the greater
confidence of maturer years, the example of her husband, the
emotions of a wife and mother, had enlarged her heart, and
caused her, by ready sympathy with others, to increase her own
enjoyments, and render herself more pleasing than perhaps, if
she had remained single, she ever would have been. It was
this invisible charm that caused her to be admired and involun-
tarily loved, even by those who, considering her a saint at first,
shrunk in dread from her society ; and it was this that ren*
dered the frequent trials of her niece less difficult to bear.
" Does my Ellen remember a little conversation we had on
the eve of her last birthday ?" demanded Mrs. Hamilton of her
niece one evening, as she had finished dressing, to attend her
daughter to the Opera, and Martyn, at her desire, had obeyed
66 THE mothees recompense.
Caroline's impatient summons, and left to Ellen the task of
fastening her lady's jewels.
Whenever nothing occurred to prevent it, Ellen was gene
rally with her aunt at dressing-time, and the little conversation
that passed between them at such periods frequently rendered
Ellen's solitary evening cheerful, when otherwise it might have
been, from her state of health and apparently endless task,
even gloomy. Mrs. Hamilton had observed a more than usual
depression that evening in the nianners of her niece, and with-
out noticing, she endeavored to remove it. Ellen was bending
down to clasp a bracelet as she spoke, and surprised at the
question, looked up, without giving herself time to conceal an
involuntary tear, though she endeavored to remove any such
impression, by smiling cheerfully, as she replied in the affirma-
tive.
" And will it cheer your solitary evenings, then, my dear
Ellen ?" she continued, drawing her niece to her, and kissing
her transparent brow, " if I say that, in the self-denial, patience,
and submission you are now practising, you are doing more
towards raising your character in my estimation, and banish-
ing from remembrance the painful past, than you once fancied
it would ever be in your power to do. I think I know its
motive, and therefore I do not hesitate to bestow the meed of
praise you so well deserve."
For a minute Ellen replied not, she only raised her aunt's
hand to her lips and kissed it, as if to hide her emotion before
she spoke, but her eyes were still swelling with tears as she
looked up and replied
" Indeed, my dearest aunt, I do not deserve it. You do not
know how how irritable and ill-tempered I often feel."
" Because you are not very well, my love, and yet you do
not fee^ sufficiently ill to complain. I sometimes fancy such
a state of health as yours is more difficult to bear than a severe
though short illness, then, you can, at least, claim soothing
consolation and sympathy. Now my poor Ellen thinks she
can demand neither," she added, smiling.
" I always receive both from you," replied Ellen, earnestly;
" and not much submission is required when that is the case,
and I am told my health forbids my sharing in Emmeline'S
pleasures."
" No, love, there would not be, if you felt so ill as to have
no desire for them ; but that is not the case, for I know you
very often feel quite well enough to go out with me, and I am
THE mother's recompense. 67
|aite sure that my Ellen sometimes wishes she were not so
completely prohibited snch amusements."
'^I thought I had succeeded better in concealing those
wishes," repUed Ellen, blushing deeply.
" So you have, my dear girl, no one but myself suspects
them ; and you could not expect to conceal them from me,
Ellen, could you, when Emmeline says it is utterly impossible
to hide her most secret thought from my mystic wand ? Do
not attempt more, my love ; persevere in your present conduct,
and I shall be quite satisfied. Have you an interesting bock
for to-night, or is there any other employment you prefer ?**
" You have banished all thoughts of gloom, my dear aunt,
and perhaps instead of reading, I shall work and think on
what you have said," exclaimed Ellen, her cheek becoming
more crimsoned than it was before, and exciting for the mo-
ment the attention of her aunt. She however, soon permitted
it to pass from her thoughts, for she knew the least emotion
generally had that effect. Little did she imagine how those
solitary hours were employed. Little did she think the cause
of that deep blush, or guess the extent of comfort her words
had bestowed on her niece, how they cheered the painful task
the orphan believed it her duty to perform. Spite of many
obstaoles of failing health, she perse veringly continued, although
as yet she approached not the end of her desires. No gleam
of light yet appeared to say her toil was nearly over, her wish
obtained.
The limits of our tale, as well as the many histories of in-
dividuals these memoirs of the Hamilton family must embrace,
will not permit us to linger on the scenes of gayety in which
Caroline now mingled, and which afforded Ijier, perhaps, too
many opportunities for the prosecution of her schemes ; Miss
Grahame's task was no loDger dif&cult. Her confidence once
given to another, she could not recall to bestow it upon her
mother, from whom, the more she mingled in society, the more
she became estranged ; and Annie became at once her confi-
dant and adviser. Eager to prove she was not the simple-
minded being she was believed, Caroline confided her designs,
with regard to St. Eval, to Miss Grahame, who, as may be
supposed, heightened and encouraged them. Had any one
pointed out to Caroline she was acting with duplicity, depart-
ing from the line of truth to which, even in her childhood, in
the midst of many other faults, she had beautifully and strictly
adhered, she might have shrunk back in horror; but where
08 THE mother's RECOMPBNB&
was the harm of a little innoccBt flirtation? ABnie would
repeatedly nrge, if she fancied a donbt of the propriety of such
conduct was rising in her friend's mind, and she was ready
with examples of girls of high birth and exemplary virtues who
practised it with impunity: it gave a finish to the eharacter of
a woman, proved she would sometimes act for herself, not
always be in leading-strings ; it gave a taste of power, gratified
her ambition; in short, flirtation was the very acme of enjoy
ment, and gave a decided ton before and after marriage.
St. Eval was not sanguine. But it was in vain he tried to
resist the fascinations of the girl he loved, he could not for an
instant doubt but that she encouraged him ; he even felt grate-
ful and loved her more for those little arts and kindnesses with
which she ever endeavored to draw him from his reserve, and
chain him to her side. Could that noble spirit imagine she
only acted thus to aflbrd herself amusement for the time, and
prove her power to her companions ? Could she, the child of
Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton, act otherwise than honourably ? "We
may pardon Lord St. Eval for believing it impossible, but
bitterly was he deceived. Even her mother, her penetrating
confiding mother, was deceived, and no marvel then that such
should be the case with a comparative stranger.
Had Caroline's manner been more generally coquettish,
Mra Hamilton's eyes might have been opened ; but her be-
havior in general was such as rather to diminish than increase
those fears which, before her child had joined the world, had
very frequently occupied her anxious heart. To strangers
even, her encouragement of St. Eval might not have been ob-
servable, though it was clearly so to the watchful eyes of her
parents, whose confidence in their daughter's integrity was
such as entirely to exonerate her in their minds from any in-
tention of coquetry. In this instance, perhaps, their regard
for the young Earl himself, and their mutual but secret wishes
might have heightened their belief, that not only was St. Eval
attracted but that Caroline encouraged him, and feeling this,
they regretted that Lord Alphingham should continue his
attentions, which Caroline never appeared to receive with any
particular pleasure.
Anxious as had been Mrs. Hamilton's feelings with regard
to the friendship subsisting between her daughter and Annie
Grahame, she little imagined how painfully the influence of
the latter had already tarnished the character of the former.
Few are aware of the danger arising from those very intimate
THE mother's recompense. 69
connections which young women are so fond of forming. Every
mother should study, almost as carefully as those of her own,
the character of her children's intimate friends. Mrs. Ham*
ilton had done so, and as we know, never approved of Caro*
line's intimacy with Annie, but yet she could not check their
intercourse while such intimate friendship existed between her
husband and Montrose Grahame. She knew, too, that the
latter felt pleasure in beholding Caroline the chosen friend of
his daughter ; and though she could never hope as Grahame
did, that the influence of her child would improve the char-
acter of his, she had yet sufficient confidence in Caroline at
one time to believe that she would still consider her mother
her dearest and truest friend, and thus counteract the effects
of Annie's ill-directed eloquence. In this hope she had already
found herself disappointed ; but still, though Caroline refused
her sympathy, and bestowed it, as so many other girls did, on
a companion of her own age, she relied perhaps too fondly on
those principles she had so carefully instilled in early life, and
believed that no stain would sully the career of her much-
loved child. If Mrs. Hamilton's affection in this instance
completely blinded her, if she acted too weakly in not at once
breaking this closely-woven chain of intimacy, her feelings,
when she knew all, were more than suficient chastisement.
Could the noble, the honorable, the truth-loving mother for
one instant imagine that Caroline, the child whose early years
had caused her so much pain, had called forth so many tearful
prayers ^the child whose dawning youth had been so fair, that
her heart had nearly lost its tremblings that her Caroline
should encourage one young man merely to indulge in love of
power, and, what was even worse, to thus conceal her regard
for another ? Yet it was even so. Caroline really believed
that not only was she an object of passionate love to the Vis-
count, but that she returned the sentiment with equal if not
heightened warmth, and, as the undeniable token of true love,
she never mentioned his name except to her confidant. In the
first of these conjectures she was undoubtedly right ; as sin-
cerely as a man of his character could, Lord Alphingham did
love Miss Hamilton, and the fascination of his manner, his
insinuating eloquence, and ever ready flattery, al] combined,
might well cause this novice in such matters to believe her
heart was really touched ; but that it truly was so not only
may we be allowed to doubt, but it appeared that Annie did
80 also, by her laborious efforts to fan the newly ignited spark
70 THE HOTHEB^S RECOKPENSS.
into a flame, and never once permit Caroline to look into her* i
self; and she took so many opportunities of speaking of those I
silly, weak-spirited girls, that went with a tale of love directly ^
to their mothers, and thus very frequently blighted their hopes
and condemned them to broken hearts, by their duennas' \
caprices, that Caroline shrunk from the faintest wish to con-
fide all to her mother, with a sensation amounting almost to
fear and horror. Eminently handsome and accomplished as
Lord Alphingham was, still there was somewhat in his fea-
tures, or rather their expression, that did not please, and
scarcely satisfied Mrs. Hamilton's penetration. lubimate as
he was with Grahame, friendly as he had become with her
husband, she could not overcome the feeling of repugnance
with which she more than once found herself unconsciously re-
garding him ; and she felt pleased that Mr. Hamilton steadily
adhered to his resolution in not inviting him to his house. To
have described what she disliked in him would have been im-
possible, it was indefinable ; but there was a casual glance of
that dark eye, a curl of that handsome mouth, a momentary
knitting of tho brow, that whispered of a mind not inwardly
at peace ; that restless passions had found their dwelling-place
around his heart Mrs. Hamilton only saw him in society:
it was uncharitable perhaps to judge him thus ; but the feel-
ings of a mother had rendered her thus acute, had endowed
her with a penetration unusually perceptive, and she rejoiced
that Caroline gave him only the meed of politeness, and that
no sign of encouragement was displayed in her manner to-
wards hiir.
That mother's fears were not unfounded. Lord Alphing-
ham loved Caroline, but the love of a libertine is not true aflfec-
tion, and such a character for the last fourteen years of his life
he had been ; nine years of that time he had lived on the Con-
tinent, gay, and courted, in whatever country he resided, win-
ning many a youthful heart to bid it break, or lure it on to
ruin. It was only the last year he had returned to England,
and as he had generally assumed different names in the various
parts of the Continent he had visited, the adventures of his life
were unknown in the land of his birth, save that they were
sometimes whispered by a few in similar coteries, and then
more as conjecture than reality. So long a time had elapsed,
that the wild errors of his youth, which had been perhaps the
original cause of his leaving England, were entirely forgotten,
as if such things had never been, and the Viscount now found
I
THE mother's recompense. 71
himself quite as mnch, if not more, an object of universal at-
traction in his native land, than he had been on the Continent.
He was now about thirty, and perfect indeed in his vocation.
The freshness, naivete^ and perfect innocence of Caroline had
captivated his fancy perhaps even more than it had ever been
before, and her perfect ignorance of the ways of the fashionable
world encouraged him to hope his conquest of her heart would
be very easy. He had found an able confidant and advocate in
Miss urahame, who had contrived to place herself with her
father's friend on the footing of most friendly intimacy, and
partly by her advice and the suggestions of his own heart he
determined to win the regard of Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton, before
he openly paid attentions to their daughter. With the former
he appeared very likely to succeed, for the talent he displayed
in the House, his apparently earnest zeal for the welfare of his
country, her church and state, his masterly eloquence, and the
interest he felt for Grahame, were all qualities attractive in the
eyes of Mr. Hamilton ; and though he did not yet invite him to
his house, he never met him without evincing pleasure. With
Mrs. Hamilton, Alphingham did not find himself so much at
ease, nor fancy he was so secure ; courteous she was indeed,
but in her intercourse with him she had unconsciously recalled
much of what Grahame termed the forbidden reserve of years
past. In vain he attempted with her to pass the barriers of
universal politeness, and become intimate ; his every advance
was repelled coldly, yet not so devoid of courtesy as to make
him suspect she had penetrated his secret character. Still he
persevered in unwavering and marked politeness, although
Annie's representations of Mrs. Hamilton's character had alrea-
dy caused him to determine in his own mind to make Caroline
his wife, with or without her mother's approval ; and he amus-
ed himself with believing that, as her mother was so strict and
stern as to keep her children, particularly Caroline, in such
subjection, it would be doing the poor girl a charity to release
her from such thraldom, and introduce her, as his wife, into
scenes far more congenial to her taste, where she would be free
from such keen surveillance. In these thoughts he was ably
seconded by Annie, who was constantly pitying Caroline's
enslaved situation, and condemning Mrs. Hamilton's strict se-
verity, declaring it was all affectation; she was not a degree
better than any one else, who did not make half the fuss about
it. Lord Alphingham's resolution was taken, that before the
present season was over, Caroline should be engaged to him,
72 THE mother's recompense.
nolens volens on the part of her parents, and he acted accojcd-
ingly.
As opposite as were the characters, so was the conduct of
Caroline's two noble suitors. St. Eval, in spite of the encourage-
ment he received, yet shrank from paying any marked attention
either to Caroline or her parents, it was by degrees he be-
came intimate in their family, but there, perhaps, the only
person with whom he felt entirely at ease was Emmeline, who,
rejoicing at Caroline's change of manner, began to hope her
feelings were changing too, and indulged in hopes that one
day Lord St. Eval might really be her brother. Emmeline
knew her sister's opinion of coquetry was very different to hers ;
but this simple-minded girl could never have conceived that
scheme of duplicity, which, by the aid and counsel of Annie,
Caroline now practised. She scarcely ever saw Alphingham,
and never hearing her sister name him, and being perfectly
unconscious of his attentions when they met, she could not.
even in her unusually acute imagination, believe him St. Eval's
rival. More and more enamored the young Earl became each
time he felt himself an especial object of Caroline's notice ; his
heart throbbed and his hopes grew stronger, still he breathed
not one word of love, he dared not. Diffident of his own attrac-
tive qualities, he feared to speak, till he thought he could be
assured of her affections. In the intoxication of love, he felt
her refusal would have more effect upon him than he could bear.
He shrunk from the remarks of the world, and waited yet a
little longer, ere with a trembling heart he should ask that all-
important question. So matters stood in Mr. Hamilton's fam-
ily during the greater part of the London season ; but as it is
not our task to enter into Caroline's gayeties, we here may be
permitted to mention Mrs. Greville's departure with her deli-
cate and suffering child from the land of their birth.
Mr. Greville had made no opposition to their intended plan.
Seriously Mr. Maitland had told him that the life of his child
depended on her residence for some time abroad, in a genial
climate and extreme quiet ; but in vain did Mrs. Greville en-
deavor to believe that affection for his daughter and herself
occasioned this unwonted acquiescence ; it was too clearly to
be perceived that he was pleased at their separation from him-
self, for it gave him more liberty. She wrote to her son, im-
ploring him in the most earnest and affectionate manner to
return home for the Easter vacation, that she might see him
for a few days before she left England ^perhaps never to
THE mother's recompense. TI
return. Ruined from earliest boyhood by weak indulgence,
Alfred Greville felt sometimes a throb of natural feeling for
his mother, though her counsels were of no avail. Touched by
the mournful solemnity and deep affection breathing in every
line, he complied with her request, and spent four or five days
peacefully at home. He appeared shocked at the alteration
be found in his sister, and was kinder than he had previously
been in his manner towards her. He had lately become heir
to a fortune and estate, left him by a very old and distant rela-
tive of his father, and it was from this he had determined, ho
tdd his father, to go to Cambridge and cut a dash there with
the best of them. He was now eighteen, and believed himself
no inconsiderable personage, in which belief he was warmly
encouraged by his mistaken father. It was strange that, with
such an income, he permitted the favorite residence of his
mother and sister to be sold ^but so it was. The generous
feelings of his early childhood had been completely olunted,
and to himself alone he intended to appropriate that fortune,
when a portion would yet have removed msky of Mrs. Greville's
anxious fears for the future. Alfred intended, when he was of
age, to be one of the first men of fashion ; but he did not con-
sider, that if he ^^cut a dash" at college, with the ^clat he
wished, that before three years had passed, he would not be
much richer than he had been when the fortune was first left
him.
" Mother, you will drive me from you," he one day ex-
claimed, in passion, as she endeavored to detain him. " If you
wish ever to see me, let me take my own way. Advice I will
not brook, and reproach I will not bear ; if you love me, be
silent, for I will not be governed."
" Alfred, I will speak !" replied his almost agonized parent,
urged on by an irresistible impulse. " (Jhild of my love, my
prayers ! Alfred, I will not see you go wrong, without one
effort, one struggle to guide you in the right path. Alfred, I
leave England ^my heart is bursting ; for Mary's sake alone I
live, and if she be taken from me, Alfred, we shall never meet
again. My son, my son, oh, if you ever loved me, listen to me
now, they may be the last words you will ever hear from your
mother's lips. I implore, I beseech you to turn from your
evil courses, Alfred !" and she suddenly sunk at his feet, the
mother before the son. So devoted, so fervid was the love
with which she regarded him, that had she been told, that to
lure him to virtue her own life must be the forfeit, willingly at
4
74 TKE MOTHEIt's RECOMPENSE.
that moment would she have died. She oontinned with an
eloquence of such beseeching tenderness, it would have seemed
none could have heard it unmoved. " Alfred, your mother
kneels to you, your own mother. Oh, hear her ; do not con-
demn her to wretchedness. Let me not suffer more. You have
sought temptation ; oh, fly from it ; seek the companionship of
those who will lead you to honor, not to vice. Break from
those connections you have weaved around you. Turn again
to the God you have deserted. Oh, do not live as you have
done ; think on the responsibility each year increases. My
child, my beloved, in mercy refuse not your mother^s prayer I
reject not my advice, Alfred 1 Alfred !" and she clung to him,
while her voice became hoarse with intense anguish. " Oh,
promise me to turn from your present life. Promise me to
think on my words, to seek the footstool of mercy, and return
again to Him who has not forsaken you. Promise me to live
a better life ; say you will be your mother^s comfort, not her
misery ^her blessing, not her curse. My child, my child, be
merciful !" Longer, more imploring still would she have
pleaded, but voice failed, and it was only on those chiselled
features the agony of the soul could have been discovered,
Alfred gazed on her thus kneeling at his feet his mother, she
who in his infancy had knelt beside him, to guide on high his
childish prayers. The heart of the misguided boy was softened,
tears filled his eyes. He would have spoken, he would have
pledged himself to do all that she had asked, when suddenly
the ridicule of his companions flashed before his fancy. Could
he bear that 1 No ; he could see his mother at his feet, but he
could not meet the ridicule of the world. He raised her has-
tily, but in perfect silence ; pressed her to his heart, kissed her
cheek repeatedly, then placed her on a couch, and darted from
her presence. He had said no word, he had given no sign ;
and for several hours that mother could not overcome internal
wretchedness so far even as to join her Mary. He returned
to Cambridge. They parted in affection ; seldom had the
reckless boy evinced so much emotion as he did when he bade
farewell to his mother and sister. He folded Mary to his
bosom, and implored her, in a voice almost inaudible, to take
oare of her own health for the sake of their mother ; but when
she entreated him to come and see them in their new abode as
soon as he could, he answered not. Yet that emotion had left
a balm on the torn heart of his mother. She fancied her
son, wayward as he was, yet loved her ; and though she dared
THE mother's recompense. 75
not look forward to his reformation, still, to feel he lored her
oh, if fresh zeal were required in her prayers, that knowledge
gave it.
The first week in May they left Greville Manor. Still
weak and suffering, the struggle to conceal and subdue all she
felt at leaving, as she thought for ever, the house of her infan'
cy, of her girlhood, her youth, was almost too much for poor
Mary ; and her mother more than once believed she would not
reach in life the land they were about to seek. The sea breezes,
for they travelled whenever they could along the shore, in a
degree nerved her ; and by the time they reached Dover, ten
days after they had left the Manor, she had rallied sufficiently
to ease the sorrowing heart of her mother of a portion of its
burden.
They arrived at Dover late in the evening, and early the
following day, as Mary sat by the large window of the hotel,
watching with some appearance of interest the bustling scene
before her, a travelling carriage passed rapidly by and stopped
at the entrance. She knew the livery, and her heart throbbed
almost to suffocation, as it whispered that Mr. Hamilton would
not come alone.
"Mother, Mr. Hamilton has arrived," she succeeded at
length in saying. " And Emmeline is it, can it be ?" But
she had no more time to wonder, for ere she had recovered the
agitation the sight of one other of Mr. Hamilton's family had
occasioned, they were in the room, and Emmeline springing
forward, had flung herself on Mary's neck ; and utterly unable
to control her feelings at the change she beheld in her friend,
wept passionately on her shoulder. Powerfully agitated, Mary
felt her strength was failing, and had it not been for Mr. Ha-
milton's support, she would have fallen to the ground. He
supported her with a father's tenderness to the couch, and
reproachfully demanded of Emmeline if she had entirely for-
gotten her promise of composure.
" Do not reprove her, my dear friend," said Mrs. Greville,
as she drew the weeping girl affectionately to her. " My poor
Mary is so quickly agitated now, that the pleasure of seeing
three instead of one of our dear-valued friends has been suffi-
cient of itself to produce this agitation. And you too, Her-
bert," she continued, extending her hand to the young man,
who hastily raised it to his lips, as if to conceal an emotion
which had paled his cheek, almost as a kindred feeling had
done with Mary's. " Have you deserted your favorite pur-
76 THE mother's recompense.
suits, and left Oxford at such a busy time, merely to see ni
before we leave ? This is kind, indeed."
" I left Percy to work for me," answered Herbert, endea-
Toring to hide emotion under the veil of gayety. "As to
permit you to leave England without once more seeing you,
and having one more smile from Mary, I would not, even had
the whole honor of my college been at stake. You must not
imagine me so entirely devoted to my books, dear Mrs. Gre-
ville, as to believe I possess neither time nor inclination for
the gentler feelings of human nature."
" I know you too well, and have known you too long to
imagine that," replied Mrs. Grreville, earnestly. "And is
Mary so completely to engross your attention, Emmeline," she
added, turning towards the couch where the friends sat, " that
I am not to hear a word of your dear mother, Caroline, or El-
len ? Indeed, I cannot allow that."
The remark quickly produced a general conversation, and
Herbert for the first time addressed Mary. A strange, uncon-
querable emotion had chained his tongue as he beheld her ;
but now, with eager yet respectful tenderness, he inquired after
her health, and how she had borne their long journey ; and
ther questions, trifling in themselves, but uttered in a tone
that thrilled the young heart of her he addressed.
Herbert knew not how intimately the image of Mary Gre-
ville had mingled with his most secret thoughts, even in his
moments of grave study and earnest application, until he heard
she was about to leave England. Sorrow, disappointment,
scarcely defined but bitterly painful, then occupied his mind,
and the knowledge burst with dazzling clearness on his heart
that he loved her ; so deeply, so devotedly, that even were every
other wish fulfilled, life, without her, would be a blank. He
had deemed himself so lifted above all earthly feelings, that
even were he to be deprived as Mr. Morton of every natural
relation, he could in time reconcile himself to the will of his
Maker, and in the discharge of ministerial duties be happy.
He had fancied his heart was full of the love of God alone,
blessed in that, however changed his earthly lot. Suddenly
he was awakened from his illusion : now in the hour of sepa-
ration he knew an earthly idol ; he discovered that he was not
so con^pletely the servant of his Maker as he had hoped, and
sometimes believed. But in the doubts and fears which sha-
dowed his exalted mind, he sought the footstool of his God.
His cry for assistance was not unheeded. Peace and comfort
THE mother's recobipense. 77
rested on his heart. A cloud was lifted from his eyes, and for
the knowledge of his virtuous love he blessed his God ; feeling
thus supported, he could guide and control himself according
to the dictates of piety. He knew well the character of
Mary ; he felt assured that, if in after years he were permitted
to make her his own, she would indeed become his helpmate
in all things, more particularly in those which related to his
God and to his holy duties among men. He thought on the
sympathy that existed between them ^he remembered the
lighting up of that soft, dark eye, the flushing cheek, the smile
of pleasure that ever welcomed him, and fondly his heart
whispered that he need not doubt her love. Three years, or
nearly four must elapse ere he could feel at liberty to marry ;
not till he beheld himself a minister of God. Yet intermina-
ble as to his imagination the intervening years appeared, still
there was no trembling in his trusting heart. If his Father
on high ordained them for each other, it mattered not how long
the time that must elapse, and if for some wise purpose his wishes
were delayed, he recognized the hand of God, and saw " that
it was good."
Yet Herbert could not resist the impulse to behold Mary
once more ere she quitted England, to explain to her his feel-
ings ; to understand each other. He knew the day his father
intended going to l)over, and the evening previous, much to the
astonishment of the family, made his appearance amongst
them. All expressed pleasure at his intention but one, and
that one understood not why ; but when she heard the cause
of his unexpected visit, a sudden and indefinable pang shot
through her young heart, dimming at once the joy with which
the sight of him had filled it. She knew not, guessed not why,
when she laid her head on her pillow that night, she wept so
bitterly. The source of those secret and silent tears she could
not trace, she only knew their cause was one of sorrow, and yet
she loved Mary.
The pleading earnestness of Emmeline had, after some little
difficulty, obtained the consent of her mother to her accompa-
nying her father and brother, on condition, however, of her not
agitating Mary by any unconstrained display of sorrow. It was
only at their first meeting this condition had been forgotten.
Mary looked so pale, so thin, so different even to when they
parted, that the warm heart of Emmeline could not be re-
strained, for she knew, however resignation might be, nay, was
felt, it was a bitter pang to that gentle girl to leave her native
78 THE mother's recoupense.
land, and the friends she so much loyed ; but recalling h^
promise, with a strong effort she checked her own sorrow, and
endeavored with playful fondness to raise the spirits of her
friend.
The day passed cheerfully ; the young people took a drive
for some few miles in the vicinity of Dover, while Mr. Hamil-
ton, acting the part of a brother to the favorite prot^g^ of his
much-loved mother, listened to her plans, counselled and im-
proved them, and indeed, on many points proved himself such a
true friend, that when Mrs. Greville retired to rest that night she
felt more at ease in mind than for many months she had been.
The following day was employed in seeing all the antiquities
of Dover, its ancient castle among the first, and with Mr. Ham-
ilton as a cicerone it was a day of pleasure to all, though, per-
haps, a degree of melancholy might hav,e pervaded the party
in the evening, for the recollection would eome, that by noon
on the morrow Mrs. Greville and Mary would bid them fare-
well. In vain during that day had Herbert sought for an
opportunity to speak with Mary on the subject nearest his
heart, though they had been so happy together ; when for a
few minutes they found themselves alone, he had fancied there
was more than usual reserve in Mary's manner, which checked
the words upon his lip. Some hours he lay awake that night
Should he write his hopes and wishes % No : he would hear
the answer from her own lips, and the next morning an oppor-
tunity appeared to present itself.
The vessel did not leave Dover till an hour before noon,
and breakfast having beep dispatched by half-past nine, Mrs.
Greville persuaded her daughter to take a gentle walk in the
intervening time. Herbert instantly offered to escort her.
Emm sline remained to assist Mrs. Greville in some travelling
arrangements, and Mr. Hamilton employed himself in some of
those numberless little offices which active men take upon
themselves in the business of a departure. Mary shrunk with
such evident reluctance from this arrangement, that for the
first time Herbert doubted.
" You were not wont to shrink thus from accepting me as
youi* companion," he said, fixing his large expressive eyes
mournfully upon her, and speaking in a tone of such melan-
choly sweetness, that Mary hastily struggled to conceal the tear
that started to her eye. " Are our happy days of childhood
indeed thus forgotten ?" he continued, gently. " Go with me,
iear Mary ; let us in fancy transport ourselves at least for one
THE mother's recompense. 79
hour back to those happy years of early life which will not come
again."
The thoughts, the hopes, the joys of her childhood flashed
with sudden power through the heart of Mary as he spoke, and
she resisted them not.
" Forgive me, Herbert," she said, hastily rising to prepare ;
" I have become a strange and wayward being the last few
months ; you must bear with me, for the sake of former days."
Playfolly he granted the desired forgiveness, and they de-
parted on their walk. For some little time they walked in
silence. Before they were aware of it, a gentle ascent con-
ducted them to a spot, not only lovely in its own richness, but
in the extensive view that stretched beneath them. The wide
ocean lay slumbering at their feet ; the brilliant rays of the
sun, which it reflected as a mirror, appeared to lull it to rest,
the very waves broke softly on the shore. To the left extended
the snow-white cliffs, throwing in shadow part of the ocean, and
bringing forward their own illumined walls in bold relief
against the dark blue sea. Ships of every size, from the float-
ing castle in the offing to the tiny pleasure boat, whose white
sails shining in the sun caused her to be distinguished at some
distance, skimming along the ocean as a bird of snowy plumage
across the heavens, the merchant vessels, the packets entering
and departing, even the blackened colliers, added interest to the
scene ; for at the distance Herbert and Mary stood, no confu-
sion was heard to disturb the moving picture. On their right
the beautiful country peculiar to Kent spread out before them
in graceful undulations of hill and valley, hop-ground and mea-
dow, wherein the sweet fragrance of the newly-mown grass was
wafted at intervals to the spot where they stood. Wild flowers
of various kinds were around them ; the hawthorn appearing
like a tree of snow in the centre of a dark green hedge ; the
modest primrose and the hidden violet yet lingered, as if loth
to depart, though their brethren of the summer had already put
forth their budding blossoms. A. newly-severed trunk of an
aged tree invited them to sit and rest, and the most tasteful
art could not have placed a rustic seat in a more lovely scene.
Long and painfully did Mary gaze around her, as if she
would engrave within her heart every scene of the land she was
so soon to leave.
" Herbert," she said, at length, " 1 never wished to gaze
on futurity before, but now, oh, I would give much to know if
indeed I shall ever gaze on these scenes again. Could I bu*
80 THE mother's recompense,
think I might return to them, the pang of leaving would lose
one-half its bitterness. I know this is a weak and perhaps sin-
ful feeling ; but in vain I have lately striven to bow resignedly
to my Maker's will, even should His call meet me, as I some-
times fear it will, in a foreign land, apart from all, save one,
whom I love on earth."
" Do not, do not think so, dearest Mary. True, indeed,
there is no parting without its fears, even for a week, a day,
an hour. Death ever hovers near us, to descend when least
expected. But oh, for my sake, Mary, dear Mary, talk not of
dying in a foreign land. God's will is best. His decree is love,
I know it, I feel it, and on this subject from our infancy we
have felt alike ; to you alone have 1 felt that I dared breathe
the holy aspirations sometimes my own. I am not wont to be
sanguine, but somewhat whispers within me you will return
these scenes behold again."
Mary gazed on her young companion ; he had spoken with
unwonted animation, and his mild eyes rested with trusting
fondness upon her ; she dared not meet it ; her pale cheek
suddenly became crimson, but with an effort she replied
" Buoy me not up with vain hopes, Herbert ; it is better,
perhaps, that I should never look to my return, for hope
might descend to vain wishes, and wishes to repinings, which
must not he. I shall look on other scenes of loveliness, and
though in them perhaps no fond association of earth may be
mingled, yet there is one of which no change of country can
deprive me, one association that from scenes like these can
never, never fly. The friends of my youth will be no longer
near me, strangers alone will surround me ; but even a the
hand of my Heavenly Father is marked in every scene, how-
ever far apart, so is that hand, that love extended to me
wherevei I may dwell. Oh, that my heart may indeed be
filled with the love of Him."
There was a brief silence. The countenance of Herbert
had been for a moment troubled, but after a few seconds
resumed its serenity, heightened by the fervid feelings of his
heart.
" Mary," he said, taking her passive hand in his, " if I
am too bold in speaking all I wish, forgive me. You know
not how I have longed for one moment of unchecked confi-
dence before you left England ; it is now before me, and, oh,
listen to me, dearest Mary, with that kindness you have evei
Bhown. I need not remind you of our days of childhood and
THE MOTHERS RBCOlfPExVSE. 81
early youth ; I need not recall the mutual sympathy which, in
every feeling, hope, joy, or sorrow, has been our own. We
have grown together, played together in infancy ; read,
thought, and often in secret prayed together in youth. To
you I have ever imparted my heartfelt wishes, earnest
prayers for my future life, to become a worthy servant of my
God, and lead others in his path, and yet, frail mortal as I am,
I feel, even if these wishes are fulfilled, there will yet, dearest
Mary, remain a void within my heart. May I, may I, indeed,
behold in the playmate of my infaacy a friend in manhood,
the partner of my life ^my own Mary as my assistant in la-
bors of love 1 I am agitating you, dearest girl, forgive me ;
only give me some little hope. Years must elapse ere that
blessed moment can arrive, perhaps I have been wrong to urge
it now, but I could not part from you without one word to
explain my feelings, to implore your ever-granted sympathy."
The hand of Mary trembled in his grasp. She had turned
from his pleading glance, but when he ceased, she raised her
head and struggled to speak. A smile, beautiful, holy in its
beauty, appeared struggling with tears, and a faint flush had
risen to her cheek, but voice she had none, and for one mo-
ment she concealed her face on his shoulder. She withdrew
not her hand from his, and Herbert felt oh, how gratefully^
that his love was returned ; he had not hoped in vain. For *
some minutes they could not speak, every feeling was in com-
mon ; together they had grown, together loved, and now that
the magic word had been spoken, what need was there for re-
serve ? None ; and reserve was banished. No darkening
clouds were then perceived ; at that moment Mary thought
not of her father, and if she did, could she believe that his
consent to a union with a son of Mr. Hamilton would be
difficult to obtain 7 Marry they could not yet, and perhaps
the unalloyed bliss of that hour might have originated in the
fact that they thought only of the present the blessed
knowledge that they loved each other, were mutually beloved.
The happiness glowing on Mary's expressive countenance
as she entered could not fail to attract the watchful eye of her
mother, and almost unconsciously, and certainly indefinably,
her own bosom reflected the pleasure of her child, and the
pang of quitting England was partially eased of its bitterness.
Yet still it was a sorrowful moment when the time of separa-
tion actually came. Their friends had gone on board with
them, and remained till the signal for departure was given
4#
82 THE mother's recompense.
Mary had preferred the cabin to the confusion on deck, and
there her friends left her. In the sorrow of that moment
Emmeline's promise of composure was again forgotten ; she
clung weeping to Mary^s neck, till her father, with gentle per-
suasion, dr^w her away, and almost carried her on deck. Her-
bert yet lingered ; they were alone in the cabin, the confusion
attendant on a departure preventing all fear of intruders.
He clasped Mary to his heart, in one long passionate embrace,
then hastily placing the trembling girl in the arms of her
mother, he murmured almost inaudibly
" Mrs. Greville, dearest Mrs. Greville, guard, oh, guard her
for me, she will be mine ; she will return to bless me, when I
may claim and can cherish her as my wife. Talk to her of
me ; let not the name of Herbert be prohibited between you.
I must not stay, yet one word more, Mrs. Greville say, oh,
say you will not refuse me as your son, if three years henco
Mary will still be mine. Say your blessing will hallow our
union ; and oh, I feel it will then indeed be blessed !"
Overpowered with sudden surprise and unexpected joy,
Mrs. Greville gazed for a moment speechlessly on the noble
youth before her, and vainly the mother struggled to speak at
this confirmation of her long-cherished hope and wishes.
" Mother," murmured Mary, alarmed at her silence, and
burying her face in her bosom, " mother, will you not speak,
will you not bid us hope ?"
" God in Heaven bless you, my children !" she at length
exclaimed, bursting into tears of heartfelt gratitude and joy.
" It was joy, joy," she repeated, struggling for composure ; " I
expected not this blessing. Yes, Herbert, we will speak of
you, think of you, doubt us not, my son, my dear son. A
mother's protecting care and soothing love will guard your
Mary. She is not only her mother's treasure now. Go, my
beloved Herbert, you are summoned ; farewell, and God bless
you !"
Herbert did not linger with his father and sister; a few
minutes' private interview with the former caused his most
sanguine hopes to become yet stronger, then travelling post to
London, where he only remained a few hours, returned with
all haste to his college. In his rapid journey, however, he
had changed his mind with regard to keeping what had passed
between himself and Mary a secret from his mother, whom he
vet loved with perhaps even more confiding fondness than in
his boyhood. He saw her alone ; imparted to her briefly but
THE mother's recompense. 8S
earnestly all that had passed, implored her to promise oon-
sent, and preserve his confidence even from his brother and
sisters ; as so long a time must elapse ere they could indeed
be united, that he dreaded their engagement being known.
^ Even the good wishes of the dear members of home/' he
said, '^ would sound, I fear, but harshly on my ear. I cannot
define why I do not wish it known even to those I love ; yet,
dearest mother, indulge me. The events of one day are hid-
den from us ; how dark then must be those of three years.
No plighted promise has passed between us ; it is but the con
fidence of mutual love; and that oh, mother, I could not
bear it torn from the recesses of my own breast to be a sub-
ject of conversation even to those dearest to me."
His mother looked on the glowing countenance of her son ;
on him, who from his birth had never by his conduct given
her one single moment of care, and had she even disapproved
of his secrecy, all he asked would have been granted him ; but
she approved of his resolution, and emotion glistened in her
eye, as she said
" My Herbert, if I had been privileged to select one among
my young friends to be your wife, my choice would have fall-
en, without one moment's hesitation, on Mary Greville. She,
amid them all, I deem most worthy to be the partner of my
son. May Heaven in mercy spare you to each other !"
Herbert returned to college, and resumed his studies with
even greater earnestness than before. His unrestrained con-
fidence had been as balm to his mother's heart, and soothed
the bitter pain it was to behold, to feel assured, for it was no
longer fancy, that the confidence of Caroline was indeed ut-
terly denied her and bestowed upon another. Yet still Mrs.
Hamilton fancied Caroline loved St. Eval ; her eyes had not
yet been opened to the enormity of her daughter's conduct.
Nor were they till, after a long struggle of fervid love with
the tremblings natural to a fond but reserved and lowly heart,
St. Eval summoned courage to offer hand, heart, and fortune
to the girl he loved (he might well be pardoned for the belief
that she loved him), and was rejected, coldly, decidedly.
The young Earl had received the glad sanction of Mr.
Hamilton to make his proposals to his daughter. There had
never been, nor was there now, any thing to damp his hopes.
He was not, could not be deceived in the belief that Caroline
accepted, nay, demanded, encouraged his attention. Invaria-
bly kind, almost fascinating in her manner, she had ever singled
84 THE mother's recompense.
him out from the midst of many much gayer and more attraet-
ive young men. She had given him somewhat more to love
eacn time they parted ; and what could this mean, but that she
cared for him more than for others? Again and again St.
Eval pondered on the encouragement he could not doubt but
that he received ; again and again demanded of himself if he
were not playing with her feelings thus to defer his proposals.
Surely she loved him. The sanction of her parents had
heightened his hopes, and love and confidence in the truth, the
purity of his beloved one obtained so much ascendency
over his heart, that when the important words were said,
he had almost ceased to fear. How bitter, how agonizing then
must have been his disappointment when he was refused
when sudden haughtiness beamed on Caroline's noble brow,
and coldness spread over every feature. And yet, could he
doubt it? No ; triumph was glittering in her sparkling eye ;
in vain he looked for sympathy in his disappointment, if love
were denied him. He gazed on her, and the truth suddenly
flashed on his mind ; he marked the triumph with which she
heard his offer ; no softening emotion was in her countenance.
In vain he tried to ascribe its expression to some other feel-
ing ; it was triumph, he could not be deceived ; and with agony
St. Eval discovered that the being he had almost worshipped
was not the faultless creature he had believed her ; she had
played with his feelings ; she had encouraged him, heightened his
love, merely to afford herself amusement. The visions of hope,
of fancy were rudely dispelled, and perhaps at that moment it
was better for his peace that he suddenly felt she was beneath
his love ; she was not worthy to be his wife. He no longer
esteemed ; and if love itself were not utterly snapped asunder,
the loss of esteem enabled him to act in that interview with
pride approaching to her own. He reproached her not : no
word did he utter that could prove how deeply he was wound-
ed, and thus add to the triumph so plain to be perceived.
That she had sunk in his estimation she might have seen, but
other feelings prevented her discovering how deeply. Had she
veiled her manner more, had she rejected him with kindness,
St. Eval might still have loved, and imagined that friendship
and esteem had actuated her conduct towards him. Yet those
haughty features expelled tl^is thought as soon as it arose. It
was on th^e night of a gay assembly St. Eval had found an op-
portunity to speak with Caroline, and when both rejoined the
crowd no emotion was discernible in the countenance at
THE mother's recompense. 85
either. St. Eyal was the same to all as usual. No one who
might have heard his eloquent discussion on some state affairs
with the Russian consul could have imagined how painfully
acute were his sufferings ; it was not only disappointed love-
no, his was aggravated bitterness ; he could no longer esteem
the object of his love, he had found himself deceived, cruelly
deceived, in one he had looked on almost as faultless ; and
where is the pang that can equal one like this 1 The heightened
color on Caroline's cheek, the increased brilliancy of her eye,
attracted the admiration of all around her, the triumph of
power had indeed been achieved. But when she laid her head
on her pillow, when the silence and darkness of night brought
the past to her mind more vividly, in vain she sought forget-
falness in sleep. Was it happiness, triumph, that bade her
bury her face in her hands and weep, weep till almost every
limb became convulsed by her overpowering emotion ? Her
thoughts were undefined, but so painful, that she was glad
how glad, when morning came. She compared her present
with her former self, and the contrast was misery ; but even as
her ill-fated aunt had done, she summoned pride to stifle every
feeling of remorse.
Mr. Hamilton had given his sanction to the addresses of
Lord St. Eval to his daughter; but he knew not when the
young man intended to place the seal upon his fate. Great
then was his astonishment, the morning following the evening
we have mentioned, when St. Eval called to bid him farewell,
as he intended, he said, leaving London that afternoon for his
father's seat, where he should remain perhaps a week, and then
quit England for the Continent. He spoke calmly, but there
was a paleness of the cheek, a dimness of the eye, that told a
tale of inward wretchedness, which the regard of Mr. Hamilton
could not fail instantly to. discover. Deeply had he become
interested in the young man, and the quick instinct combined
with the fears of a father told him that the conduct of Caro-
line had caused this change. He looked at the expressive
countenance of the young Earl for a few minutes, then placing
his hand on his shoulder, said kindly, but impressively
" St. Eval, you are changed, as well as your plans. You
are unhappy. What has happened ? Have your too sensitive
feelings caused you to fancy Caroline unkind ?"
" Would to heaven it were only fancy !" replied St. Eval
with unwonted emotion, and almost convulsively clenching both
bftnds as if for calmness, added more composedly, " I hava
86 THB KdrHEK's RECOMPENSE.
been too presumptuous in my hopes ; I fancied myself beloyed
by your beautiful daughter, but I have found myself painfully
mistaken." .
Sternness gathered on the brow of the father as he heard,
and he answered, with painful emphasis
^' St. Eval, deceive me not, I charge you. In what position
do you now stand with Caroline ?"
'^ Briefly, then, if I must speak, in the humble character of
a rejected, scornfully rejected lover." His feelings carried
him beyond control. The triumph he had seen glittering so
brightly in the eyes of Caroline had for the time turned every
emotion into galL He shrunk from the agony it was to find he
was deceived in one whom he had believed so perfect.
'^ Scorn I has a daughter of mine acted thus 1 Encourage,
and then scorn. St. Eval, for pity's sake, tell me ! you are
jesting ; it is not of Caroline you speak ?" So spoke the now
agonized father, for every hope of his child's singleness of mind
and purity of intention appeared at once blighted. He grasp-
ed St. Eval's hand, and looked on him with eyes from which,
in the deep disappointment of his heart, all sternness had fled
"I grieve to cause you pain, my dear friend," replied the
young Earl, entering at once into the father's feelings, " but it
IS even so. Your daughter has only acted as many, nay, as the
majority of her sex are fond of doing. It appears that you,
too, have marked what might be termed the encouragement she
gave me. My self-love is soothed, for I might otherwise have
deemed my hopes were built on the unstable foundation of folly
and presumption."
" And condemnation of my child is the fruit of your self-
acquittal, St. Eval, is it not '2 You despise her now as much as
you have loved her," and Mr. Hamilton paced the room with
agitation.
" Would almost that I could !'' exclaimed St. Eval ; the
young Earl then added, despondingly, " no, I deny not that
your child has sunk in my estimation ; I believed her exalted
far above the majority of her sex ; that she, apparently all soft-
ness and truth, was incapable of playing with the most sacred
feelings of a fellow-creature. I looked on her as faultless ; and
though the veil has fallen from my eyes, it tells me that if in
Caroline Hamilton I am deceived, it is useless to look for per-
fection upon earth. Yet I cannot tear her image from my
lieart. She has planted misery there which I cannot at present
overcome ; but if that triumph yields her pleasure, and tends
THE mother's reoomfenie. 87
to her happiness, be it so ; my farther attention shall no longer
annoy her."
Much disturbed, Mr. Hamilton continued to pace the room^
then hastily approaching the young Earl, he said, hurriedly
" Forget hor, St. Eval, forget her ; rest not till you have
regained your peace. My disappointment, that of her mother
'our long-cherished hopes, but it is useless to speak of them,
to bring them forward, bitter as they are, in comparison with
yours. Forget her, St. Eval ; she is unworthy of you," and he
wrung his hand again and again, as if in that pressure he
could conauer and conceal his feelings. At that instant Emme-
line bounaed joyfully into the room, unconscious that any one
was with her father, and only longed to tell him the delightful
news, that she had received a long, long letter from Mary, tell-
ing her of their safe arrival at Geneva, at which place Mrs.
Greville intended to remain for a few weeks, before she pro-
ceeded more southward.
" Look, dear papa, is not this worth receiving ?" she ex-
claimed, holding up the well-filled letter, and looking the per-
sonification of innocent and radiant happiness, her fair luxuri-
ant hair pushed in disorder from her open forehead and flushed
cheek, her blue eyes sparkling with irresistible glee, which was
greatly heightened by her glowing smiles. It was impossible
to look on Emmeline without feeling every ruffled emotion
suddenly calmed ; she was so bright, so innocent, so fair a
thing, that if peace and kindness had wished to take up their
abode on earth, they could not have found a fairer form where-
in to dwell. As St. Eval gazed upon the animated girl, he
could not help contrasting her innocent and light-hearted plea*
Bure with his own unmitigated sorrow.
" Your presence and your joy are mistimed, my dear Em-
meline ; your father appears engaged," said Mrs. Hamilton,
entering almost directly after her child, and perceiving by one
glance at her husband's face that something had chanced to
disturb him. ^ Control these wild spirits for a time till he is
able to listen to you."
" Do not check her, my dear Emmeline, I am not particu-
larly engaged. If St. Eval will forgive me, I would gladly
hear some news t)f our dear Mary."
*' And pray let me hear it also. You know how interested
I am in this dear friend of yours, Emmeline," replied St. Eval,
Btruggling with himself, and succeeding sufficiently to speak
playfully; for he and Emmeline had contrived to become such
88 THE mother's recompense.
great allies and intimate friends, that by some sympathy titloi
of ceremony were seldom used between them, and they were
Eugene and Emmeline to each other, as if they were indeed
brother and sister.
Laughingly and delightedly Emmeline imparted the con-
tents of her letter, which afforded real pleasure both to Mr.
and Mrs. Hamilton, by the more cheerful, even happier style
in which she had written.
" Now do you not think I ought to be proud of my friend,
Master Eugene ? is she not one worth having ?" demanded
Emmeline, sportively appealing to the young Earl, as she read
to her father some of Mary's affectionate expressions and
wishes in the conclusion.
" So much so, that I am seized with an uncontrollable de-
sire to know her, and if you will only give me a letter of in-
troduction, I will set off for Geneva next week."
Emmeline raised her laughing eyes to his face, with an ex*
pression of unfeigned amazement.
" A most probable circumstance," she said, laughing ; " no,
Lord St. Eval, you will not impose thus on my credulity.
Eugene St. Eval, the most courted, flattered, and distinguish-
ed, leave London before the season is over impossib]^."
" I thank you for the pretty compliments you are shower-
ing on me, my little fairy friend, but it is nevertheless true.
I leave England for the Continent next week, and I may as
well bend my wandering steps to G-eneva as elsewhere."
"But what can you possibly be going on the Continent
again for ? I am sure, by all the anecdotes you have told me,
you must have seen all that is worth seeing, and so why should
poor England again be deserted by one of the ablest of her
sons ?"
" Emmeline !" exclaimed her mother, in an accent of warn-
ing and reproach, which brought a deep crimson flush to her
cheek, and caused her eyes to glisten, for Mrs. Hamilton had
marked that all was not serene on the countenance of the Earl,
and her heart beat with anxious alarm ; for she knew his in-
tentions with regard to Caroline, and all she beheld and heard,
startled, almost terrified her. Lord St. Eval certainly looked
a little disturbed at Emmeline's continued questions, and per-
ceiving it, she hesitatingly but frankly said
" I really beg your pardon, my lord, for my unjustifiable
curiosity ; mamma is always reproving me for it, and certainly
I deserve her lecture now. But will you really find out Mary
and be the bearer of a small parcel for me ?"
THE mother's recompense. 89
" With the greatest pleasure ; for it will give me an ob-
ject, which I had not before, and a most pleasing one, if I
may hope your friend will not object to my intrusion."
" A friend of mine will ever be warmly welcomed by Mary,"
said Eihmeline, with eagerness, but checking herself
" Then may I hope you will continue to regard me as your
Mend, and still speak of me as Eugene, though perhaps a year
or more may pass before you see me again ?" demanded the
young Earl, somewhat sadly, glancing towards Mrs. Hamil-
ton, as if for her approval.
"As my brother Eugene ^yes," answjered Emmeline,
quickly, and perhaps archly. A shadow passed over his brow.
" As jour friend ^^ he repeated, laying an emphasis on the
word, which to any one less innocent of the world than Em-
meline, would at once have excited their suspicion, and which
single word at once told Mrs. Hamilton that all her cherished
hopes were blighted. She read confirmation in her husband's
countenance, and for a few minutes stood bewildered.
" I leave town in a few hours for my father's seat," added
St Eval, turning to Mrs. Hamilton. " I may amuse myself
by taking Devonshire in my way, or rather going out of my
way for that purpose. Have you any commands at Oakwood
that I can perform?"
Mrs. Hamilton answered thankfully in the negative, but
Emmeline exclaimed
" I have a good mind to make you bearer of a letter and a
gage d* amour to my good old nurse ; she will be so delighted
to hear of me, and her postman a nobleman. Poor nurse
will have food for conversation and pleasurable reflection till
we return."
" Any thing you like, only make me of use ; and let me
have it in an hour's time, or perhaps I can give you two."
" One will be all-sufl5cient ; but what a wonderful desire to
be useful has seized you all in a minute," replied Emmeline,
whose high spirits appeared on that day utterly uncontrollable,
and she ran on unmindful of her mother's glance. " But if I
really do this, I must bid you farewell at once, or I shall have
no time. Think of me, if any thing extraordinary meets your
eye, or occurs to you, and treasure it up for my information, as
you know my taste for the marvellous. My letter to Mary
shall be forwarded to you, for I really depend on your seek-
ing her, and telling her all about us; and now, then, with
every wish for your pleasant journey, I must wish you good-
bye."
90 THS mother's recompensb.
" Gteod-bye, dear, happy Emmeline," he said, with earnest*
ness. '^ May you be as light-hearted and joyous, and as kind,
when we met again as now ; may I commission you with my
warmest remembrances and kind adieus to your cousin, whom
[ am sorry I have not chanced to see this morning ?"
" They shall be duly delivered," answered Emmeline, and
hissing her hand gayly in adieu, she tripped lightly out of the
room, and St. Eval instantly turned towards Mrs. Hamilton.
'^ In this intention of leaving England for a few months,
or perhaps a year," he said, striving for calmness, but speaking
in a tone of sadness, ^' you will at once perceive that my che-
rished hopes for the future are blighted. I will not linger on
the subject, for I cannot yet bear disappointment such as this
with composure. Were I of different mould, I might, spite of
coldness and pride, continue my addresses ; and were you as
other parents are, Caroline Miss Hamilton might still be
mine ; a fashionable marriage it would still be, but, thank
God, such will not be ; even to bestow your child on one you
might value more than me, you would not trample on her af-
fections, you would not consent that she should be an unwill-
ing bride, and I oh ! I could not could not wed wiih one
who loved me not. My dream of happiness has ended ^been
painfully dispelled ; the blow was unexpected, and has found
me unprepared. I leave England, lest my ungoverned feelings
should lead me wrong. Mrs. Hamilton," he continued, more
vehemently, " you understand my peculiar feelings, and can well
guess the tortures I am now enduring. You know why I am
reserved, because I dread the outbreak of emotion even in the
most trifling circumstances. Oh, to have been your son ^*
he paused abruptly, and hurriedly paced the room. " Forgive
me," he said, more calmly. " Only say you approve of my re-
solution to seek change for a short time, till I obtain self-go-
vernment, and can behold her without pain ; say that I am
doing right for myself I cannot think."
" You are right, quite right," replied Mrs. Hamilton in-
stantly, and her husband confirmed her words. "I do approve
your resolution, though deeply, most deeply, I regret its cause,
St. Eval. Your disappointment is most bitter, but you
grieve not alone. To have given Caroline to you, to behold
her your wife, would have fulfilled every fervent wish of which
she is the object. Not you alone have been deceived ; her
conduct has been such as to mislead 'those who have known
her from cbUdhood. St. Eval, ahe is ivot worthy of you."
THE mother's recompense. 91
Disappointed, not only at the blighting of eyer j secret hope,
not those alone in which St Eval was concerned, bat every
fond thought she had indulged in the purity and integrity
of her child, in which, though her confidence had been
dven to another, she had still implicitly trusted, the most
bitter disappointment and natural displeasure filled that
mother's heart, and almost for the first time since their union
Mr. Hamilton could read this unwonted emotion, in one usually
so gentle, in her kindling eyes and agitated voice.
'^ Child of my heart, my hopes, my care, as she is, I must
yet speak it, forget her Eugene ; let not the thought of a de-
ceiver, a coquette, debar you from the possession of that peace
which should ever be the portion of one so truly honorable,
so wholly estimable as yourself You are disappointed, pained ;
but you know ngt cannot ffuess the agony it is to find the in-
tegrity in which I so foncQy trusted is as nought; that my
child, my own child, whom I had hoped to lead through life
without a stain, is capable of such conduct."
Emotion choked her voice. She had been carried on by
the violence of her feelings, and perhaps said more in that mo-
ment of excitement than she either wished or intended.
St. Eval gazed on the noble woman before him with un-
feigned admiration. He saw the indignation, the displeasure
which she felt ; it heightened the dignity of her character in
his estimation : but he now began to tremble for its effects up-
on her child.
" Do not, my dear Mrs. Hamilton," he said, with some he-
sitation, " permit Miss Hamilton's rejection of me to excite
your displeasure towards her. If with me she could not be
happy, she was right to refuse my hand. Let me not have the
misery of feeling I have caused dissension in a family whose
beautiful unity has ever bound me to it. Surely you would
not urge the a^ections of your child."
"Never," replied Mrs. Hamilton, earnestly. "I under-
stand your fears, but let them pass away. I shall urge nothing,
but my duty I must do. Much as I admire the exalted senti-
ments you express, I must equally deplore the mistaken con-
duct of my child. She has wilfully sported with the most sa-
cred of human feelings. Once more I say, she is not worthy
to be yours."
The indignation and strong emotion still lingering in hoi
voice convinced St. Eval that he might urge no mot^. ^^
spectfulir he took his leave.
92 THE motuee's reoohpensk.
CHAPTER V.
Mrs. Hamilton sat silently revolving in her mind all Caro-
line's late conduct, but vainly endeavoring to discover one
single good reason to justify her rejection of St. Eval. In
vain striving to believe all must have been mistaken, she had
not given him encouragement. That her affections could have
become secretly engaged was a thing so unlikely, that even
when Mrs. Hamilton suggested it, both she and her husband
banished the idea as impossible ; for St. Eval alone had she
evinced any marked preference.
" You must speak to her, Emmeline, I dare not ; for I feel
too angry and disappointed to argue calmly. She has deceived
us ; all your cares appear to have been of no avail ; all the
watchful tenderness with which she has been treated thus re-
turned ! I could have forgiven it, I would not have said
another word, if she had conducted herself towards him with
propriety ; but to give him encouragement, such as all who
nave seen them together must have remarked ; to attract him
by every winning art. to chain him to her side, and then re-
ject him with scorn. What could have caused her conduct,
but the wish to display her power, her triumph over one so
superior? Well might he say she had sunk in his estimation.
Why did we not question her, instead of thus fondly trusting
in her integrity ? Emmeline, we have trusted our child too
confidently, and thus our reliance is rewarded.
Seldom, if ever, had Mrs. Hamilton seen her husband so
disturbed ; for some little time she remained with him, and
succeeded partly in soothing his natural displeasure. She then
left him to compose her own troubled and disappointed feel-
ings ere she desired the presence of her child. Meanwhile,
as the happy Emmeline went to prepare her little packet for
her dear old nurse, the thought suddenly arose that St. Eval
had sent his remembrances and adieus to Ellen only, he had
not mentioned Caroline ; and, unsophisticated as she was, this
struck her as something very strange, and she was not long in
connecting this circumstance with his sudden departure. Wild,
sportive, and innocent as Emmeline was, she yet possessed a
depth of reflection and clearness of perception, which those
who only knew her casually might not have expected. She
had marked with extreme pleasure that which she believed the
mutual attachment of St. Eval and \iei \st^T \ and with her
THE mother's recompense. 93
ready fancy ever at work, had indulged yery often in airy
visions, in which she beheld Caroline Countess St. Eval, and
mistress of that beautiful estate in Cornwall, which she had
heard Mrs. Hamilton say had been presented by the Marquis
of Malvern to his son on his twenty-first birthday. Emme-
line had indulged these fancies, and noticed the conduct of
Caroline and St. Eval till she really believed their union would
take place. She had been so delighted at the receipt of Mary's
letter, that she had no time to remember the young Earl's de
parture ; but when she was alone, that truth suddenly flashed
across her mind, and another strange incident, though at the
time she had not remarked it, when she had said as her brother
she would remember him, he had repeated, with startling em-
I^asis, " as her friend?'^ " What could it all mean ?" she
thought, " Caroline cannot have rejected him % No, that is
quite impossible. My sister would surely not be such a prac-
tised coquette ; I must seek her and have the mystery solved.
Surely she will be sorry St. Eval leaves us so soon."
Emmeline hastened first to Ellen, begging her to pack up
the little packet for Mrs. Langford, for she knew such an op-
portunity would be as acceptable to her cousin as to herself;
for Ellen never forgot the humble kindness and prompt atten-
tion she had received from the widow during her long and te-
dious illness ; but by little offerings, and what the good woman
still more valued, by a few kind and playful lines, which ever
accompanied them, she endeavored to prove her sense of
Widow Langford's conduct.
In five minutes more Emmeline was in her sister's room.
Caroline was partly dressed as if for a morning drive, and her
attendant leaving just as her sister entered. She looked pale
and more fatigued than usual, from the gayety of the preceding
night. Happy she certainly did not look, and forgetting in
that sight the indignation which the very supposition of coquetry
in her sister had excited, Emmeline gently approached her^
and kissing her cheek, said, fondly
" What is the matter, dear Caroline ? You look ill, wearied,
and even melancholy. Bid you dance more than usual last
night ?"
" No," replied Caroline ; " I believe not. I do not think I
am more tired than usual. But what do you come for, Em-
meline ? Some reason must bring you here, for you are gen-
erally hard at work at this time of the day."
"Mj witahave been so disturbed by Mary'a \e\A.eT^\!si%X\
94 ' THE mother's REOOMFENbE.
have been unable to settle to any thing/' replied her sister,
laughing ; '^ and to add to their disturbance, I have just heard
something so strange, that I could not resist coming to toll
you."
" Of what nature ?"
" St. Eval leaves London to-day for Castle Malvern, and
next week quits England. Now is not that extraordinary ?"
Caroline became suddenly flushed with crimson, which
quickly receding, left her even paler than before.
" She is innocent," thought Emmeline. " She loves him.
St. Eval must have behaved ill to her ; and yet he certainly
looked more sinned against than sinning."
" To-day : does he leave to-day ?" Caroline said, at lengthy
speaking, it appeared, with effort, and turning to avoid her
sister's glance.
" In little more than an hour's time ; but I am sorry I told
you, dear Caroline, if the news has pained you."
" Pained me," repeated her sister, with returning haughti-
ness ; " what can you mean, Emmeline ? Lord St. Eval is
nothing to me."
" Nothing !" repeated the astonished girl. " Caroline, you
are incomprehensible. Why- did* ypu treat him with such
marked attention if you cared nothing for him ?"
" For a very simple reason ; because it gave me pleasure
to prove that it was in my power to do that for which other
girls have tried in vain compel the proud lordly St. Eval to
bow to a woman's will." Pride had returned again. She felt
the pleasure of triumphant power, and her eyes sparkled and
her cheek again flushed, but with a different emotion to that
she had felt before.
" Do you mean, then, that you have never loved him, and-
merely sported with his feelings, for your own amusement ? Caro-
line, I will not believe it. You could not have acted with sucli
cruelty ; you do love him, but you reject my confidence. I do
not ask you to confide in me, tnough I did hope I should have
been your chosen friend ; but I beseech, I implore you, Caro-
line, only to say that you are jesting. You do love him."
*' You are mistaken, Emmeline, never more so in your lifa
I have refused his offered hand ; if you wish my confidence
on this subject, I give it you. As he is a favorite of y3urs, I
do not doubt your preserving his secret inviolate. I might
have been Countess of St. Eval, but my end was accomplished|
and I dismissed my devoted cavalier."
THE mother's recoupense. 95
'* And can you, dare you jest on such a subject ?" exclaimed
Emmeline, indignantly. ^^ Is it possible you can have wilfally
acted thus ? sported with the feelings of such a man as St. Eval,
laughed at his pain, called forth his Iotc to gratify your desire of
power ? Caroline, shame on you !"
^ I am not in the habit of being schooled as to right and
wrong by a younger sister, nor will I put up with it now, Em-
meline. I never interfere with your conduct, and therefore
you will, if you please, do the same with me. I am not respon-
sible to you for my actions, nor shall I ever be," replied Caro
line, with cold yet angry pride.
^' But I will speak when I know you have acted contrary
to those principles mamma has ever endeavored to instil into
08 both," replied Emmeline, still indignantly ; and you are
and have been ever welcome to remonstrate with me. I am not
so weak as I once was, fearful to speak my sentiments even
when I knew them to be right. You have acted shamefully,
cruelly, Caroline, and I will tell you what I think, angry as it
may make you."
A haughty and contemptuous answer rose to Caroline's
lips, but she was prevented giving it utterance by the entrance
of Martyn, her mother's maid, with her lady's commands, that
Miss Hamilton should attend her in the boudoir.
" How provoking !" she exclaimed. " I expect Annie to call
for me every minute, and mamma will perhaps detain me half
an hour ; and most unwillingly she obeyed the summons.
" Annie," repeated Emmeline, when her sister had left the
room, " Annie this is her work ; if my sister had not been
thus intimate with her she never would have acted in this man-
ner." And so disturbed was the gentle girl at this confirmation
of her fears, that it was some little time before she could recover
sufficient serenity to rejoin Ellen in arranging the widow's
packet.
Mrs. Langford had the charge of Oakwaod during the
absence of the family, and Mrs. Hamilton, recollecting some
affairs concerning the village schools she wished the widow to
attend to, was writing her directions as Caroline entered, much
to the latter's increased annoyance, as her mother's business
with her would thus be retarded, and every minute drew the
time of Annie's appointment nearer. She could scarcely con-
ceal her impatience, and did venture to beg her mother to tell
her what she required.
" Your attention, Caroline, for a time," she replied, so coldly,
96 THE mother's recompense.
that her daughter felt instantly something was wrong, though
what she guessed not, for she knew not that St. Eval had oV
tained the sanction of her parents for his addresses ; and she
little imagined he could have any thing to do with the displea-
sure she saw so clearly marked.
" You will wait, if you please, till I have finished writing, as
this cannot be delayed. Lord St. Eval leaves town in a very
short time, and I send this by him."
"Lord St. Eval," thought Caroline, suddenly becoming
alarmed, " surely mamma and papa know nothing of his offer."
A few minutes passed in silence, which was broken by the
sound of carriage-wheels stopping at the door, and Kobert
almost instantly after entered with Miss Grahame's love, say-
ing she could not wait a minute, and hoped Miss Hamilton was
ready.
" Miss Grahame !" repeated Mrs. Hamilton, in an accent
of surprise, before Caroline had time to make any answer ;
"Caroline, why have you not mentioned this engagement ^
You do not generally make appointments without at least
consulting me, if you no longer think it necessary to request
my permission. Where are you going with Annie ?"
" To Oxford Street, I believe," she answered carelessly, to
conceal her rising indignation at this interference of her
mother.
" If you require any thing there, you can go with me by and
by. Robert, give my compliments to Jliss Grahame, and say
from me, Miss Hamilton is particularly engaged with me at
present, and therefore cannot keep her engagement to-day.
Be turn here as soon as you have delivered my message."
" Mother !" burst from Caroline's lips, in an accent of un-
controllable anger, as soon as the servant had left the room ;
but with a strong effort she checked herself, and hastily walked
to the window.
An expression of extreme pain passed across her mother's
features as she looked towards her, but she took no notice till
Kobert had returned, and had been dismissed with her note to
be given to Emmeline to transmit with hers.
" Caroline," she then said, with dignity, yet perhaps less
coldly than before, " if you will give me your attention for a
short time, you will learn the cause of my displeasure, which is
perhaps at present incomprehensible, unless, indeed, your own
conscience has already reproached you ; but before I com-
mence on any other subject, I must request that you will
THE mother's recompense. 97
make no more appointments with Miss Grahame without my
permission. This is not the first time you have done so ; I
nave not noticed it previously, because I thought your own
good sense would have told you that you were acting wrong,
and contrary to those principles of candor I believed you to
possess."
'*You were always prejudiced against Annie," answered
Caroline, with raising anger, for she had quite determined not
to sit silent while her mother spoke, cost what it might
" I am not speaking of Annie, Caroline, but to you. The
change in your conduct since you have become thus intimate
with her, might indeed justify my prejudice, but on that I am
not now dwelling. I do not consider Miss Malison a fit cha-
peron for my daughter, and therefore I desire you will not
again join her in her drives."
" Every other girl of my station has the privilege of at
least choosing her own companions without animadversion,"
replied Caroline, indignantly, '' and in the simple thing of
making appointments without interference it is hard that I
alone am to be an exception."
" If you look around the circle in which I visit intimately,
Caroline, you will find that wid you act according to your own
wishes, you would stand more alone than were you to regard
mine. I have done wrong in ever allowing you to be as inti-
mate with Miss Grahame as you are. You looked surprised
and angry when I mentioned the change that had taken place
in your conduct."
"I had sufficient reason for surprise," replied Caroline,
impatiently ; " I was not aware that my character was so weak,'
as to turn and change with every new acquaintance."
" Are you then the same girl you were at Oakwood ?" de-
manded Mrs. Hamilton, gravely yet sadly.
A sudden pang of conscience smote the heart of the mis-
taken girl at these words, a sob rose choking in her throat,
and she longed to have given vent to the tears which pride,
anger, and remorse were summoning, but she would not, and
answered according to those evil whisperings, which before she
had only indulged in secret.
" If I am changed," she answered passionately, " it is be-
cause neither you nor papa are the same. At Oakwood I was
free, I had full liberty to act, speak, think as I pleased, while
here a chain is thrown around my simplest action ; my very
words are turned into weapons against me ; my friendship dii-
5
98 THE mother's recompense.
approved of, and in that at least surely I may have liberty to \^
enoose for myself"
" You have," replied Mrs. Hamilton, mildly. " I complain
not, Caroline, of the pain you have inflicted upon me, in so
completely withdrawing your confidence and friendship, to
bestow them upon a young girl. I control not your aflfection,
but it is my duty, and I will obey it, to warn you when I see
your favorite companion likely to lead you wrong. Had your
every thought and feeling been open to my inspection as at
Oakwood, would you have trifled as you have with the most
sacred feelings of a fellow creature ? would you have called
forth love by every winning art, by marked preference, to
reject it, when acknowledged, with scorn, with triumph ill-con-
cealed? would you have sported thus with a heart whose
affections would do honor to the favored one on whom they
were bestowed 1 would you have cast aside in this manner an
that integrity and honor I hoped and believed were your own?
Caroline, you have disappointed and deceived your parents ;
you have blighted their fondest hopes, and destroyed, sinfully
destroyed, the peace of a noble, virtuous, excellent young man,
who loved you with all the deep fervor of an enthusiastic soul.
To have beheld him your husband would have fulfilled every
wish, every hope entertained by your father and myself I
would have intrusted your happiness to his care without one
doubt arising within me ; and you have spurned his offer, re-
jected him without reason, without regret, without sympathy
for his wounded and disappointed feelings, without giving him
one hope that in time his affections might be returned. Caro-
line, why have you thus decidedly rejected him? what is there
in the young man you see to bid you tremble for your future
happiness ?"
Caroline answered not ; she had leaned her arms on the
cushion of the couch, and buried her face upon them, while her
mother spoke, and Mrs. Hamilton in vain waited for her reply.
" Caroline," she continued, in a tone of such appealing affec-
tion, it seemed strange that it touched not the heart of her
child, " Caroline, I will not intrude on your confidence, but
one question I must ask, and I implore you to answer me truly
do you love another ?"
Still Caroline spoke not, moved not. Her mother oon-
tinned, " If you do, why should you hide it from me, your own
mother, Caroline ? You believe my conduct changed towards
you, but you have condemned me without proof You have
THE mother's RECOBfPENSE. 99
abandoned my sympathy shrank from my love. Try me now,
my sweet child , if you love another, confess it, and we will do
what we can to make that love happy ; if it be returned, why
should you conceal it? and if it be not, Caroline, my child, will
you refuse even the poor comfort your mother can bestow ?"
She spoke in vain ; but could she have read her daughter's
heart at that moment, maternal aFection might not have been
so deeply pained as it was by this strange silence. Regret,
deep, though unavailing, had been Caroline's portion, from the
moment she had reflected soberly on her rejection of St. Eval.
She recalled his every word, his looks of respectful yet ardent
admiration, and she wept at that infatuation which had bade
her act as she had done ; and then his look of controlled con-
tempt stung her to the quick. He meant not, perhaps, that
his glance should have so clearly denoted that she had sunk in
his estimation, it did not at the moment, but it did when in
solitude she recalled it, and she felt that she deserved it. In
vain in those moments did she struggle to call up the vision of
Lord Alphingham, his words of love, his looks of even more
fervid passion, his image would not rise to banish that of St.
Eval ; and if Caroline had not still been blinded by the influ-
ence and arguments of Annie, had she given her own good
sense one half-hour's uncontrolled dominion, she would have
discovered, that if love had secretly and unsuspiciously entered
her heart, it was not for Lord Alphingham. Had she really
loved him, she could not have resisted the fond appeal of her
mother ; but to express in words all the confused and indefina-
ble emotions then filling her heart was impossible. She con-
tinued for several minutes silent, and Mrs. Hamilton felt too
deeply pained and disappointed to speak again. Her daugh-
ter had spoken to her that morning as she had seldom done
even in her childhood. Then her mother could look forward to
years of reason and maturity for the improvement of those
errors ; now others had arisen, and if her control were once so
entirely thrown aside, could she ever regain sufficient influence
to lead her right. Seldom had Caroline's conduct given her so
much pain as in the disclosures and events of that morning.
Is it absolutely necessary," Caroline at length said, sum-
moning, as her aunt Eleanor had often done, pride to drown th
whisperings of conscience, " that I must love another, because
I rejected Lord St. Eval? In such an important step as mar-
riage, I should imagine my own inclinations weift \Sift ^x^\ V^
be consulted It would be BtrsLUge indeed, if, ai^ei iXV \ \i'a::s^
100 THE mother's RECOBCPENSE.
heard you say on the evil of forcing young women to marrj;
that you should compel your own child to accept the first offer
she received."
" You do mo injustice, Caroline," replied her mother, con-
trolling with an effort natural displeasure ; " St. Eval would not
accept an unwilling bride, nor after what has passed would your
father and myself deem you worthy to become his wife."
" Then long may this paragon of excellence remain away,"
replied Caroline, with indignant haughtiness kindling in every
feature. " I have no wish ever to associate again with one by
whose side I am deemed so unworthy, even by my parents."
" Those who love you best, Caroline, are ever the first to
behold and deplore your faults. Have you acted honorably ;
have you done worthily in exciting love merely to give pain, to
amuse and gratify your own love of power?"
" I have done no more than other girls do with impunity,
without even notice ; and surely that which is so generally
practised cannot demand such severe censure as you bestow
on it."
" And therefore you would make custom an excuse for sin,
Caroline. Would you have spoken thus a few months since ?
would you have questioned the justice of your mother's sen-
tences ? and yet you say you are not changed. Is it any ex-
cuse for a wrong action, because others do it ? Had you been
differently instructed it might be, but not when from your
earliest years I have endeavoured to reason with, and to con-
vince you of the sin of coquetry, to which from a child you
have been inclined. You have acted more sinfully than many
whose coquetry has been more general. You devoted yourself
to one alone, encouraged, flattered, because you say he was al-
ready attracted, instead of adhering to that distant behavior
which would have at once told him you could feel no more for
him than as a friend. You would have prevented future suf-
fering, by banishing from the first all secret hopes ; but no, you
wished to prove you could accomplish more than ethers, by
captivating one so reserved and superior as St. Eval. Do not
interrupt me by a denial, Caroline, for you dare not deliberately
say such was not your motive. That noble integrity which I
have so long believed your own, you have exiled from your
heart. Your entire conduct towards St. Eval has been one
continued falsehood, and are you then worthy to be united to
one who is truth, honor, nobleness itself? Had you loved
MDotherj your rejection of this young man might have been
THE mother's RECOlfFENbE. ^01
excused, but not your behavior towards him ; for that not one
good reason can be brought forward in excuse. I am speaking
severely, Caroline, and perhaps my every word may alienate
your confidence and affection still farther from me ; but my
duty shall be done, painful as it may be both to yourself and
me. I cannot speak tamely on a subject in which the future
character and welfare of my child are concerned. I can no
longer trust in your integrity. Spite of your change in man-
ner and in feeling towards me, I still confided in your unsullied
honor ; that I can no longer do ; you have forfeited my confi-
dence, Caroline, and not until I see a total change of conduct,
can you ever hope to regain it That perhaps will not grieve
you, as it would once have done ; but unless you redeem your
character," she continued, '' the serious displeasure of both
your father and myself will be yours, and we shall, in all pro-
bability, find some means of withdrawing you from the society
which has been so injurious to the purity of your character.
Whatever others may do, it is your duty to act according to
the principles of your parents, and not to those of others ; and
therefore, for the future, I desire you will abide by my crite-
rion of right and wrong, and not by the misleading laws of
custom. When you have conquered the irritation and anger
which my words have occasioned, you may perhaps agree to the
justice of what I have said ; till then I do not expect it ; but
whether yaur reason approves of it or not, I desire your im-
plicit obedience. If you have any thing you desire to do, you
may leave me, Caroline, I do not wisn to detain you any
longer."
In silence, too sullen to give any hope of a repentant feel-
ing or judgment convinced, Caroline had listened to her mo-
ther's words. They were indeed unusually severe ; but her
manner from the beginning of that interview could not havo
lessened the displeasure which she already felt We have
known Mrs. Hamilton from the commencement of her career,
when as a girl not older than Caroline herself, she mingled
with the world, and we cannot fail to have perceived her detes-
tation of the fashionable sin of coquetry. The remembrance
of Eleanor and all the evils she entailed upon herself by the
indulgence of that sinful fault, were still vividly acute, and
cost what it might, both to herself and, who was dearer still,
her child, she would do her duty, and endeavor to turn her
from the evil path. She saw that Caroline was in no mood
for gentler words and teDdernesa to have any effect, iYi^ \Xit^
102 THE mother's recompense.
fore, tbongli at yariance as it was to her nature, she spoke with
some severity and her usual unwayering decision. She couJd
read nov promise of amendment or contrition in those haughty
and sullen features, but she urged no more, for it might only
exasperate and lead her farther from conyiction.
For some few minutes Caroline remained in that same pos-
ture. Eyil passions of yaried nature suddenly appeared to
gain ascendency in that fnnately noble heart, and preyented all'
expressions that might haye soothed her mother's solicitude.
Hastily rising, without a word, she abruptly left the room,
and retired to her own. where she gaye yent to a brief but
passionate flood of tears, but they cooled not the feyer of her
brain; her haughty spirit reyolted from her mother's just
seyerity.
^' To be scolded, threatened, desired to obey like a child, an
infant ; what girl of my age would bear it tamely ? Well might
Anne say I was a slaye, not permitted to act or eyen think
according to my own discretion ; well might she say no other
mother behaycd to her daughters as mine ; to be kept in com-
plete thraldom ; to be threatened, if I do not behaye better, to
be remoyed from the scenes I so much loye, buried again at
home I suppose ; is it a wonder I am changed 1 Is it strange
that I should no longer feel for mamma as formerly ? and eyen
Emmeline must condemn me, call me to account for my ac-
tions, and my intimacy with Anne is made a subject of reproach ;
but if I do not see her as often as before, I can write, thank
heaven, and at least her sympathy and aflfection will be mine."
Such was the tenor of her secret thoughts, and she followed
them up by writing to her friend a lengthened and heightened
description of all that had occurred that morning, dwelling
long and indignantly on what she termed the cruel and un-
just seyerity of her mother, and imploring, as such confidential
letters generally did, Annie's secrecy and sympathy. The
epistle was dispatched, and quickly answered, in a style which,
as might be imagined, increased all Caroline's feeling of indig-
nation towards her parents, and bade her rely still more con-
fidingly on her false friend, who, she taught herself to believe,
was almost the only person who really cared for her best in-
terests.
Days passed, but neither Mr. nor Mrs. Hamilton changed
in the coldness of their manner towards their child. Perhaps
such conduct added fire to the already resentful girl; but
surely they might be pardoned for acting as they did. Caro
THE mothsr's recompense. 103
line's irritability increased, and Annie's secret letters were
ever at hand to soothe while they excited. She ever endeavor-
ed to turn her friend's attention from what she termed her
severe trials to the devotion felt towards her by Lord Alphing-
ham, declaring that each interview confirmed more and more
her belief in his passionate admiration. The evil influence
which Miss Grahame's letters had upon the mind of Caroline
in her private hours, was apparent in her manner to Lord Al-
phingham, when they chanced to meet, but even more guarded
than she had hitherto been, did Caroline become in her beha*
vior towards him when her parents were present. Their con-
duct had confirmed, to her heated and mistaken fancy, Annie's
representation of their unjustifiable severity, and that, indig-
nant at her rejection of St. Eval, they would unhesitatingly
refuse their consent to her acceptance of the Viscount. Caro-
line thought not to ask herself, how then is my intimacy with
him to end ? She only enjoyed the present as much as she
could, while the coldness of her parents, amidst all her pride
and boasted stoicism, still tortured her; and to the future
Annie as yet completely prevented her looking. Miss Gra-
hame's plans appeared indeed to thrive, and many were the
confidential and triumphant conversations she held upon the
subject with Miss Malison, who became more and more indig-
nant at Mrs. Hamilton's intrusive conduct in taking so much
notice of Lilla, notwithstanding the tales industriously circu-
lated against her. Her own severity and malevolence, how-
ever, appeared about to become her foes ; for about this time a
slight change with regard to the happiness of her injured
pupil took place, which threatened to banish her from Mr.
Grahame's family.
One morning Mrs. Hamilton, accompanied by Ellen, called
on Lady Helen rather earlier than usual, but found their friend
not yet visible, an attack of indisposition confining her to her
couch later than usual, but Lady Helen sending to entreat
her friend not to leave her house without seeing her, Mrs.
Hamilton determined on waiting. Annie had gone out with
Miss Malison.
" No wonder our poor Lilla proceeds so slowly in her edu-
cation," remarked Mrs. Hamilton, when the footman gave her
this information. "If she be so much neglected, her father
has no right to expect much progress. I wish from my heart
that I could think of some plan that would tend not only to
the happiness of this poor girlj but in the end to t\vaA oi "Wt
104 THE mother's recompense.
father alsa Were those faults now apparent in her charactei
judiciously removed, I feel confident Mr. Grahame would havo
more comfort in her than in either of his other children."
" She is always very different when she is with us," ob-
served Ellen. " I can never discover those evil passions of
which so many accuse her ; passionate she is, but that might
be controlled."
" It can never be while Miss Malison remains with her, for
her treatment is such that each year but increases the evil."
A sound as of some one sobbing violently in the adjoining
room interrupted their conversation. Fancying it came from
the object of their conversation, Mrs. Hamilton opened the
folding-doors, and discovered her young friend weeping vio-
lently, almost convulsively, on the sofa. Ever alive to sorrow,
of whatever nature or at whatever age, Mrs. Hamilton, followed
by Ellen, hastened towards her.
" What has happened, Lilla ?" she said, soothingly. " What
has chanced to call forth this violent grief? tell me, my love.
You know you need not hesitate to trust me with your sor-
rows."
Unused, save from that one dear friend, to hear the voice
of sympathy and kindness, Lilla flung her arms passionately
round her neck, and clung to her for some few minutes till her
choking sobs permitted her to speak.
" Aunt Augusta says I am so wicked, so very wicked, that
mamma/ ought not to keep me at home, that I am not at all
too old to go to school, and mamma says that I shall go ^and
and"
'' But what occasioned your aunt to advise suoh an alterna-
tive ?" demanded Mrs. Hamilton, gently.
" Oh, because ^because I know I was very wicked, but I
could not help it. Miss Malison had been tormenting me all
the morning, and exciting my anger ; and then Annie chose to
do all she could to call it forth before mamma, and so I just
told her what I thought of both her and her amiable confidant.
I hate them both," she continued, with a vehemence even the
presence of Mrs. Hamilton could not restrain, " and I wish
from my heart I could never see them more."
" If you gave vent to such sinful words before your mother,"
replied Mrs. Hamilton, gravely, "I do not wonder at your
aunt's isuggesting what she did. How often have I entreated
you to leave the room when your sister commences her unkind
endeavors to excite your anger, and thus give your mother a
THE MOTHE&'S RECOMPENSE. 105
proof of your consideration for her present state of health, and
evince to your sister, that if you cannot calmly listen to her
words, you can at least avoid them."
^' Mamma never takes any notice, hcmrever much I mayendea*
Yor to please her ; if she would only caress me, and praise me
sopie times, I know I i^ould be a very different girl. Then I
could bear all Annie's cruel words ; but I will not, I will never
put up with them, and permit either her or Miss Malison to
govern me and chain down my spirit, as they try all they can
to do. No one can ever know the constant ill-treatment which
I receive from both ; every thing I do, every word I speak, is
altered to suit their purpose, and mamma believes all they say.
They shall feel my power one day when they least expect it.
I will not be made so constantly miserable unrevenged."
" Lilla, dear Lilla," exclaimed Ellen, imploringly, "do not
speak thus ; you do not -know what you say. You wou^d not
return evil for evil, and on your sister. Do not, pray do not
let your anger, however just, obtain so much dominion."
" Annie never treats me as a sister, and I do not see why I
should practise such forbearance towards her ; but I will do all
I can, indeed I will, if you will persuade papa not to send me
from home. Oh, do not look at me so gravely and sadly, dear-
est, dearest Mrs. Hamilton," continued the impetuous and mis-
guided but naturally right-feeling child.
" I can bear any one's displeasure but yours ; but when you
look displeased with me I feel so very, very wretched. I know
I deserve to lose all your kindness, for I never follow your
advice ; I deserve that you should hate me, as every one else
does ; but you do not know all I have to endure. On ! do not
let me go from home."
" I cannot persuade your father to let you remain at home,
my dear girl," replied Mrs. Hamilton, drawing her young com-
panion closer to her, and speaking with soothing tenderness,
" because I agree with your aunt in thinking it would be really
the best thing for you."
" Then I have lost every hope," exclaimed the impatient
girl, clasping her hands despairingly. " Papa would never have
consented, if you had advised him not, and you, you must think
me as wicked as aunt Augusta does ;" and the tears she had
checked now burst violently forth anew.
" You mistake me, my love, quite mistake me ; it is not be-
cause I believe you are not fitted to associate with your domestic
circle I believe if she were but properly encouiag,^^^m^ ^^.N^a
5*
106 THE mothee's recompense.
Liik wottid add mucli to the comfort of both her parents ; and
I do not at all despair of seeing that the case. But at present
T must advise your leaving home for a few years, because I
really do think it would add much to your happiness."
'^ Happiness 1" repeated Lilla, in an accent of extreme
surprise. " School bring happiness ?"
" Are you happy at nome, my love ? Is not your life at
present one continued scene of wretchedness ? What is it
that you so much dislike in the idea of school ?"
^ The control, the subordination, the irksome formula of
lessons, prim governesses, satirical scholars." Neither Mrs
Hamilton nor Ellen could prevent a smile.
^^ If such things are all you dread, my dear, I have no feat
of soon overcoming them," the former said, playfully. "I
will do all I can to persuade your father not to send you to a
large fashionable seminary, where such things may be the
case ; but I know a lady who lives at Hampstead, and under
whose kind guidance I am sure you will be nappy, much more
so than you are now. If you would only think calmly on the
subject, I am sure you would agree in aU I urge."
^^ But no one treats me as a reasonable person at home.
If mamma sends me to school, it will not be for my happiness,
but because every body thinks me so wicked, there is no
managing me at home ; and then in the hohdays I shall hear
nothing but the wonderful improvement school discipline has
made ; it will be no credit to my own efi^orts, and so there will
be no pleasure in making any."
" Will there be no pleasure in making your father happy,
Lilla ? Will his approbation be nothing ?"
" But he never praises me ; I am too muoh afraid of him
to go and caress him, as I often wish to do, and tell him if he
will only call me his dear Lilla, I would be good and gentle,
and learn all he desires. If he would but let me love him, I
should be much happier than I am."
Mrs. Hamilton thought so too ; and deeply she regretted
that mistaken sternness which had so completely alienated the
affections of his child. Soothingly she answered
" But your father dearly loves you, Lilla, though perhaps
your violent conduct has of late prevented his showing it. If
you were, for his sake, to become gentle and amiable, and
overcome your fears of his sternness, believe me, my dear
Lilla, you would be rendering him and yourself much happier.
You always tell me you believe every thing I say. Suppose
THE mother's recompense. 107
you trust in my assertion, and try the experiment ; and if
you want a second voice on my side, I appeal to your friend
Ellen for her vote as to the truth of what I say."
Mrs. Hamilton spoke playfully, and Ellen answered in the
same spirit. Lilians passionate tears had been checked by
the kind treatment she received, and in a softened mood she
answered
*^ But I cannot become so while Miss Malison has any thing
to do with me. I cannot bear her treatment gently. Papa
does not know all I have to endure with her."
" And therefore do I so earnestly wish you would consent to
my persuading your father to let you go to Hampstead," an-
swered Mrs. Hamilton, gently.
*' But then papa will not think it is for his sake I endea-
vor to correct my faults : he will say it is the school, and not
my own eflforts ; and if I go, I shall never, never see you, nor
go to dear Woodlands, for I shall be away while papa and
mamma are there; away from every body I love. Oh, that
would not make me happy !" and cliuging to Mrs. Hamilton,
the really affectionate girl again burst into tears.
" What am I to urge in reply to these very weighty objec-
tions, my dear Lilla ?" replied Mrs. Hamilton. " In the first
place, your father shall know that every conquest you make is
for his sake ; he shall not think you were forced to submission.
In the next, compulsion is not in my friend's system. And as
I am very intimate with Mrs. Douglas, I shall very often come
and see you when I am in town, your midsummer holidays
will also occur during that time ; and, lastly, if your papa and
mamma will consent, you shall see Woodlands every year ; for
I shall ask Mr. Grahame to bring you with him in his annual
Christmas visit to his estate, and petition that he will leave
you behind him to spend the whole of your winter vacation
with me and Ellen at Oakwood. Now, are all objections
waived, or has my very determined opponent any more to bring
forward?"
Lilla did not answer, but she raised her head from her kind
friend's shoulder, and pushing back the disordered locks of
her bright hair, looked up in her face as if no more sorrow
eould be her portion.
" Oh, I would remain at school a-whole year together, if I
might spend my vacation at Oakwood with you, and Ellen, and
Emmeline, and all !" she exclaimed, with a glee as wild and
childish as all her former emotion had been. \k2A^ "S.^^w ^\
108 THE mother's recokpensb.
that instant entered, and after languidly greeting Mrs. Ht^idil
ton and Ellen, exclaimed
'^ For heaven's sake, Lilla, go away ! your appearance is
enough to frighten any one. I should be absolutely ashamed
of you, if any friend were to come in unexpectedly. Perhaps
you may choose to obey me now that Mrs. Hamilton is pro*
sent ; she little knows what a trouble you are at home," she
continued, languidly.
The flush of passion again mounted to Lilla's oheek, hu%
Ellen, taking her arm, entreated to go with her, and they left
the room together, while Lady Helen amused her friend by a
long account of her domestic misfortunes, the indolence of her
upper domestics, the heedlessness of her elder, and the fearful
passions of her younger daughter, even the carelessness of her
husband's manner towards her, notwithstanding her evidently
declining health, all these and similar sorrows were poured
into the sympathizing ear of Mrs. Hamilton, and giving clearer
and clearer evidence of Lady Helen's extreme and increasing
weakness of mind and character.
Great, indeed, was the astonishment of this indolent mother
when Mrs. Hamilton urged the necessity of sending Lilla to
school. Without accusing Miss Malison of any want of judg-
ment, she was yet enabled to work on Lady Augusta Denham's
words, and prove the good effects that a removal from home
for a few years might produce on Lilla's character.
Lady Augusta's advice had been merely remembered dur-
ing that lady's presence, but seconded as it now was by the
earnest pleadings of Mrs. Hamilton, she determined on rous-
ing herself sufficiently to put it in force, if her husband con-
sented ; but to obtain his approbation was a task too terrible
for her nerves, and she entreated Mrs. Hamilton to speak with
him on the subject. Willingly she consented, only requestiDg
that Lady Helen would not mention her intentions either to
Annie or Miss Malison till her husband had been consulted,
and to this Lady Helen willingly consented, for in secret she
dreaded Miss Malison's lamentations and reproaches, when this
arrangement should be known.
When Mr. Grahame, in compliance with Mrs. Hamilton's
message, called on her the following morning, and heard the
cause of his summons, his surprise almost equalled that of his
wife. He knew her dislike to the plan of sending girls to
school, however it might be in vogue ; and almost in terror ho
asked if she proposed this scheme because the evil character
THE MOTHE&'S BEC0MFEN8E. 109
of his child rei|Tiired some snch desperate expedient It was
easy to prove to him such was very far from her meaning.
She spoke more openly on the character of Lilla than she had
yet done, for she thought their long years of intimacy demand-
ed candor on her part ; and each year, while it increased the
evil of Lills^ present situation, heightened her earnest desire
to draw the faliier and child more closely together. She did
not palliate her faults, but she proved that they were increased
by the constant contradiction and irritation which she had to
encounter. She repeated all that had passed between them
the preceding day, unconsciously and cautiously condemning
G-rahame's excessive sternness, by relating, almost verbatim,
Lilla's simply expressed wish that her father would let her
love him.
She gained her point. The softened and agitated father
felt self-condemned as she proceeded ; and earnestly implyped
her to give him one more proof of her friendship, by recom-
mending him some lady under whose care he could with safety
place his erring, yet naturally noble-minded and warm-hearted
child. A fashionable seminary, he was sure, would do her
more harm than good, and he listened with eagerness to Mrs.
Hamilton's description of Mrs. Douglas. The widow of a
naval officer, who had for several years been in the habit of
educating ten young ladies of the highest rank, and she men-
tioned one or two who had been her pupils, whose worth and
mental endowments were well known to Grahame.
" Do not be guided entirely by me on a subject so impor-
tant," she said, after recalling those families to his mind,
whose daughters had been placed there ; '' make inquiries of
all who know Mrs. Douglas, and see her yourself before you
quite decide. That I have a very high opinion of her is cer-
tain ; but I should be sorry if you were to place Lilla with her
upon my advice alone, when, in all probability," she added,
with a smile, " you will find all Lady Helen's family opposed
to the arrangement."
" As they have never guided me right when they have in-
terfered with my children, their approbation or disapproval
will have little weight in my determination," answered Gra*
hame. '^ You have awakened me to a sense of my duty, Mrs.
Hamilton, for which I cannot sufficiently express my gratitude.
With too much reliance upon the opinions of others I have
regarded the many tales brought against my poor child, and
DOW I see how greatly her faults have been occmoiie^ \i^ mSs^
no THB mother's recompense.
taken treatment I thought once I could neyer have parted
with a daughter for school, but I now see it will be a kindness
to do so ; and pain me as it will, now I know that I may in
time win her affections, your advice shall be followed."
" You must consent to part with her for one vacation also,''
replied Mrs. Hamilton, playfully. " I have promised, in an-
swer to her weighty objection that she shall never see Wood-
lands again, to persuade you to let her spend Christmas at
Oakwood. You must consent, or I shall teach Li? la a lesson
of rebellion, and carry her off from Mrs. Douglas by force."
*' Willingly, gratefully," exclaimed Mrs. Grahame.
" And you will promise me to permit her to love you, to
use her own simple affectionate words before she leaves you ;
you will not terrify her by the cold sternness you frequently
manifest towards her, and prove that you take sufficient interest
in her, to love her more for every conquest she makes."
" Faithfully, faithfully I promise, my kind friend."
'^Then I am satisfied," replied Mrs. Hamilton, her counte-
nance glowing with benevolent pleasure. '' I shall, I trust,
one day succeed in making my little Lilla happy, and thus add
to the comfort of her parents. We are old friends, Mr.
Grahame," she added, ^^and therefore I do not hesitate to
express the pleasure you have given me by thus promising to
think upon my advice. I began to fear that you would be
displeased at my interference, deeming my advice impertinent
and needless. I have endeavored to impress upon Lilla the
necessity of a temporary absence from home, and have in part
succeeded ; and having Lady Helen's sanction to speak with
you, I could hesitate no longer."
" Nor do I hesitate one moment to act upon your disin-
terested advice, my dear friend. Your word is enough ; but as
you so earnestly wish it, I will this very hour seek those of my
friends who are acquainted with Mrs. Douglas. I must leave
Lilla to express her gratitude for her father and herself"
Mrs. Hamilton was soon placed at rest regarding the desti-
nation of her young friend. There was not a dissenting voice
as to Mrs. Douglas's worth, one general opinion of satisfaction
prevailed ; but the most gratifying tribute Grahame felt, was
the affection and esteem which her former pupils still fondly
encouraged towards her. Thus prepossessed, her appearance
and manners did much to strengthen his resolve, and Grahame
now felt armed for all encounters with those who, presuming
on their near relationship to his wife, would bring forward
THE mother's BECOMPENSE. 1 i
Bomberless objections to his plan ; but he was agreeably mis-
taken. Lilla was looked upon by them all as such an eyil
minded, ill-informed girl, that it signified little where she was
placed, as she generally brought discredit on all who had any
thing to do with her. Miss Malison, however, excited their
sympathy, and Annie declared it was a shameful and dishonora-
ble thing to dismiss her without notice, after so many years of
devoted service to their family. Poor Lady Helen had to en-
counter the storm of upbraiding from her daughter, and the
tears and sobs of the governess, at the ill-treatment she re-
ceived. In vain Lady Helen accepted her protestations that
she had done her duty ; that she was sure all that could bo
done for Miss Lilla had been done. Annie declared that,
though her services were no longer required for her ungrateful
sister, she could not do without Miss Malison, for her mother's
health seldom permitted her to walk or drive out. She should
absolutely die of ennui without some one to act in those cases
as her chaperon. In this she was ably seconded by all her
mother's family, whose prot^g^ Miss Malison had long been,
and against his better judgment, Grahame at length consented
that Miss Malison should remain in his family till she should
get another situation as finishing governess. This, of course,
Miss Grahame had determined should not be for some little
time.
Mrs. Hamilton had been particularly cautious, in her inter-
view with Mr. Grahame, not to speak any word for or against
Miss Malison ; perhaps had she said what she really thought,
even this concession would not have been made.
Mr. Grahame's fixed and sudden determination to send
Lilla to school was, of course, laid by Annie and her confidant
to Mrs. Hamilton's charge, and increased not a little their
prejudice against her, adding fresh incentive to their schemes
for the destruction of her peace, which Caroline's self-willed
conduct now rendered even more easy than it had previously
been.
When all was arranged, when it was decidedly settled that
Lilla should join Mrs. Douglas's establishment at the conclu-
sion of the midsummer vacation, her father quietly entered the
study where she was alone, to give her this information, and
his really fond heart could not gaze on her without admiration.
She was now nearly fifteen, though in looks, manners, and con-
versation, from being kept under such continual restraint, she
always appeared at first sight very much youxxgei, C\fi^dX^^
*|2 THE mother's recompense.
in every movement, even her impetuosity might have aided
the deception ; and Lady Helen herself had so often indolently
answered questions concerniDg her daughter's age, she believed
she was about twelve or thirteen, that at length she really be-
lieved it was so. It was Annie and Miss Malison's interest
to preserve this illusion ; for were she recognised as fifteen^
many privileges might have been acceded to her, very much
at variance with their interest. Annie had no desire for a
rival to present herself, which, had her sister appeared in pub
lie, would undoubtedly have been the case ; Lilla gave pro-
mise of beauty, which, though not perhaps really so perfect as
Annie's, would certainly have attracted fully as much notice.
She was drawing a tiny wreath of brilliant flowers on a small
portfolio, which she was regarding with a complacency that
added brilliancy to her animated features. At her father's
well-known step she looked up in some little terror, and rose,
as was her custom whenever she first saw him in the morning ;
her fear could not check the sparkling lustre of her eye, and
Grahame, taking her hand, said kindly
" I have some news for my little girl, which I trust will
prove as agreeable as I have every reason to hope they may.
Mrs. Douglass will gladly consent to receive my Lilla as an
inmate of her happy family."
The flush of animation, the sparkling lustre of her eye
faded on the instant, and she turned away.
*' Why, our kind friend, Mrs. Hamilton, bade me hope this
would be pleasing intelligence ; has she deceived me, love V
continued her father, drawing her with such unwonted tender-
ness to him, that, after a glance of bewilderment, she fluiag
her arms round his neck, and for the first time in her life wept
passionately on her father's shoulder.
^^ Can it be pleasure to hear I am to go from you and mam
ma ?" she exclaimed, clinging to him with all the passionate
warmth of her nature, and forgetting all her terror in that one
moment of uncontrolled feeling. Her simple words confirmed
at once all that Mrs. Hamilton had said in her favor, and the
now gratified father seated her, as he would a little child, on
his knee, and with affectionate caresses gradually soothed her
to composure. Long did they converse together, and from that
moment Lilla's happiness commenced. She could not at
once lose her dread of her father's sternness, but the slightest
hint from him was enough ; and frequently, as Grahame felt
iier affectionate manner, would he wonder he had been blind
THE MOTHEU'S RECOMPENSE. 113
to her character so long. The idea of school lost its repug-
nance. Her father's kindness enabled her to keep her deter-
mination, to prove, by the indulgence of the highest spirits,
that going to school, instead of being a punishment, as her
aunt Augusta intended it to be, was a privilege and a pleasure.
That she was accused of want of feeling she little heeded, now
that her father invited and encouraged her affection. Lady
Helen wondered at her change of manner, but indolence and
prejudice constantly instilled by Annie and Miss Malison, pre-
vented all indulgence of more kindly feelings. As things
remained in this state for some weeks in Mr. Grahame's estab-
lishment, we will now return to Mr. Hamilton's family.
It was about this time, some three or four weeks before the
end of the Oxford term, that letters arrived from Percy and
Herbert, containing matters of interesting information, and
others which caused some anxiety in the breasts of Mr. and
Mrs. Hamilton. On the first subject both the brothers wrote,
so deeply interested had they become in it. Among the ser-
vitors or free scholars of their college was a young man, whom
they had frequently noticed the last year, but never recollected
having seen before. He shrunk, as it appeared, in sensitive-
ness from every eye, kept aloof from all companions, as if he
felt himself above those who held the same rank in the Uni-
versity. Herbert's gentle and quickly sympathizing heart had
ever felt pained, when he first went to college, to see the broad
distinction made between the servitors and other collegians.
He felt it pain to see them, as, in their plain gowns and caps,
they stood or sat apart from their brother students at their
meals, but perceived by degrees they were all happy in their
rank, being, in general, sons of the poorer and less elevated
classes of society, happy to obtain an excellent education free
of expense, he had conquered these feelings, and imagined
justly that they were in all probability, indifferent to the dis-
tinction of rank. But one amongst them had recalled all these
kindly sentiments, not only in the heart of Herbert but in
that of Percy, who was in general too reckless to regard mat-
ters so minutely as his brother. The subject of their notice
was a young man, perhaps some two or three years older than
the heir of Oakwood, but with an expression of melancholy,
which frequently amounted almost to anguish, ever stamped
on his high and thoughtful brow, and his large, searching, dark
gray eye. He was pale, but it appeared mote iiom TDLiw\'5\
suffering than disease, and at times there "was a i^xoxx^ e^^\i ^
{
114 THE mother's recompensjb.
haaghty curl on his lip, that might have whispered he had seen
better days. He was never observed to be familiar with his
brother servitors, and shrunk with proud humility from the
notice of his superiors. The servile offices exacted from those
of his degree were performed with scrupulous exactness, but
Herbert frequently beheld at such times a flush of suffering
mount into his cheek, and when his task was done, he would
fold his arms in his gown, and drop his head upon them, as if
his spirit revolted in agony from its employment. The other
servitors were fond of aping their superiors, by a studied affec-
tation of similar dress and manner, but this young man was
never once seen to alter his plain even coarse costume, and
kept aloof from all appearance that would assimilate him with
those above him ; and yet he was their laughing-stock, the butt
against which the pointed arrows of scorn, contumely, ridicule,
and censure were ever hurled, with a malevolence that appear-
ed strange to the benevolent hearts of the young Hamiltons,
who vainly endeavored to check the public torrent. " He was
not always as he is now, and then, poor Welshman as he is, he
always lorded it over us, and we will requite him now," was
the only reply they obtained ; but the first sentence touched
a chord in Herbert^s heart. Misfortune might have reduced
him to the rank he now held, and perhaps he struggled vainly
to teach his spirit submission ; but how could he obtain his
friendship, in what manner succeed in introducing himself
Herbert was naturally too reserved to make advances, however
inclination prompted, and some months passed in inactivity,
though the wish to know him, and by kindness remove his de-
spondency, became more and more powerful to the brothers.
A side attack one day on the young Welshman, made with
unwonted and bitter sarcasm by an effeminate and luxurious
scion of nobility, roused the indignation of Percy. Retorting
haughtily on the defensive, a regular war of tongues took place.
The masterly eloquence of Percy carried the day, and he hoped
young Myrvin was free from all farther attacks. He was mis-
taken : another party, headed by the defeated but enraged
Lord, who had been roused to a state of fury by young Hamil-
ton's appearance, surrounded the unhappy young man in the
college court, and preventing all egress, heaped every sarcastic
insult upon him, words that could not fail to sting his haughty
spirit to the quick. Myrvin's eye flashed with sudden and un-
wonted lustre, and ere Herbert, who with his brother had
Imstiljr joined the throng, could prevent it.^ he had raised hi*
THE HOTHEE's BE00MPEN8E. 115
arm and felled his insulting opponent to the gronnd. A wild
uproar ensued, the civil officers appeared, and young Myrvin
was committed, under the charge of wilfully, and without pro-
vocation, attackiug the person of the right honorable Marquin
of
The indignation of Percy and Herbert was now at its
height ; and without hesitation the former sought the principal
of his college, and in a few brief but emphatic sentences,
placed the whole affair before him in its true light, condemn-
ing with much feeling the cowardly and cruel conduct of the
true aggressors, and so convinced the worthy man of the injus-
tice done towards the person of young Myrvin, that he was
instantly released, with every honor that could soothe his
troubled feelings, and a severe reprimand bestowed on the real
authors of the affray.
Percy pursued his advantage ; the noble heart of the young
Welshman was touched by this generous interference in his
behalf, and when the brothers followed him in his solitary walk
the following day, he resisted them not. Gratefully he ac-
knowledged the debt he owed them, confessed he would rather
have received such a benefit from them than from any others
in the college, and at length, unable to resist the frankly prof-
fered friendship of Percy, the silent entreaty of Herbert, he
grasped with convulsive pressure their offered hands, and pro-
mised faithfully he would avoid them no more. From that
hour the weight of his reverses was less difficult to bear. In
the society, the conversation of Herbert, he forgot his cares ',
innate nobleness was visible in Myrvin^s every thought, act, .
and word, and he became dear indeed to the soul of Herbert
Hamilton, even as a brother he loved him. "Warm, equally
warm perhaps, was the mutual regard of Myrvin and Percy,
though the latter was not formed for such deep unchanging emo-
tion evinced in the character of his brother. But it was not un-
til some time after the commencement of their friendship that
Herbert could elicit from his companion the history of his
former life.
It was simply this : Arthur Myrvin was the only child of
the rector of Llangwillan, a small village in Wales, about ten
or twelve miles from Swansea. The living was not a rich one,
but its emoluments enabled Mr. Myrvin to live in comparative
affluence and comfort; beloved, revered by his parishioners,
enabled to do good, to bestow happiness, to impart the kxio^-
ledge of the Christian faitbj be beheld his flock indeed Nq^^^&s^XL^
116 THE mother's recompense.
in the paths of their Heavenly Shepherd. He had been
enabled by the economy of years to save sufficient to place hia
son respectably and comfortably at college, and it was with no
little pride he looked forward to the time when those sayings
would be used for their long-destined purpose. Arthur had
grown beneath his eye ; he had never left his father's roof, and
Mr. Myrvin trusted had imbibed principles that would preserve
him from the temptations of college life ; and so strong was
this hope, that he parted from his son without one throb of
fear.
The sudden change of his life was, however, too tempting
an ordeal for the young man. He associated with those above
him both in rank and fortune, who leading him into their ex-
travagant follies, quickly dissipated his allowance, which, though
ample, permitted not extravagance. About this time the noble
proprietor of the Llangwillan parish died, and its patronage
fell to the disposal of a gay and dissipated young man, who
succeeded to the large estates. Inordinately selfish, surround-
ed by ready flatterers, eager of gain, he was a complete tyrant
in his domains.
The excessive beauty and fertility of Llangwillan, the in-
dustry and simple habits of the inhabitant^ excited the desire
of possessing it in the mind of one of these humble syco-
ghants, and his point was very speedily gained. Justice and
umanity were alike banished from the code of laws now in
action, and, without preparation or excuse, Mr. Myrvin was
desired to quit that parish which had been his so long. His
incumbency expired with the death of the proprietor, and it
had been already disposed of The grief of the old man and
his humble friends was long and deep ; it was not openly dis-
played, the lessons of their beloved pastor had too well in-
structed them in the duty of resignation ; but aged cheeks
were wet with unwonted tears, and mingled with the sobs of
childhood. Men, women, youth, and little children alike
wept, when their pastor departed from the village. He who
had been the shepherd of his flock so long, was now cast aside
as a worthless thing, and the old man's heart was well nigh
broken. In a rude cot, forced on his acceptance by a wealthy
parishioner, situated some eight or ten miles from the scene of
his happiness, he took up his abode, and to him would the vil-
lagers still throng each Sabbath, as formerly to the humble
church, and old Myrvin, in the midst of his own misfortunes,
found time to pray for that misguided and evil-directed man
THE mother's EECOMPENSE. 117
who had succeeded him to his ministry, and brought down
shame on his profession, and utterly destroyed the peace which
which Llangwillan had enjoyed so long.
Resignation by degrees spread over Myrvin's mind, but the
conduct of his son caused him fresh anxiety. The news of the
change in his father's life awakened Arthur from his lethargy ;
he saw the folly, the imprudence of which he had been guilty ;
his father could no longer support him at college. In three
ears he had squandered away that which, with economy, would
nave served as maintenance for ten, and now he must leave
the college, or do that from which at first his very soul revolt-
ed ; but the image of his father, his injured father, rose before
him. He could not inflict upon him a disappointment so se-
vere as his departure from college would be. He would yet
atone for his folly, and fulfil his father's long-cherished hopes,
and without consulting him, in a moment of desperation, he
sought the resident head of the University, and imparted his
wishes. The preliminaries were quickly settled, ana the next
letter from Oxford which Mr. Myrvin received, contained the
intelligence that his son had reconciled his mind to the change,
and become a servitor.
A glow of thanksgiving suffused the old man's heart, but he
knew all the inward and outward trials with which his son had
to contend. Had he at the first joined the college in the rank
which he now held, he might not have felt the change so keenly ;
but as it was, the pride and haughtiness which had character-
ised him before, were now, as we have seen, returned tenfold
upon himself. He clothed himself outwardly in an invulnera-
ble armor of self-control and cold reserve, but inwardly his
blood was in one continued fever, until the friendship of Percy
and Herbert soothed his troubled feelings. The name of Ham-
ilton, Herbert continued to state, for it was he who wrote par-
ticularly of Arthur, the young man had declared he knew well;
but where he had heard it, or how, appeared like a dream. He
thought he had even seen Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton once nof
very many years ago ; but so many changes in his life had
occurred since then, that the particulars of that meeting he
could not remember. " Myrvin and Llangwillan appear equally
fjEimiliar to me," wrote Herbert ; " but even more than to Arthur
they seem as the remembrances of an indistinct dream. It has
sometimes occurred to me that they are combined with the
recollection of my aunt Mrs. Fortescue, and Aitkai^to ^l^ftm 1
mentioned her death, suddenly recalled a djm^\i^^ L\i^ vr^
118 THJU motber's recompense.
children, in whom his father was very much interested. For
tesone he does not well remember, but the little girPs name waa
Ellen, a pale, dark-eyed and dark-haired, melancholy child,
whom he used to call his wife, and my cousin certainly answers
this description. If it be indeed *he same, it is strange we
should thus come together ; and, oh ! my dearest father, the
benefit our family received from this venerable and injured
man, bids me long more intently that we could do something
for him, and that Arthur should be restored to his former
position. He is of full age, and quite capable of taking orders,
and I have often thought, could he reside with Mr. Howard
the year previous to his ordination, it would tend much moif
to his happiness and welfare than remaining here, even if he waa
released from that grade, the oppression of which now hangs so
heavily upon him. Follies have been his, but they have been
nobly repented ; and something within me whispers that the
knowledge hie is my dearest and most intimate friend, that we
mutually feel we are are of service to each other, will plead his
cause and my request to my kind and indulgent father, with
even more force than the mere relation of facts, interesting
as that alone would be."
He was right. The friend, the chosen and most intimate
friend of their younger son would ever have been an object of
interest to Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton. That he was the son of
the same good man who had acted so benevolently towards
Eleanor and her orphan children, who had soothed her dying
bed, and reconciled the parting sinner to her Maker, added
weight tr the simple yet pathetic eloquence with which Her-
bert had related his story. The injury he had sustained excited
their just indignation, and if the benevolence of their kind
hearts had required fresh incentives, the unfeigned grief of
Ellen, as the tale of the old man was related to her, would have
given it.
" Oh, that I had it in my power to offer a sufficient sum to
tempt the sordid and selfish being in whose possession Liang-
willan now is," she was heard one day to exclaim, when she
imagined herself alone, "that I might but restore it to Mr.
Myrvin ; that I might feel that good old man was passing his
latter years in the spot and amongst all those he so much
loved ; that Arthur could break the chain that now so bitterly
and painfully distresses him. Dear, dear Mr. Myrvin, oh, how
little did I iujagine, when my thoughts have wandered to you
and Arthur, who was such a dear consoling friend in my child-
\.'^
THE mother's BEOOHFENSE. 119
ish sorrow, that misery sucli as this had been your portion ;
and I can do nothing, nothing to prove how often I have
thought of and loved you both ^and my dear mother's grave,
in the midst of strangers." And she wept bitterly, little ima-
gining her soliloquy had been overheard by her aunt and uncle,
who were almost surprised at her vivid remembrance of those
whom for the last seven years she had scarcely seen, and of
whom she so seldom heard ; but it heightened their desire to
be of service to him who had onpe been so kind a friend to their
family.
The contents of Percy's letter, to the rather alarming and
mysterious nature of which we have already alluded, will be
found in the next chapter.
CHAPTER VI.
" Malison, dear Malison, congratulate me ; the game is in my
own hands !" exclaimed Miss Grahame one morning as she en-
tered the private room of her confidant, about a week after the
receipt of the letters we have mentioned, with every feature
expressing triumphant yet malignant glee.
" That has been the case some weeks, has it not ?" replied
Miss Malison.
" Yes ; but not so completely as at present. Caroline has
just left me ; she was afraid of imparting in writing the im-
portant intelligence she had to give me, important indeed, for
it saves me a world of trouble ; though did I allow myself to
think on her present condition of suffering, I believe that I
should repent her perfect and innocent confidence in me.
Her defence of my character, whenever it is attacked, almost
touches my heart ; but her mother, her intrusive mother, that
would-be paragon of her sex, rises before me, and continually
urges me on ; she shall learn, to her cost, that her carefully-
trained children are not better than others."
" She has learned it partly already, by your account," re-
marked Miss Malison, concealing under a calm exterior her
detestation of Mrs. Hamilton.
" She has. That rejection of St. Eval assisted me most
agreeably ; I did not expect that Caroline's own spirit and self-
will would have aided me so effectually. That disappointment
with St. Eval has affected Mrs. Hamilton more deeply tkaa
she chooses to make visible. Her coldness and acveirvX.-^ W
120 THE mother's recompense.
wards her child spring from her own angry and mortified feel-
ings : however, she lays it to the score of Caroline's faulty con-
duct, and my friendly letters have happily convinced Caroline
such is the case. In my most sanguine expectations of
triumph, I never imgined I should sacceed so well in severing
the link hetween Mrs. Hamilton and her daughter. Confi-
dence is utterly at an end between them, and that would he
sufficient to gratify any one but myself ; but my vengeance for
the prejudice and dislike with^wMch this perfect creature re-
gards me must be more fully satisfied, at present it is only
soothed. Now you know, chere Malison, you are dying with
curiosity to hear what new assistance has started up ; a little
more patience and you shall know alL You are aware with
what bitter and resentful feelings Caroline regards the treat-
ment she receives from her parents, and also from Emmeline,
child as she is."
" Perfectly ; nor do I wonder at it. In this case the immac-
ulate Mrs. Hamilton does not appear to practise what she
preaches. It is rather wonderful, that one who says so much
about gentle treatment doing more good than harshness, should
now make her own child suffer beneath her severity."
^' As I said before, Malison, her severity is but a disguise
for mortification and annoyance. Lord St. Eval, the heir of
the Malvern peerage, was too good a chance to be thrown away
without vexation. Caroline was a silly fool to act as she did,
I must say that for her, grateful as I ought to be for the assist-
ance that foolish act has given me. As for rejecting him
merely for love of Alphingham, it is a complete farce. She
no more loves the Viscount than I do ; perhaps not so much.
I make her believe she does, and so I intend to do till my plan
is fully accomplished ; but love him as she would have done, as
in all probability, at the present moment, she loves Lord
St. Eval, she does not and never will. I shall make a fashion-
able pair, but not a love match, Malison, believe me."
" That Mrs. Hamilton may have the exquisite pleasure of
seeing her daughter like other people, however different she
may choose to be herself ; you will rather do her a kindness
than an injury, my dear Miss Grahame."
*^ Fortunately for my purpose, she will not think so. I
shall, . thorough Caroline, inflict a deeper wound than I ever
though^ to have done. No other injury would have touched
her'; she prides herself on Christian forbearance and patience,
And such like, which, simply translated, would be found to be
THE mother's RECOMPENSS. 121
nothing but haughtiness and pride, and utter insensibility to
human feelings ; but if Caroline goes wrong, elopes, perhaps,
as her aunt did, disregards parental commands, and acts in the
weighty aflFair of matrimony for herself, why that will bo
something like a triumph for my diplomatic schemes."
" You must work well on Caroline's mind to produce such
a consummation," observed Miss Malison. "I doubt much
whether she would ever act in a manner that she would believe
o contrary to her duty. I would advise you never to give her
time to reflect."
" I never mean to do so. If the silly gir. had ever itflect-
ed at all, she would at once have known that sho loved St. Eval
and not Lord Alphingham ; that her mother is har truest friend,
and not Annie Grahame; but as she chooser to remain so
stupidly blind and trusting, why I see no harm m playing my
part, and as for her consenting, let her but hear the honorable
Viscount's sweet persuasive eloquence, and look on his hand-
some and pleading features, and consent wil . quickly be ob-
kdned."
" But why should he not demand her at ODce of her father ?
Mr. Hamilton is always friendly with him when they meet."
" You have just hit the mark, ma chcre. That very truth
was always a stumbling-block in my machinations, for I almost
feared, by Mr. Hamilton's manner towards him, that the inter-
esting tales concerning his youth, which I had intended should
be poured into his wife's ear, might be disregarded ; such from
the first had been my intention, but I have felt puzzled in a
degree how to set about it."
" Nay, you do yourself injury, my dearest Miss Grahame,''
observed the ex-governess, officiously. "From your earliest
years you were never puzzled at any thing "
" My wits deserted me then for the moment," replied Annie,
laughing, " and would perhaps have returned when my plot
was ripe for execution ; but I am happy to say I can dispense
with their assistance, as I have received it most effectually from
a member of Mr. Hamilton's own family."
" How j" exclaimed Miss Malison, much astonished.
" Even so, ma chere ; and now we come to the important
intelligence Caroline brought me this morning. It appears,
that last week Mr. Hamilton received a letter from Percy,
which by her account must have contained some mysterious
warning against this very Lord Alphingham, that his atten-
tions to Caroline had been not only, remarked, \)n\. rft^ox\^^^^
6
122 THE mothee's recompense
him, and conjuring his father, as he valued Oarolinp's future
peace, to dismiss him at once and peremptorily. Thus much
Mr. Hamilton imparted to his daughter, a few days after the
receipt of this letter, and after bestowing some little approba-
tion on her conduct towards him, which you know before her
parents is always particularly cold and guarded, he requested,
or rather desired, that she would gradually withdraw herself
entirely from his society, as he had received quite sufficient
confirmation of that letter to render him anxious to break off
all further communication and acquaintance with him. Caro-
line is such a simpleton, I wonder she could prevent her coun-
tenance from betraying her as she spoke ; but I supposes she
did, for Mr. Hamilton expressed himself satisfied by her
assurance that his wishes should not be forgotten. Whether
this letter contains other and more explicit matter she does
not know, but her state of mind is miserable enough to
touch any heart that is not quite so steeled as mine. I could
almost smile at her fond belief that she really loves him, for I
see my own work, no tender passion as she imagines ; and to
break off all intercourse with him appears comparative torture.
I have already convinced her of her father's injustice and
cruelty in acting thus capriciously towards one so well known
and so universally honored, and merely from a mysterious and
unsatisfactory letter from a boy who knows nothing about the
matter. I hinted very broadly, that it was only because her
parents were provoked at her rejection of St. Eval ; and as
they still had a lingering hope he would return, they did not
choose her to receive attentions from any one else. I saw
her eyes flash and her cheek crimson with indignation against
all who had thus injured her ; and she declared, with more
vehemence than I expected, that neither father nor mother, nor
Percy, should prevent her choosing a husband for herself A
violenl^ burst of tears succeeded this speech ; but I continued
to soothe and console her, and she left me with a spirit vowed
and determined to free herself from such galling tyranny.
And what do you think had been her mood when she first came
to me ?"
Miss Malison, as expected, expressed ignorance.
"Why, the weak simpleton thought of confessing her whole
tale of love to her mother, and imploring comfort and assist-
ance."
" Take care she does not do so still," remarked Miss Mali-
Bon.
THE mother's eegompensr 123
" Not she. I have proved too clearly how ridiculous and
miserable she would make herself by such a d&ncmemmt.
Her mother, I said, instead of pitying, would assuredly con-
demn her for all the past, and most probably convey her at
once to Oakwood, and immure her there till Lord St. Eval
came to release her. She was both terrified and indignant at
the idea."
" No wonder she should be ; but do you know if she or
her father have seen Lord Alphingham sinoe the arrival of
this letter ?"
'^But once, last night; and it was the fancied anguish felt
for his distress, which she was unable, as usuctl, to soothe, in
consequence of the keen surveillance of her mother, that
brought her here this morning to tell me all. Mr. Hamilton
was still courteous, but more distant. I have convinced her,
thatas her parents no longer treat her with confidence, she
has no right to treat them with any ; and as every one knows
the worthy character of the Viscount, she can be doing nothing
wrong in proving to him that her feelings in his favor are un-
changed. She has hinted to me to explain the situation in
which she is placed, but entre nous^ I mean to do no such thing,
for I have a plan of my own to follow up. She is not aware
how very intimate I am with the Viscount, and how much he
confides in me ; all my persuasions will tend to urge him to ask
her of her father, and I am sure nothing can be more honor
abio than that course of action."
" Nothing, I am sure," echoed the conscientious confidant ;
'* but how will that assist your former scheme ?"
'* Most admirably. Mr. Hamilton will, of course, decidedly
refuse his consent, without even consulting his daughter ; the
anger of Lord Alphingham will be overpowering ; rage against
the father, and love for the daughter will urge him to any and
every means to obtain her hand. Caroline's indignation against
her father for acting in this way and treating her so much like
a child, feelings which I shall take care to create and foster,
will second his eloquence, and I feel quite certain that next
(Beason Caroline Hamilton mingles in the most fashionable cir-
cles as the Viscountess Alphingham ; and to obtain such a
triumphant end, in my opinion, no mean are faulty."
" Most assuredly not. Not only the young lady herself,
but her whole family ought to be eternally grateftil, for without
such manoeuvring I doubt much whether the perfect d.\x^\it^t
r the self-satisfied mother would obtain an ''eaU\A\s\i'Hivi\ \\i
^
124 THE mother's kecokfense.
all things so desirable. Enraged as she will be at first at enoh
unexpected conduct in the child she has so ill-treated, she will
thank you in the end, Miss Grrahame, depend upon it."
" If I thought so, Malison, on my honor, I should feel dis-
inclined to proceed one step further in the business. G-iye her
cause to thank me, feel that I have unwittingly been of service
to her whom of her whole sex I hate the most, to one who from
my earliest years I know regarded me with aversion and con-
tempt ; Malison, I would draw back on the instant did I think
so. But no, it will not, it shall not be ; the life of her child
as Countess of Alphingham will not be such as to bring peace
to Mrs. Hamilton's heart : to some mothers it might, but not
to hers. She shall behold in this marriage the complete
failure of her plans, the utter wreck of all her exclusive notions ;
she shall see that her pretended goodness and Christian exam-
ple are not exemplified in Caroline at least. She shall fe^ my
power aye, bitterly. Thus will I triumph ^in Caroline's dis-
obedience will I be avenged for the contempt and dislike her
mother has ever shown to me."
She suddenly raised her slight figure to its full height, and
looked on her companion with a countenance expressive of such
malignant triumph, that all, save her companion in iniquity,
must have shuddered as they beheld such youthful features so
deformed. Some other conversation passed between her and
her able confidant, but as little more was said on the subject
most interesting to us, we will not follow them further. Annie's
evil schemes arf) already too clearly displayed ; her niind, un-
able as Miss Malison's to comprehend the exalted nature of
Mrs. Hamilton's character, looked upon it with detestation ; the
more so, as feeling she was ever acting she believed it hypoc-
risy ; that the worth for which even those who visited her not,
gave her credit, was not her real character, but an artful veil
to conceal evil (jualities. The quick penetration of Miss Gra-
hame had even m childhood discovered that she was no favorite,
and accustomed to be spoiled and flattered by all with whom
she associated, her indignation and dislike towards the
only one who would dare treat her differently, look on her as
a mere child, rendered ridiculous by affectation, increased with
her years. ^ She soon discovered the influence she possessed
over Caroline, and on that, knowing also her faults, she de-
termined to work, and thus effectually destroy the peace of a
mother devoted to her children, and prove to the world that
the eceentrio seclusion of Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton for their
THE mother's recompense. 125
ckildren's benefit was productive of no more good, if as much,
as the plain and in her eyes only useful plan of fashionable
education.
In her first scheme she had already succeeded more than
she was perhaps conscious. The affair of St. Eval had clearly
and painfully proved to Mr. Hamilton that the fears of his
wife the night of Caroline's introduction those anxious fears,
were indeed well founded. She had sunk beneath temptation ;
integrity and honor, and every better feeling had been over-
come by that inordinate love of power which her mother from
the first had seen and dreaded. The father's heart was pained
and disappointed, not only in this, but that his Caroline now
was not the same as she had been at Oakwood. A change
had come over her, and darkening her spirit, rendered her
conduct at home gloomy, distrustful, and uneasy ; the irritabi-
lity of her childhood had returned, her very conversation ap-
peared restrained, and since the departure of Lord St. Eval,
her cheek had become pale, and her eye no longer sparkling ;
and only in the excitement of society her parents beheld her
as formerly. Mr. Hamilton was deeply grieved, but he knew
not, guessed not the extent of his wife's anguish. She saw
every foreboding fear fulfilled ; the confidence of her child was
entirely withheld from her ; the coldness with which she felt
compeUed to treat her disregard of her wishes had, she felt as-
sured, completely alienated her affection. Caroline could no
longer love her ; every week, every day proved, by a hundred
minute circumstances, her affection was fleeting, and her mo-
ther despairingly felt, never to return ; and yet she had but
done her duty, exercised her natural authority to lead her
erring child in the better way. Her firm unshrinking dis-
cipline in childhood had only bound the cords of affection
between herself and her offspring more firmly together ; but
now in the case of Caroline it appeared about to snap them
asunder. Her fond heart yearned constantly towards her
daughter, but she would not give way, for the sake of Emme-
line and Ellen, whose efforts vied with each other to increase
the comfort and happiness of her they so dearly loved. Their
affection, their confidence, would not change, no, however her
authority might interfere with their wishes ; and should she
become repining and gloomy, because there was one source of
sorrow amidst so many blessings, her pious heart struggled for
submission, and obtained it. But Caroline guessed uot tlva
deep pang she had iD&icted; she knew not t\ie m^i.TL'^ \^'^%
126 THE KOTHER's EECOMPENSE.
shed in secret, the many inward prayers offered up for ner
that however severe was her chastening, it might be blessed
and bring her back to the deserted fold, to the bosom of her
mother. She knew not this, nor was Annie conscious how fear*
fully her plans had succeeded in inflicting pain.
The very cheerfulness of Mrs. Hamilton, striven for as it
was, the unwavering kindness of her manner towards Emme-
line and Ellen, increased the irritability of Caroline, and with
it her indignation at her mother's coldness and severity to-
wards herself. She felt she was indeed a slave, and longed to
throw aside that galling bondage. What right had her mother
to treat her thus ? Why must her every action be controlled,
her very friendship disapproved of? She felt ahe was the in-
jured one, and therefore allowed herself no thought for her
whom she in truth had injured. For the same reason she
clung yet closer to Annie ; in her alone, in her present state
of mind, she found full sympathy, and yet even with her she
was not happy ; there was a strange indefinable sensation in
her heart that even to her friend she could not express. There
was a void within, a deep yearning void, which tortured her
in her solitary moments, which even the society of Lord Al-
phingham could not wholly remove. In solitude she blindl;^
taught herself to believe that void must be for him. How far
she erred a future page must tell.
Her conduct in society meanwhile, since the departure of
St. Eval, had been guarded and reserved, and her parents
fondly trusting their displeasure had been of service, relaxed
after the first fortnight in their coldness and mistrustful man-
ner towards her. Mrs. Hamilton had hoped the pale cheek
and dim eye proceeded from remorse ; and had not Caroline
been so pointedly distant and reserved when in her society, she
would have lavished on her all the tenderness of former years.
When ^}iat mysterious letter from Percy came, although it
caused his parents considerable anxiety, yet it never once oc-
curred that any coldness on their part towards Lord Alphing-
ham could occasion Caroline any pain. Percy wrote with a
degree of eloquent earnestness that could not be resisted, and
guarded as his information and caution was, Mr. Hamilton de-
termined implicitly to abide by it. The young man wrote
what Annie had informed Miss Malison ; that he had heard
from more than one qunrter of Lord Alphingham's marked
attentions to his sister, that he had even been congratulated on
the brilliant alliance Caroline was about to make. He did not,
THE mother's &ECOHPENSE. ' 127
he eould not believe that such was the case, he said, for he
should then have heard it from his parents, but he conjured
his father, however casual the Viscount's attentions might be,
to withdraw Caroline entirely from them.
'' I know well," he wrote. " Father, as you value my sis-
ter's future peace, expose her not to his many fascinations.
If he has endeavored to win her heart, if he has paid her
marked attentions, he is a villain 1 I dare not be more expli-
cit, I am pledged to silence, and only to you, my dear father,
and on such an emergency, am I privileged to write thus much.
Desire Caroline to give him no more encouragement, however
slight ; but do not tell even this, it may not only alarm her,
but be imparted perhaps to her friend, as young ladies are fond
of doing. You have once said I never deceived you ; father,
trust me now, this is no jest ; my sister's happiness is too dear
to me. Break off all connection with Lord Alphingham. I
give no credit to the rumors I have heard, for your letters
this season bade me hope Lord St. Eval would have been my
sister's choice. His departure from England has dispelled
these visions ; but yet Caroline's affections cannot have been
given to Lord Alphingham without your or my mother's know-
ledge. Again I implore you, associate no more with him, he
is not worthy of my father's friendship."
Mysterious as this was, yet both Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton
knew Percy too well to imagine he would write thus without
strong cause. The suspicions and almost unconscious preju-
dice entertained towards him by Mrs. Hamilton received con-
firmation by this letter, and she was pleased that her husband
determined no longer to encourage his intimacy. Percy wrote,
if he had paid Caroline marked attentions, or endeavored to
win her heart, he was a villain, and he had done so, and Mrs.
Hamilton could not but feel suflficiently rejoiced at Caroline's
apparent manner towards him. Deceived as she had been, yet
that her once honorable child should so entirely forget the
principles of her childhood, as to give him secret encourage-
ment, while her conduct in society rather bespoke indifference
and pride than pleasure, that Caroline could have been led to
act thus was a thing so morally impossible to Mrs. Hamilton,
that she had no hesitation whatever in complying with Percy's
request, little imagining that in doing so she placed an insepa-
rable bar to her regaining the confidence of her child, and
widened more painfully the breach between them.
Caroline's heart, on receiving her father's commwi^ \o^\VJiaf
i
128 THE mother's RECOBffENSE;
draw herself by degrees entirely from Lord Alphiugbam, wa
wrung with many bitter and contending feelings. At first she
reproached herself for having thus completely concealed her
feelings, and, had she followed the impulse of nature, she
would at once have thrown herself on her mother's neck, and
there confessed all, that she loved him; that she had long
done so, and implore her not to check their intercourse with-
out some explicit reason : but Annie's evil influence had been
too powerful. She dreaded her reproaches on this want of con-
fidence in herself, or, what was still worse, her satirical smile
at her ridiculous weakness, and then she remembered her mo-
ther's displeasure at her former conduct, and dreaded a reniw-
al of the same coldness, perhaps even increased control. She
determined, therefore, to wait till she had seen Annie ; and
that interview rendered her more miserable, excited still more
her indignaion against her parents and brother, and strength-
ened the feelings of devoted affection with which she fancied
she regarded Lord Alphingham. Annie's continued notes
confirmed these feelings ; under the specious intention of
soothing Caroline's wounded pride, it was very easy for her to
disguise her repeated insinuations of Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton's
injustice and caprice towards the Viscount, and tyranny to-
wards herself The veil she had thrown over Caroline's sober
judgment became thicker and more blinding, and Caroline
could sometimes scarcely restrain even before her parents the
indignation which so continually filled her heart.
Mrs. Hamilton was ignorant of the communications that
were so constantly passing between Annie and her daughter,
or she might perhaps have put a stop to them. Caroline's own
maid, Fanny, had been persuaded to become the means of re-
ceiving and sending their intelligence in secret. The conscience
of the girl reproached her more than once, but the idea was so
improbable that Miss Caroline could act improperly, that she
continued faithful to her wishes, even against her better judg-
ment.
Lord Alphingham's ready penetration was puzzled at the
change of manner in both Mr. Hamilton and his daughter.
The latter, ho could easily perceive, was constrained to act
thus, and his determination to release her from such thraldom
became more strongly fixed within him. He became as cold and
reserved to her father as Mr. Hamilton had been to him ; but
his silent yet despairing glances ever turned towards Caroline
were^ he felt assured, quite enough to rivet his influence more
THE MOTHB&S RECOMPENSE. 129
elosely around her. The following morning, as Annie had ex-
pected, the Viscount sought her to give vent to his fears about
Caroline ; his indignation against the unaccountable alteration
in Mr. Hamilton's manner. What could have caused it 1 He
had ever acted honorably and nobly, openly marked his pre-
ference, and he had talked himself into a_passion, before his
companion offered to give him any advice or speak any comfort
" They are either determined their daughter shall not marry
whom she likes, in revenge for her not accepting whom they
selected, or they are resolved, by this studied display of cold-
ness, to bring you to a point, so I advise you to speak to this
stern, capricious father at once."
" And what good will that do ?'*
" A good deal, if you manoeuvre properly, on which quality
you fortunately require no lessens from me. You will, at least,
discover Mr. Hamilton's intentions. If he receive you, well
and good, you should be flattered at his condescension ; if the
contrary, you will, at least, know on what ground you stand,
and the situation in which my poor friend must be placed. She is
worried to death with the continual caprices of mamma and
papa. It would be a charity in any one to break the chains in
which she is held. She came to me yesterday in the deepest
distress, and all from caprice ; for what else can it be that has
changed Mr. Hamilton's manner ?"
Lord Alphingham's fancy became more and more warmed
as she spoke ; vanity and self-love were alike gratified, and he
answered eagerly '
" I may depend, then, on her affections ; she will not, for
fear of mamma, play me false ?"
" Not she ; that is to say, if you do not betray her in your
eagerness to ask her of her father. You have never yet asked
the question, though you have discovered she loves you ; but if, in
demanding her of her father, you say you have gained her
affections, the consequence will be, if Mr. Hamilton refuse her,
she will be borne instantly to Oakwood, and there imprisoned,
till the poor girl pines and droops like a chained bird without
hope of freedom. Whereas, if you will only govern your im-
petuous temper, and trust to her affections and my friendship,
your every wish may be gratified, with or without Mr. Hamil-
ton's advice."
" And you will assist us ; adorable girl ! how can we ever
repay you ?" he exclaimed, raising her hand passionately to his
lips. The cheek of Annie suddenly blanched, "but k cAa^ Y^Q^^
6*
130 TFC mother's recompensb.
smile carled her lip. She answered him in his ( wn spirit, and
after a prolonged interview, the viscount departed to act on hor
advice.
Ere that day closed, Lord Alphingham had sought Mr.
Hamilton, and with every demonstration of respectful yet pas*
sionate affection, solicited his consent to address his daughter.
The warning of his son, the strong term he had used, were
engraved on Mr. Hamilton's mind, and scarcely could he an-
swer the Viscount with his accustomed calmness. Politely but
decidedly he refused, adding, that he had hoped the constant
reserve of Caroline's manner would at once have convinced him
of her feelings, and spared him the pain of refusing for her the
honorable alliance Lord Aphingham proposed. A haughty
and somewhat triumphant smile played for a second on the
Viscount's lips, but Mr. Hamilton understood not its import ;
and his companion, with many expressions of wounded feeling
and injured honor, departed, leaving Mr. Hamilton rather
pleased than otherwise at this affair, as it gave him a plausible
excuse for withdrawing entirely from his society. He imparted
what had passed to his wife, and both agreed it was better for
Caroline to say nothing of his proposals ; and this determina-
tion, for once, was not thwarted by Annie, who thought it bet-
ter for Lord Alphingham to plead his own cause at some future
time, when the idea of his having been refused without consult-
ing her, the person principally concerned, would excite yet
greater indignation towards her parents, and assist effectually
the cause of her lover, who leaving town for a week or two to
prove to Mr. Hamilton his wounded feelings were no pretence,
or for some other reason, left to Annie the charge of preparing
Caroline's mind for the alternative he might propose,
A circumstance happened about this time, which appeared
greatly to favor the schemes of Annie and Lord Alphingham,
and expose Caroline more powerfully to temptation. The
Duchess of Rothbury had invited a select number of friends
to wile away the remaining weeks of the London season at her
elegant seat, which was situated in a lovely spot, about twenty
miles from the metropolis. Amongst the number she, of
coursa, included Mrs. Hamilton, and expressed herself very
much disappointed when that lady tendered excuses. Mr.
Hamilton could not leave town ; he had put Mr. Myrvin's case
into the hands of an able solicitor, and wished to remain on
the spot himself to urge on the business, that it might be com-
pleted before he returned to Oakwood. It was not likely he
THE mother's recompense. 131
said, that the affair would occupy much time, the whole circum-
stance being directly illegal. It had only been the age and
poverty, combined with the shrinking sensitiveness from pub'
lie gaze, which had prevented Mr. Myrvin from coming for-
ward at the very first against his persecutor. A specious
tale had been brought forward to excuse the illegality, and im-
pose on the bishop in whose diocese Llangwillan was situated,
and Myrvin, though he could meet trials with resignation, was
too broken-hearted to resist them. Thus much Mr. Hamilton
had learned from Arthur, to whom he wrote himself, requesting
him to give a minute account of the whole circumstance. His
earnestness, seconded by the entreaties of both his sons, suc-
ceeded in banishing Arthur's proud reserve, and Mr. Hamilton
was now engaged heart and soul in his benevolent scheme of
exposing iniquity, and restoring the injured clergyman to his
grieving flock. He could not, therefore, leave London, and
Mrs. Hamilton who, for mere amusement, could not bear to
part from her children, for only Caroline was to accompany
her, steadily resisted the entreaties of her friend. For herself
she was firm, but she hesitated when the Duchess, seconded by
her daughters, requested most persuadingly, that if she would
not come herself, she would, at least, permit Caroline to join
them.
" You have known me so long, that I have the vanity to
believe, that if I promise to guard your child as if she were
my own, you will trust her with me," her grace urged, with a
pertinacity that could not fail to be flattering. " She will be
as safe under my care as were she under the observance of her
mother."
" That I do not doubt one moment," replied Mrs. Hamilton,
earnestly ; " if I hesitated, it was from no doubt of either
your grace's care or kindness. If Caroline be willing to accept
your invitation, and her father consent, she has my permis-
sion.**
" Thank you, my good friend ; I trusted in my eloquence
to prevail," the Duchess said, smiling with an air of sincerity
that gratified Mrs. Hamilton ; and she quickly imparted to
Caroline the accepted invitation, but in vain endeavored to
read on the face of her child whether she were pleased or
otherwise. Circumstances which caused Mrs. Hamilton
rather to rejoice at Caroline's absence from London for a time,
were to the latter great preventives to the enjoyment to which,
in such elegant society^ she might otherwise lia\e \oo\Lfe\ iorj
132 THE mother's kecompekse.
ward. Annie Grahame was, mueh to her own vexation, ex-
cluded from this select circle. The Duchess had penetrated
her designing character, and regarded her with a prejudice, as
yiolent as was her nature. She was only invited to those
large assemblies which included all her acquaintances, not
merely her friends. Amazed at this slight, Miss Grahame at
once determined that there the catastrophe for which she had
so long planned should take place, and her detestation of Mrs.
Hamilton be gratified to the uttermost.
Would Lord Alphingham be there ? was a question that
crossed Caroline's mind repeatedly, and was as often demand-
5d of her friend. Annie either would not or could not tell ;
and she would add, perhaps she ought to congratulate Caro-
line on her separation from him, as such a dread mandate had
gone from her parent, and she surely would not wish to encour-
age his society ; and then she would implore her forgiveness,
and sympathize so well in her fancied distress, and describe
that of lird Alphingham in* such heightened colors, that Caro-
line, unsophisticated as in some things she still was. felt truly
miserable. The Viscount's sudden departure from town
would have been unaccountable, had not Annie succeeded in
persuading her that she was sure it was entirely owing to her
(Caroline's) coldness and Mr. Hamilton's unaccountable con-
duct.
Mr. Hamilton did not at firsi approve of his daughter
leaving home without her mother, even to visit the Duchess of
Bothbury, but he yielded to the solicitations of his wife.
They knew that Lord Alphingham was somewhat of a favorite
with the Duke, but felt so assured that the heart of their child
was entirely disengaged, at least to him, that on his account
they did not hesitate. Caroline's conduct with regard to St.
Eval had, they were convinced, proceeded from the pure love
of coquetry ; they could not believe she had rejected him be-
cause she fancied she loved another, they had had no cause to
do so : and since Mrs. Hamilton had spoken so seriously on
the subject, Caroline's behavior in public had been such as to
excite their approbation, and renew, in some measure, their
confidence in her integrity. She was more reserved, and her
manner to the Viscount, when they chanced to meet, had led
them trustingly to believe their commands on this head would
be implicitly obeyed. Perhaps Mrs. Hamilton's penetration
had played her false ; it was strange that a mother so long ae*
customed to divine the thoughts and feelings of her children,
THE mother's recompense. 139.
should have bean thns blind to the emotions with which Caro
line believed she regarded Lord Alphingham. But, surely,
no farther proof than this was wanting to clearly demonstrate
it was not true love she felt ; had it been that real, pure, fer-
vid passion, could one so unused to art have concealed the
flashing cheek, the sparkling eye, the trembling voice, which
would invariably have betrayed her ? No ; it was infatuation,
^blind, maddening infatuation, strengthened by indignation
towards her parents ; by the wish to prove she could throw off
their control, and choose for herself, and love whom and where
and how she liked, without their choice and sympathy; and it
was thus she completely veiled her feelings. Can we condemn
her mother for refusing to believe the child she had trained
and watched, and prayed for so long, such an adept in deceit ?
Can we blame her want of penetration in this instance, and
think it unnatural in her character, when we remember how
completely the character of her child was changed ? Surely
not. It would have been stranger had she, without prdof, be-
lieved Caroline the girl she had really become.
The reflection that she could still write to Annie and hear
from her. consoled her for the temporary separation ; and she
joined the Duchess with some degree of pleasure, which had,
however, been slightly alloyed by a conversation with her mo-
ther before she left home. Her spirit was in too excitable a
state to hear advice calmly. Every word Mrs. Hamilton so
gently said on her conduct being more guarded now than when
under her eye, her mild entreaties that for her sake Caroline
would behave with reserve, all fell on a poisoned ear. Sullen-
ly she listened, and when her mother bade her farewell, it was
with a heart grieving bitterly. While smarting under sup-
posed injuries, how little did Caroline imagine the real agony
she inflicted on her mother. If the gentle heart of Mrs. Ham-
ilton had been wrung by the wayward conduct of her sister,
how much more so must it have been wounded, when she saw
so many of those evil qualities reflected in her child.
At Airslie, so the residence of the Duchess of Rothbury
was called, Caroline found herself universally courted. She
knew she was admired, and she was flattered ; but there was
a ceaseless gnawing at her heart, which not even gratified
vanity could still. She knew not, would not know, it was re-
morse. She believed it was the conduct of her parents ; the
chain that was thrown round her actions, ber diaapi^omtme^^
with regard to Lord Alphingham ; for he was not, aa \vi a^ct^l
I
i34 THE mother's keoompensb.
she hoped he would be, one of the invited guests. It was a
task, a painful task, to write home, but she forced herself to
speak of the scenes around, and sketch, with a masterly hand,
some of the characters with whom she mingled ; and her pa-
rents strove to be satisfied, though there was somewhat want-
ing in those letters which, when Caroline had been from home,
they had never missed before.
^' So that man of learning, that marvellous prodigy, that
walking cyclopaedia. Lord St Eval, has absolutely deserted
us, to bury himself in Italy or Switzerland. Miss Hamilton,
can you explain so wonderful and puzzling an enigma ?" mis-
chievously demanded Lord Henry D^Este, one day, as he
found himself alone near Caroline. His Iriend's departure
had indeed been to him a riddle, and believing at length that
it must have originated in her caprice, he determined, when-
ever he had an opportunity, to revenge St. Eval by doing all
in his power to torment her. A deep blush overspread Caro-
line's cheeks as he spoke, for except that Mary Grevillo's let-
ters had mentioned him, he was never spoken of at home.
" It ought not to appear a very puzzling riddle to you," she
answered quickly. ^^ He has gone, I should imagine, to collect
fresh matters for reflection, that he may better deserve the title
you have bestowed upon him."
" Nay, nay, surely he has enough of such matters to form
four and twenty good folio volumes," answered Lord Henry,
laughing. The art of politeness he certainly has failed to re-
tain, for you can have no idea what a briesqtie philosopher he
is. I assure you, he terrified me the last time I saw him.
What your honorable father had done to him I know not, but
I met him just coming from Berkely Square, and all the
charms he had lately invited around him had suddenly depart-
ed, he was a different man. and that day, in a fit, I suppose, of
spleen, he quits London, and the next time I hear of him he
is in Geneva : that noble Lord is one of the strangest creatures
I ever had the honor to know. However, perhaps he has
visited the Continent to learn politeness, and I think he may
chance to learn a lesson of love also. Not at all unlikely,
by the praises he bestows in his letters on a certain Louisa
Manvers."
In vain Caroline struggled to prevent a start, or her cheek
from suddenly paling. " Louisa Manvers," she repeated, al-
most unconsciously.
" Yes, do you know her ? by the bye, she must be some dis
THE mother's aECOMPENSE. 135
taut connection of yoiirs, I fancy ; her brother is Lord Del*
mont, he inherited the title from your maternal grandfather.
8t. Eval and Belmont were college chums, and, though they
are parted, retain all the romantic enthusiasm of friendship.
Jifter spending some little time with your friends I believe, at
Geneva, the lone pilgrim bent his steps to Lago G-uardia, and
there he has remained, wooing nature with his friend, and in
all probability playing the d&oou4 to Miss Manvers. We shall
find Lord St. Eval bringing home a fair Italian bride, before
we are aware of it ; that is to cay, if she will have the courage
to pore through the deep and hidden treasures of this volume,
till she comes to the magic word heart.
He might have continued, for Caroline, buried in her own
miserable thoughts, interrupted him not. Had she encounter-
ed the eyes of Lord Henry, as they were fixed full of mischief
i^on her, she might have made some effort to rouse herself,
but as it was, she felt relieved and glad when their tUe-d-t^
was interrupted by the entrance of a merry group, just re^
turned in the highest spirits from exploring a thick and mazy
wood in the vicinity of the extensive grounds.
" Good news for all," exclaimed the Duke of Rothbury, en-
tering directly after ; ^ we are to have another guest to-day, to
keep us all alive."
" Who ^who ?" was reiterated by many voices, with some-
what of the noisy mirth of children.
" No less a person than Viscount Alphingham." An ex-
clamation of pleasure passed through the giddy crowd, but
there was an expression in the countenance of the Duchess,
who had also entered from a drive, which, to Caroline's quick-
ly awakened fancy, appeared contrary to the general emotion.
" He is engaged as Sir Walter Courtenay's guest, so I cannot
claim him as mine," the Duke continued; "but that does not
much signify. Sir Walter is here every day, and Alphing-
ham will of course accompany him. He is the best fellow I
know."
" And this is the man papa, for no reason whatever, save
from Percy's ill-natured opinion, has desired me to slight, to
behave in a manner that, contrasted with former notice, must
be madness itself; cruelty to him, after what has passed between
us, and misery to me. Surely, in such a case as this I am not
compelled to obey. When the general voice proclaims him
other than they believe, am I to regard what is in itself a
mystery? If Percy had good reasons for writing tgATLBX\iYBv
136 THE mother's EECOlftPENSE.
to papa, for I am sure he must have done so, why did he not
explain them, instead of treating me thus like a child, and
standing forward as his accuser, when the whole world extols
him? Why are the dearest wishes of my heart to be destroy-
ed merely by caprice? Percy ever tried, even in child-
hood, to bid me to look up to him, and acknowledge his
power, and thus he would prove it, but he will find him-
self mistaken. When papa permits his judgment to be blinded
by the insinuations of a mere boy, I no longer consider myself
bound to obey him."
Such was the tenor of Caroline's thoughts when alone, in
the short interval, ere she descended to dinner there was no
ray of happiness ; her heart had that day received a wound,
nor could she derive comfort even from the knowledge that
Lord Alphingham was expected. She would not permit her-
self to think on Lord Henry's conversation. What was it to
her if St. Eval married Louisa Manvers ? then studiously she
thought only on the Viscount, and the situation with regard
to him in which she was placed, till her head ached with the
intensity of its reflections.
On entering the drawing-room she found, as she had anti-
cipated. Lord Alphingham the centre of a brilliant coterie, and
for the space of a minute her heart throbbed and her cheek
flushed. He bowed respectfully as she appeared, but with
distant courtesy ; yet she fancied the flow of his eloquence was
for a moment arrested, and his glance, subdued yet so mourn-
fully beseeching, spoke volumes. Neither at dinner nor du-
ring the whole of that evening did he pay her more than ordi-
nary attention ; scarcely that. But those silent signals of in-
telligence had even greater power than words ; for they flat-
tered her self-love, by clearly proving, that courted, admired,
as she could not but feel he was by all around him, his noble
hostess perhaps excepted, yet all was as nothing, now that her
favor had been so strangely and suddenly withdrawn. His
tone, his manner, as he presented to her a note from Annie, of
which he had been the bearer, strengthened this illusion ; and
Caroline as she retired to rest, felt more and more convinced
they were indeed mutually and devotedly attached, and that
her obedience to her parents could not weigh against the duty
she owed herself, the love he had evinced for her. Annie's
note strengthened this determination.
" I give you joy, my dear Caroline," she wrote, " on the
opportumty jovl will now enjoy of receiving Lord Alphing'
THE MOTHERS RECOMPENSE. 137
attentions, undisturbed by any of those wayward fancies
have lately so destroyed your peace. Do not, for heav-
ake, by squeamish notions of filial obedience and dutifal
ict which I do assure you have been very long out of
-destroy your own happiness. When parents cease to
or the true welfare and felicity of their children, it be-
j our positive duty to care for them ourselves. Mr.
ilton has given you no reason for his command to with-
yourself from the attentions of Lord Alphingham ; and
f that is the clearest imaginable proof that he really
lone to give, and that it is merely to gratify his own
t displeasure at your rejection of St. Eval, as if in such
irs you had not an undoubted right to decide for yourself,
innot suppose that you will now be contented with that
I completely crosses your own wishes, merely because he
js it. That was all very well in your childhood, but at
nt. when your own reason must be satisfied, he has no
to expect obedience. The whole conduct of your
ts, you have owned to me yourself, has been lately such
alienate your affection and confidence. They hold your
snchained my poor friend ; and if you have not the spirit
3ak it, nbw a fair opportunity occurs, forgive me, if I say
I no longer offer you consolation. Lord Alphingham
you, and long ere this, had it not been for your mother's
ordinary conduct, would have proposed, and you might
been now a plighted bride, or still happier wife. I
doubt, by a few hints he dropped, if his late departure
town was not occasioned by Mr. Hamilton's positive re-
to sanction his addresses to you. If he has demanded
hand, and been rejected without your knowledge, your
r and mother have treated you with much confidence and
ion, have they not? Can they, dare they expect to
7e yours, when such is the case? Is it not a dear proof
happiness is not to be consulted in any marriage you
form ? It is ridiculous to imagine that your mother
not penetrated, in some degree, your feelings for
ingham, though perhaps not to their extent ; and not
)ving of it, for no reason whatever, she desires you to
his society. Your father refuses a most honorable offer,
ut even consulting the person principally concerned.
line, my dearest friend, do not permit your noble
i to be thus bowed down. Whatever alternatW^ Lotd.
ingham may propose heconiea lawful, when you i.TCi ^^A
i
138 THE HOTHER^S KLC0MPEN8E.
cruelly persecueed. Many secret marriages are happier,
yery much happier, than those for which the consent (A
parents have been obtained. They think only of ambition,
interest ; how can we expect them to enter into the warmth
of youthful feelings ? Do not be frightened at my words, but
give them a calm, just deliberation. You have permitted
your love for him to be discovered ; it becomes your duty to
prove it still more clearly."
Such were the principal contents of Annie's letter, more
than sufficient to confirm Caroline's already half-adopted reso-
lution, and convince her wavering judgment that obedience
to her parents was now no longer a duty ; their unjust harsh-
ness had alienated her from them, and she must stand forth
and act alone. Conscience loudly called on her to desist ; that
she was deserting the plain path, and entering the labyrinth
of deceit, but the words of Annie were before her. Again
and again they were read, till every word became engraved
within her, and the spirit they breathed thickened the film be-
fore her eyes, and deafened her ear to every loudly-whispered
reproach. Yet in silence and solitude that still small voice,
conscience, arose and left its pang, although on the instant
banished.
A few days passed, and the conduct of the Viscount to
Caroline continued the same as it had been the first night
Publicly distant, secretly and silently beseeching, with an elo-
quence few could have resisted. There was a grand fete and
d&jeuner at Airslie, which was pronounced by the connoisseurs
in such things to be the most recherchi of the season. But
few, comparatively speaking, were the guests, though some
had ventured to travel twenty miles for the purpose ; yet all
was elegant. The day was lovely, and with the bright sun-
shine and cloudless sky, added new charms to this fairy land ;
for so, by the tasteful arrangement of gorgeous tents, spark-
ling fountains, exotic shrubs, and flowers of every form and
shade, the coup d^ceil might have been termed. Musicians were
stationed in various parts of the grounds. The dance was en-
joyed with spirit on the greensward, when the heat of the sun
had subsided into the advancing twilight; and ihe picturesque
groups, the chaste and elegant costumes scattered about, inter-
mixed with the beauties of inanimate nature, added life and
spirit to the picture.
It was an exciting and yet a soothing scene. Some minds,
untouched by care, would here have revelled in unchecked
IBS mother's aSCOMPENSE. 139'
gladness. In others, it might have been prodactive of that
soothing melancholy, which, from its very sweetness, wo en-
courage till it becomes pain : such was the case with Caroline.
Her spirits, buoyed up at first with the hope and expectation
that here at least Lord Alphingham might resume his atten*
tions unremarked, she had been excited to unwonted gaiety ;
but as the hours wore on, and he approached her not, that ex-
citement faded into melancholy and doubt Not even had the
usual signals of intelligence passed between them, for he had
been sedulously devoting himself to almost every beautiful
girl in the gardens. Jealousy for a moment took possession
of her mind, but that very quickly gave way to indignation
against her father.
" If he has been treated as Annie tells me, if his proposals
for me have been rejected," she thought, " how can I expect or
hope that he will continue his addresses 1 He knows not but
that I have been consulted ; and is my happiness to be over-
thrown, rudely cast aside, by the insinuations of a boy?" and
covering her face with her hands, she burst into tears : the
scene, the time, the faint sound of the distant music, encour-
aged these feelings, and heightened despondency. Day was
darkening around her, aided by the sombre shade of the gigan-
tic trees, which formed a grove where she sat ; and the music
borne along at intervals sounded unusually mournful. A
heavy sigh near her aroused her from her painful trance, and
starting, she beheld the object of her thoughts standing by her
side. His speaking eyes were fixed on her with a glance not
the most obtuse imagination could have misinterpreted, and
the whole expression of his peculiarly handsome features be-
trayed the most eloquent and pleading sympathy.
" Oh, that it might be mine, the blessed privilege of en-
deavoring to soothe or to relieve this grief?" he passionately
exclaimed, as with an air of the utmost respect he ventured
to take her hand. ^' I had indulged in presumptuous hopes.
I had ventured to read the flattering notice which I ever re-
ceived from you as a confirmation of my wishes, and I indulged
in fondly-cherished visions that ere this I should indeed have
had a right, a holy right, to soothe your every grief and share
in every joy. I thought wrong ; your flattering notice must
have been but the impulse of your kind heart, pitying what
you could not fail to behold ; and yet, oh, Miss Hamilton, that
very demonstration of your gentle nature has increased m^
misery ; it has bade me love^ nay, adore you. lYAamG ^cjvxti^V
140 THE mother's recompense.
I have been presumptuous ^mad. I had no right to expect sd
much happiness. My proposals were refused. I was told
your conduct must have made it evident that I was not pleas-
ing to you. I fled from your presence, but I could not rest
alone. Again, like a mad fool, I have plunged myself in the
centre of fascination. I could not exist without the sound of
your voice; though me it might never more address. I could
not live without glancing on your expressive eyes, your elo-
quent smile, though on me neither more might beam. I am
nere, I feel my folly, but I cannot tear myself away. Caro-
line, adorable Caroline !" he continued, with well-practiced
passion, " only speak, command me ; in what way can I relieve
the grief in which I see you plunged ? Give me at least the
gratification of feeling I lyive been of service to you ; that I
have done somewhat for your happiness, though by you mine
has fled for ever "
Rapidly yet eloquently had he spoken, and Caroline vainly
struggled with herself to interrupt him. He believed she had
rejected him, and in that moment she contrasted his present
conduct with that of Lord St. Eval, under the same circum-
stances, and surely she could doubt no longer which loved her
best. She had not seen the secret agony of the one ^his proud
and noble heart concealed it ; but Alphingham when such
devoted love was offered her, would she condemn it to misery,
and herself to everlasting reproach, if not to equal woe ?
" You are mistaken, my Lord," she said, proudly, after a
severe struggle with herself " Lay not to my charge the loss
of your happiness. I was not aware till this instant that it
depended " She stopped abruptly, for the natural modesty
of her disposition prevented more, indignant as she was at the
confirmation of Annie's suspicions.
Lord Alphingham saw his advantage, and pursued it.
^^ How !" he exclaimed in an accent of astonishment and
ecstacy well combined. " Have you too been deceived, and my
proposals rejected without having been laid before you ? Can
it be possible ? Oh, speak again, my beloved Caroline ! tell
me I have not been too presuming ^that I may hope that my
long-cherished visions are not false. You will not, oh, you
will not condemn me to misery ^you will not reject my heart,
and send me despairing from your feet. Caroline, my beloved,
my beautiful ! say that you will be merciful say that yon
love me that I love not alone ; oh, say, promise me you will
he mine, and. ccme what will, we shall be happy."
THS MOTHER^S RECOMFENSB. 141
She heard, and her heart throbbed and her brain reeled ;
in the infatuation of that moment, all, all was forgotten save
the persuasions of Annie, his pleading eloquence, the wild
impulse of her own blinded fancy ; the fatal promise passed
lier lips she was pledged to be his own. A few minutes she
listened to his impassioned thanks, his words of devoted love,
then suddenly starting back
*' My father 1" she exclaimed, and burst into a passionate
flood of tears.
^ Nay, weep not, my beloved, my own ! let not a mere
shadow, for such in this instance is duty, alloy the felicity that
will be ours. His consent will in time be given ; fear not,
when he sees you happy, when he sees my only care, my every
thought is for your welfare, that his forgiveness for involuntary
disobedience will be granted, and his unjust and cruel preju-
dices against me will pass away, for he will find they were
indeed but fancy ; and if he continues obdurate, oh, how
rejoiced I shall be to have withdrawn my Caroline from his
stern guardianship. Already has he deceived you ; and can
he then expect implicit obedience to unjust and unfounded
commands on your part 1 Cheer up, my best love, fear not ;
trust to my affection, and all will be welL"
But still she wept, even though Lord Alphingham continued
this strain of consolation for some little time longer. Fearing
at length to attract notice by her prolonged absence, she
roused herself, and breaking from her triumphant lover, re-
mained for a few minutes alone, endeavoring, but vainly, to
recover that happiness which, when she had looked to an union
with the Viscount, Cad promised to dawn around her. She
saw it not ; there was a dark, heavy, threatening cloud over-
hanging her mind, which no efforts could dispel. She felt, as
she rejoined the glittering circle, the eye of the Duchess was
fixed with startling earnestness upon her, and she shrunk from
that severe look, as if indeed it could penetrate her soul and
condemn the past. Why did not enjoyment return ? Why
was she not happy when in the centre of a scene like this 1
She knew not, and struggled to be gay and animated as usual ;
but she felt as if each effort failed, and drew upon her the
attention of those near her, and rejoiced was she indeed when
the festive hours had fled and she was alone. She strove to
compose her troubled thoughts to prayer, but no words came
to her aid, and throwing hersef on her bed, she wept iox mi^l
weary hours. She could not have told why b\io t\iua '^^V\
U2 THE MOTHB&'S REC0MPENS8.
she only knew that she was wretched, that the light-heartedneM
once so peculiarly her own had fled, it seemed, for ever, and
she shrunk almost in loathing from the hour when she should
meet Lord Alphingham again ; and when it came, even bi8
presence cheered her not. He soothed, even gently reproached,
but as he did so there was somewhat in his eye she had never
seen before, and which struck terror. Subdued as it was, it
told of passions from which she had believed him exempt, and
added additional pain to her distress. Noticing what she
termed the indisposition of her young friend, the Duchess
kindly advised her to remain quiet, nor join the gay party,
till it had passed away ; but as she epoke, Caroline observed
the severe and scrutinizing glance of the Duchess again fixed
upon her, and contrary to her advice, appeared as usual at
dinner.
Days passed, and Lord Alphingham's plan was matured,
and submitted to Caroline's sanction. A fete, similar to that
given by the Duchess, only commencing at a later hour, to
permit a superb display of fireworks on the grounds, was to be
given by a neighboring nobleman, to which all the members of
the Duchess's party were invited. The villa was some few
miles oflf, and they were to leave Airslie at half-past eight.
That day Caroline was to feign indisposition, and remain un-
disturbed at home ; at ten Lord Alphingham would dispatch a
trusty servant, well disguised, with a note, apparently from
Mrs. Hamilton, requesting her daughter's immediate return,
as she had been taken suddenly and dangerously ill. This
note was, of course, designed to impose upon any member of
the party who might, by some mischance, remain at home, and
be circulated among the servants to account for her sudden
departure. The carriage, said to be Mr. Hamilton's, waited
for her ; Lord Alphingham was to meet it at some five miles
off ; but once within it, once safe from Airslie, the rest was
easy.
Caroline heard, and an inward shuddering crept chilly
through her frame. Faintly and briefly she agreed to all he
BO eloqucntlv and persuasively pleaded, and instantly left him.
" Will she be weak enough now to waver ?" thought Al-
phingham. ' Perhaps, after all, she is not worthy of all this
trouble, there is no spirit in her ; yet she is so beautiful, it
will suit me well to introduce such a lovely creature as my
bride next season, and gratify my vengeance on Mr. Hamilton
for bis unceremonious refusal, and if I get tired of her, if then
THE mother's recompense. 143
tears and pale cheeks continue, why, thank heaven, no chains
irith me are binding. That early folly of mine was not so
aseless as it seemed ; I may act as I please, and if your
daughter sickens or offends me, Mr. Hamilton ; as you have
done, you may well dread my vengeance ; it will fall upon you
both, and I unscathed will seek other lands and fairer beauties,
Eis I have already done." His countenance had darkened
during this speech, but at its close it became clear again, and,
with a careless whistle of unconcern, he sauntered away.
And was it to this man that the cherished child of so much
anxiety was about to sacrifice herself. With him and for him,
she, who had once been the soul of truth and honor, had con-
sented to leave the guardianship of her father, and break the
sacred links of nature. Alas ! though her very spirit now
revolted, she had gone too far. How could she, how dared
she draw back? and yet one effort she would make. She
would implore him to permit her to confess all to her parents ;
she was convinced, did they know how much her happiness
depended on her union with him, they would consent, and
with their blessing hallow their marriage. Happiness Caro-
line shuddered; the wild excitement of secret love had de-
parted. She knew she was beloved, she had given her pro-
mise, yet she was not happy ; and could she then expect to be
when irrevocably his own 7 Her brain reeled beneath the be-
wildering chaos of her thoughts ; but she followed up her re-
solution, and implored him as she had intended. Lord Al-
phingham heard with a dark and frowning brow.
" And what becomes of your kind brother's just accusa-
tions ?" demanded the Viscount, with a very evident and con-
temptuous sneer.
" Defend yourself, and papa will be convinced they are un-
founded," was her reply. But she gazed on his countenance,
and terrified at its expression ; for the first time the thought
flashed across her mind, could there indeed be any real cause
for Percy's warning ; and more and more earnestly did she
beseech him to say she might implore her father's sanction.
^^ Only let me confide in papa and mamma, let me try and con-
vince them they are mistaken, and Percy too must be in error."
The Viscount for some little time endeavored mildly to confute
her arguments, and convince her that in doing so, she was only
forming her own misery ; but still she pleaded, and ungovern-
ed fury at length burst forth. He had been too long^ \\ift Vvi-
iim of passions nlways to keep them in bounds, e^^en "^\Lii
144 THE mother's RECOMPENciS
most required ; and for a few minutes they spurned restrami,
and Caroline beheld him as he was, and saw in dim perspeo-
tive 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 ferror 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 everlast-
ing misery ; that he was wretched enough abeady 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 sleep-
ing and waking thoughts, and his protestations of devoted love
were dimmed beside it, they shared its blackened hue.
The appointed dsiy came, and the J)uchess, without question
or remark, accepted Caroline's excuse for not accompanying her
and her friends to the expected fete. The heavy eyes and
pale cheeks of the misguided girl were more than sufficient ex-
cise ; 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 no-
thing' but the anticipated fete and its attendant pleasures,
while they wiled away the intervening hours in the library, the
music-room, the garden, wherever their taste dictated, for free-
dom 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 se-
crecy. 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
K
THE HOTHK&'S &SCOMPENSB. ^ 45
tortures to the angaish 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 thai
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 colors. Yes ! this
wa^ no fancy, she had been the victim of infatuation, of excite-
ment ; but clearer and clearer dawned the truth. She was
Baerificing 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 re-
sumed her throne, she was convinced had been ever guided by
the dictates of affection. She recalled with vivid clearness her
every interview with Annie, alid she saw with bitter self-re-
proach 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 weak-
ness, heightened her scarcely-dawning fancy till it became in-
fatuation, and finally recommended that plan of conduct from
which Caroline's whole soul revolted. Why had she dono
this 7 Caroline felt, to bring down shame upon her head and
suffering on her mother. Her parents' conduct changed to-
wards 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 pre-
sent sufferings. Her childhoo i, her early youth rushed like a
torrent on her mind ; faulty as they had been, they were inno-
cent and pure compared with her present self Then she had
ever been actuated by truth, candor, respectful love, affection-
ate confidence towards her parents ; now all had been cast
aside. If her mother's words were true, and bitterly she felt
they wore, that her conduct to St. Eval had been one continu-
ed 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 lieaT \it
Toice in blessing^ to see her beaming smile, and ieeV Viet \A^t^
7
\
146 THE mother'^ &EC0MFEN8B,
of approbation, saoh as at Oakwood she had so often reemed
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 trem-
bling terror from her father's sternness, her mother's look of
woe, struggling with severity, the coldness, the displeasure sbe
would excite on all sides she beheld but misery ; but to flj
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 7 the countenance of the Viscount as he
had alluded to them confirmed them to her now awakened ey%.
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 succor?
where look for aid to guard from her 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 infatu*
ated blindness, she had deserted ; Him, whom her deception
towards her parents, had offended, for she had trampled on
His holy laws, she had honored them not.
The hour of seven chimed ; three hours more, and her t&te
was irrevocably sealed the Grod of her youth profaned ; for
could she ever address Him again when the wife of Alphing-
ham ? 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 con-
duct 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 in-
nocenoe and joys, had they passed away forever 7 She thought
t^B the ABgniah that had been her mother's^ when in her ehild-
THE mother's recompenss. 147
hood she had sinned, and what was she now abotit to inflict ?
She saw her bowed down in the depth of misery j she heard
her agonized prayer for mercy on her child.
" Saviour of my mother, for her sake, have mercy on her un-
worthy child ! oh, save me from myself, restore me to my mo-
ther !" and sinking on her knees, the wretched girl buried her
&ce in her hands, and minutes, which to her appeared like
hours, rolled on in that wild burst of repentant and remorse-
ful agony.
CHAPTER VII.
* Dearest mother, this is indeed like some of Oakwood's hap-
py 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 Caro-
line's visit to Airslie, but yet not one evening had so vividly re-
minded 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 emo-
tions that filled her heart.
Ellen had been standing by the flowers, but on hearing hei
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 innooeni
happiness of her young companions, and twining IolOT atm^^"^'
fufly round Ellen; she abandoned her other hand to "Bmms^\xi^
and answered
148 THE MOTHBU'S RECOMPENSE.
'^ I am very glad, my dear children, tliat such a aimpU
thing as my company can afford you so much pleasure.'^
^' It is 80 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 hap^
pier where she is than she would be here, particularly to-night,
for Lord D gives a splendid fite at his beautiful villa. sim-
ilar 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 files, 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 pleas*
ures 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 that 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 be writes bo fully to you and so fondly to me, I hav
THE mother's AECOMPENSB. 149
every reason to be quite contented ; his time is not so mucii at
his own disposal as mine is."
" I wonder where he can find time to write i^nch lengthy
epistles to mamma," observed the smiling Emmeline. " 1
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 eo 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 ; aiid 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 every thing, you
know."
''Not in me, mamma," answered Emmeline, laughing.
^ Tou 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. Ham-
ilton could perceive that which the thoughtless Emmeline
regarded not, a deep crimson staining appar-*ntly with pain
the pale fair face of her niece, and she thougat 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, at 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 re-
turns," exclaimed Emmeline.
" Or rather ought to be, Emmeline," remarked Ellen, mletl^
** Now, what an insinuation I Ellen, you ate too VA \*
150 THE mother's REOOMFENSB.
night, and against yonr brother, of all persons in the worldi
It is just like the ill compliment you paid him on his gallantij
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 skepticism 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 skeptic as to the future fame and honor 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 em-
ployment," 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 disap-
pointment," 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 honor 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 thitk so, then I may hope indeed," Ellen said with
earnestness. * A.nd 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
TOE mother's HECOMFENSB. 151
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 he
soon married, and Miss Malison removed from Lady Helen's
establishment. Then Lilla's really excellent qualities will
cpiidkly 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, happi-
ness 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. Ghrahame 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 warmest,
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 im-
pressions 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 en-
gaged her affections, and that some of the representationa hp
had heard were false, would in all probability, have gpne 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 coixo^tioxL^ ^m
152 THE mother's recohfensb.
which from her earliest age demanded the greatest earej
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 favor
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 s
kiss on Emmeline's forehead as she spoke, that she might con-
ceal an unusual tear which had started to her eye, for the un-
restrained confidence and unabated affection of her younger
daughter, while it soothed, yet rendered the conduct of Caro-
line 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, laugh-
ing ; " for she has had so many reveries over her drawing and
work this week, that nothing less important could have occa*
sioned them."
Emmeline shook her head archly, and answered gayly;
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 ;
THE IkOTUfi&'s KEOOMPENSE. 153
*iny basiness is proceeding most fevorably. Mr. Myrvin
aedd know nothing about it till all is settled ; the dishonorablo
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 I" exclaimed Ellen, starting up and
clinging to his arm, ^' oh, how can I thank you for your inter-
ferenco 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 me 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 Oak-
wood 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 ser
vitor at college, I hope."
" No ; I anticipate the pleasure of welcoming the friend ot
Herbert as my guest as well as his father, and t\ieTi n^^ ^^
7*
154 THB KOTHiai's RECQMFENaX.
deliberate on Arthur's future life. I should like much U
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 re-
member him, Ellen ?"
" Perfectly well ; he was so very kind to me. I will re-
collect 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.
" So you call this an Oakwood hour, Emmy, do you ?" de
manded Mr. Hamilton, after Arthur and his father had beea
duly discussed. ^^ Suppose we make the resemblance even
more complete by ringing for lights, and you and Ellen giving
me some music. I have had no opportunities of hearing your
improvement, which I suppose, under such able professors, has
been something extraordinary."
" Marvellous, most marvellous !" exclaimed Emmeline,
laughing, as she flew to obey him by ringing the bell. " I had
begun to fancy I was practising for nothing, and that my
father would never do his child the honor of listening to her
again, but I remembered the enchanted halls of Oakwood, and
I thought there at least I might chain him to my side, and so
I continued my labors."
" Let us fancy ourselves 'there," replied her father, smiling;
and lights appearing, Emmeline and Ellen were speedily at
the instruments, bestowing pleasure unalloyed by this domestic
use of their talents to those dear ones who had so assiduously
cultivated them. Their improvements, under the best pro-
fessors in London, had been rapid ; for, carefully prepared, no
difficulties had to be overcome ere improvement commenced
and the approbation and evident pleasure of Mr. and Mrs.
Hamilton amply repaid those young and innocent beings for
all the exertions they had made, particularly Emmeline, who,
as we know, had determined, on her first arrival in London,
to prove she would not learn, when all around her was sc
changed.
" Surely, surely, Caroline, surrounded by gayety as she is,
cannot be as happy as I am to night," burst with wild glee
THE mother's beoompense. 153
from the lips of Emmeline, as at about half-past ten o'clock
her father kissed her glowing cheek, and thanked her for the
pleasing recreation she had given him. She had scarcely
spoken, when a carriage was heard driving somewhat rapidly
through the Square, then stopped, it appeared at their door,
and a thundering and truly aristocratic rap resounded, startling
not a little the inmates of that peaceful drawing-room.
'^ Who can it be at this hour ?" demanded Emmeline, in
an accent of bewilderment ^ How very disagreeable. I did
not wish any inl^usion to-night. Mamma, dear mamma, you
look terrified."
Mr. Hamilton had opened the drawing-room door, and was
about to descend the stairs, for he too was startled at this
unusual visit; but he turned at Emmeline's words, for his
wife did not usually indulge in unfounded alarm or anticipated
fears, but at that instant her wonted presence of mind appeared
about to desert her ; she was pale as marble, and had started
up in an attitude of terror.
Voices were heard, and steps, well-known steps, ascending
the stairs.
" It is the Duchess of Rothbury's voice and step ^my child !"
burst from her lips, in an accent that neither Emmeline nor
Ellen ever could forget, and she sunk back almost fainting on
her seat. Her children flew to her side in alarm, but ere a
minute had passed away that wild anxiety was calmed, for
Caroline herself entered with the Duchess, but her deathlike
cheek, blanched lip, and haggard eye told a tale of suffering
which that mother could not mark unmoved. Vainly Mrs.
Hamilton strove to rise and welcome the Duchess : she had no
power to move from her chair.
" Caroline, my child I" were the only words her faltering
tongue could utter ; and that agonized voice thrilled through
the heart of the now truly unhappy girl, and roused her from
that trance of overwhelming emotion which bade her stand
spellbound at the threshold. She sprung forward, and sinking
at her mother's feet, buried her face in her robe.
" Mother, my injured mother, oh, do not, do not hate me !"
she murmured, in a voice almost inarticulate. " I deserve to
be cast from your love, to lose your confidence for ever. 1
have deceived you I " Sobs choktjd her utterance, and the
grieving mother could only throw her arms around her child,
and press her convulsively to her heart Anxiety, nearly
equal to that of his wife, had been an inmate o Mr.'&wsSN^OTiu
\
15(1 THE mother's REOOMPEN6S.
bosom as the Duchess's yoice reached his ear; but as hf^
glanced on Caroline, a frown gathered on his brow. He
trembled involuntarily, for he felt assured it was imprudence,
to give it the mildest term, in her conduct that called for this
untimely visit, this strange return t3 her home. Already he
had been deceived ; and while every softened feeling struggled
for mastery in the mother's bosom, the father stood ready to
judge and to condemn, fiercely conquering every risipg emotion
that swelled within. There was even more lofty majesty in
the carriage of her Grace, as she carefully closed the drawing-
room door behind her, and slowly advanced towards Mrs.
Hamilton ; a cold, severe, unbending expression in every feature,
that struck terror to the hearts of both Emmcline and Ellen,
whoso innocent festivity was indeed now rudely checked.
^' Mrs. Hamilton," the Duchess said, and the grave and sad
accents of her voice caused the anxious mother hastily to raise
her head, and gaze inquiringly in her face, " to my especial
care you committed your child. I promised to guard her as
my own, and on that condition alone you intrusted her to me ;
I alone, therefore, restore her to you, thank God, unscathed.
I make no apology for this strange and apparently needless
intrusion at this late hour ; deceived as I have been, my house
was no longer a fitting home for your daughter, and not
another night could I retain her, when my judgment told me
her father's watchful guardianship alone could protect her from
the designing arts of one, of whom but very little is known,
and that little not such as would recommend him to my favor.
You, too, have been deceived, cruelly deceived, by that weak;
infatuated girl. Had you been aware that Lord Alphingham
was her secretly favored lover, that the coldness with which
she ever treated him in public, the encouragement of another,
were but to conceal from you and her father her attachment to
him, you would not have consented to her joining a party of
which he was a member. At my house he has received in-
creased encouragement. I marked them with a jealous eye,
for I could not believe his attentions sanctioned either bj
you or Mr. Hamilton ; but even my vigilance was at fault, for
she had consented to sever every tie which bound her to her
too indulgent parents, and fly with him to Scotland. This
night would have seen the accomplishment of their design.
Had one of my children behaved thus, it would have been less
a matter of bewilderment to me than such conduct in a daugh*
ter of jour B, I have neglected to seek their confidence, theii
THE mother's HSCOMPENSE. 157
iffuction. You have never rested in jour endeavors to obtain
both, and, therefore, that such should be your recompense is
sad indeed. I sympathisze with you, my dearest friend," she
continued, in a tone of much more feeling than she ever allow-
ed to be visible. '' In the tale of shame I am repeating, I am
inflicting misery upon you, I feel I am ; and yet, in resigning
my charge, I must do my duty, and set you on your guard,
Mid let this one reflection be your comfort, that it was the
recollection of your untiring care, your constant affection,
which checked this infatuated girl in her career of error, and
bade her pause ere it was too late. For her sufferings I have
little pity; she is no longer the character I believed her.
Neither integrity, honor, nor candor can be any longer in-
mates of her heart ; the confession I have heard this night has
betrayed a lengthened scheme of deception, to which, had I
heard it of her, I should have given no credence. Forgive me,
my dear Emmeline, and look not on me so beseechingly ; pain-
ful as it is, in the sincerest friendship alone I place before
your too partial eyes the real character of your child. I have
now done my duty, and will therefore leave you. Grod bless
you, and grant you strength to bear this bitter trial." She
turned to the unhappy father, who, as she spoke, had, overcome
with uncontrollable agitation, sunk on a chair and covered his
face with his hands, but with a strong effort he roused himself
as she pronounced his name, and rose.
" Mr. Hamilton, to your wife, your inestimable wife, you
owe the preservation of your child this night from sin. Let
her not, I beseech you, afflict herself too deeply for those
sufferings under which she may behold Caroline for a time the
victim. She deserves them all all ; but she merits not one-
half that affection which her fond and loving motli-er would
lavish on her. I leave you now, but, trust me, feeling de^sply
for you both,'"
* Nay, rest with us to-night, at least," exclaimed Mr.
Hamilton, conquering himself sufficiently to think of his friend'9
situation, alone, in London, at such a late hour, and endeavor-
ing to persuade her to remain with them ; but decidedly, yoi
kindly, she refused.
'^ I sleep at St. James's, and shall be back at Airslie to-
morrow morning before my guests are recovered from the effects
of to-night," she urged. " Yonr hospitality is kindly meant,
Hamilton, but I cannot accept it ; both Caroline and het
mother can dispense with my company now."
^' Then let me accompany you home ?"
\
158 T^ MOTBB&'S RBCOMPENSE.
^ I will not hear of it, my good friend. Good night, onM
more ; God bless you !"
Mr. Hamilton knew the character of his noble friend too
well to urge more, and therefore contented himself by accom-
panying her down stairs.
To describe Mrs. Hamilton's feelings, as she listened to the
words of the Duchess, would be indeed a vain attempt. We
know all the anguish she had suffered when Caroline's eondnct
had first caused her uneasiness, and now the heightened
agony of her fond heart may be easily imagined. Almost
unconsciously she had withdrawn her arm ; but Caroline
clung more convulsively to her robe, and her first wild words
sounded again and again in her mother's ears, soothing while
they inflicted pain.
'' Can it be possible I have heard aright ? Have I indeed
been thus deceived ?" she asked, struggling to speak calmly,
when the Duchess and her husband had left the room ; and
she fixed her sad, searching glance upon Caroline, who for a
moment raised her head.
'^ Mother, dearest mother, condemn me, despise me as yon
please ; I deserve it all " she replied, in an accent of most
piercing wretchedness. " Only say that I may in time regain
your love, your confidence ; that you will take me to your heart
again. I have disregarded your affection ; I have wilfully cast
it from me. Yet oh, if you knew all I have suffered. Mam-
ma, mamma, oh, speak but one word more of kindness ! I
know 1 deserve it not, but my heart feels breaking. I have
no other friend on earth but you j oh, call me but your child
again, mother !"
Her voice utterly failed, a film suddenly obscured her sight,
and a sense of suffocation rose in her throat ; the misery of
the last ten days, the wretchedness and excitement of that day
had deprived her of more strength than she was at all aware
of, and with one convulsive effort to clasp her mother's hand
to her throbbing heart, she sunk exhausted at her feet Em-
meline would have flowBffor assistance, but a look from her
mother bade her pause, and she remained with Ellen to seek
those restoratives that were at hand. With a throbbing heart
and trembling hand, Mrs. Hamilton raised her repentant
child, and with the assistance of Emmeline placed her tenderly
on the nearest couch, endeavoring, though for some few minutes
in vain, to recall her scattered senses. Tears fell from that
fond mother's eyes upon Caroline's deathlike features, and ere
THE mother's EEOOMFENSE. 15^
life reiarned she had been pressed again and again to her heart,
and repeated kisses imprinted on her marble brow. It mattered
not at that moment that she had been deceived, that Caroline
had withdrawn alike her confidence and affection, that her
conduct the last few months had been productive of bitter dis-
appointment and extreme anguish, all, all, was forgotten ; the
mother only knew her child was suffering only felt she was
restored to her arms ; again and again she kissed her erring
child, beseeching her with fond and gentle words to wake and
know she was forgiven.
Slowly Caroline recovered consciousness, and unclosing her
eyes, gazed wildly yet sadly on all by whom she was surround-
ed. All the father had struggled with Mr. Hamilton, as he
stood by her side during the continuance of her swoon ; but
now sternness again darkened his brow, and he would have
given vent to his wounded feelings in severe though just re-
proaches, but the beseeching glance, the agonized voice of his
wife arrested him.
" Arthur, my husband, oh, for my sake, spare her now !"
she passionately exclaimed, clasping his hand in hers, and look-
ing up in his face with imploring earnestness. '' Spare her, at
least, till from her own lips we have heard all ; she is in no
state to bear anger now, however deserved. Arthur, dearest
Arthur, oh, do not reproach her till we know what it is that
has caused the wretchedness, the suffering we behold ! For
my sake, spare her now."
" Mother," murmured the unhappy girl, with a powerful
effort rising from the couch, and flinging herself on Mrs. Ham-
ilton's nec]^ " do not plead for me ; I do not deserve it My
conduct to you the last few months would alone demand the
severest reproa ihes papa could inflict ; and that, oh, that is
but little to the crime I should have committed, had not the
remembrance of all your devotion rushed to my mind, and ar-
rested me, but a few brief hours ere it would have been too
late, and I should have sacrificed myself to a man I discovered
I did not love, merely to prove I wag not a slave to your dic-
tates, that I had a will of my own, and with or without your
consent would abide by it. I have been infatuated, blind
led on by artful persuasion, false representations, and weakly
I have yielded. Do not weep for me, Emmeline, I am not
worthy of your tears. You would have guided me aright;
you would have warned me, advised me, but I rejected yout
counsel, spurned your affection ; with contempt^ aNeik\Q^ ixoia
160 THE MOTHERS RfiCOHPENSB.
all, from each, do I deserve to be regarded. Ellen, yon maj
triumph now ; I did sdl I could to prove how I hated and des-
?i8ed you some months s^o, and now, oh, how mnch more have
fallen. Oh, why, why did I ever leave Oakwood 7 why was
I so eager to visit London 1" Exhaustion choked her Toice,
the vehemence with which bhe had spoken OTerpowered her,
and her mother w^ compelled to lead her to a conch, and force
her to sit down beside her. Mr. Hamilton spoke not ; for a
few minutes he paced the room with agitated steps, and then
hastily quitted it.
" It is so very late, you had better retire, my dear girls."
Mrs. Hamilton said, after a brief pause, addressing Emmeline
and Ellen, who yet lingered sorrowfully near her. They un-
derstood her hint, and instantly obeyed, both affectionately but
silently embracing Caroline ere they departed ; and it was a
relief to Mrs. Hamilton's anxious bosom to find herself alone
with her painfully repentant child. For some time did that
interview continue ; and when Caroline retired to rest, it w&J
with a spirit lighter than it had been for many weeks, spite of
the dark clouds she still felt were aroud her. All her strange
wayward feelings had been confessed. She laid no stress on
tho;^e continued letters she had received from Annie, which had
from the first alienated her from her mother. Kemorse was
too busy within to bid her attempt to defend herself by incul-
pating others ; but though she carefully avoided reference to
her misleading friend, Mrs. Hamilton could easily, very easily,
perceive from whose arts all her own misery and Caroline's
present suffering originated ; and bitterly in secret she re
proached herself for ever permitting that intimacy to continue,
and obtain the influence it had. To Lord St. Eval and her
conduct to him the unhappy girl also referred. Pride was
completely at an end ; every question Mrs. Hamilton asked
was answered with all that candor and integrity which had
once characterized her most trifling words ; and while her un-
disguised confession on many points occasioned the most
poignant sorrow, yet still, as the mother listened, and gazed on
those expressive features, something whispered within her that
her child would be a blessing still. She owned that from the
moment she had rejected Lord St. Eval, regret had become so
unceasing, that to escape it she had listened and encouraged
Lord Alphingham more than she had done before ; his profes-
siond of devoted love had appeared as balm, and deadened the
repi oaohes of conscience. Why she had so carefully concealed
THE mother's recompense. 161
from her parents that which she imagined was love for the
Visoount she could not explain, unless it was her weakness in
following the example of others, who, she had been told, shrunk
from confessing love-stories to their mothers ; or, and that Mrs.
Hamilton believed much nearer the real reason, she did not
love him sufficiently to implore their consent to his addresses.
She acknowledged, when their prohibition to her acquaintance
with him was given, she had longed to confess the truth, and
implore them at least to say why she might no longer enjoy
his society ; but that she had felt too indignant at what she
deemed the slavery in which she was held, and discontent and
irritation then took possession of her, instead of willing obedi-
ence. She described her feelings when he appeared at Airslie,
the many struggles she then had with herself ; and, finally, her
wretchedness from the moment she had consented to be his
wife ; her entreaties that he would permit her to implore her
father's consent ; her agony the same evening ; her fervent
prayer for forgiveness and guidance ; and, at length, her de-
termination to elude him by setting off for home the instant
the Duchess and her party had left the villa, which inten-
tion she had endeavored to put in force by imploring the assis-
tance and secrecy of her Grace's own maid, to procure her a
safe carriage and fleet horses, as she was compelled to return^
home that same night ; she would leave a note, she said, ex-
plaining her reason for her departure to her Grace. She fan-
cied Allison must have betrayed her, as, when she was every
minute expecting to hear the carriage was ready, the Duchess
entered her room, and, after a brief but stern interview, order-
ed her own carriage, and had herself accompanied her to town
Mrs. Hamilton listened to this long sad tale without inter-
rupting it by a word of reproach. Not once did she speak
aught that might tend to increase the anguish under which it
was so evident Caroline was suffering. Soothingly she spoke,
and that fond yet saddened tone caused the poor girl's burst-
ing heart to find relief in a violent flood of tears. She clung,
even as in childhood, to her mother's neck, and as she wept,
felt yet more bitterly the infatuated folly of her conduct in
having for a moment forsaken the guidance -of her true and
kindest friend, for the apparently more pleasing, because flat-
tering, confidence of one whom she now knew to be false and
utterly deceiving.
" But may he not still claim me !" she wildly ^^CiWvKi^^.
''Will he not hold me up to the world as afait\iles^,ca?^TWAO\i^
162 THE mother's BB00MFEN8E.
1
girl ? I shall be the laughing-stock of all with whom we assOi
ciate. Annie is not likely to keep my secret Oh, why did
I ever confide in her 1 Mother, I shall be despised, derided.
I know I have brought it on myself, but oh, how can I bear it?'^
" We leave London so very shortly, that I trust you will
not be exposed to the derision you so much dread," replied
Mrs. Hamilton, soothingly, '^and by next season I hope aU
floating rumors that your conduct must occasion may have en
tirely passed away. You need not fear the scorn of the circle in
which we principally mingle ; and that of Annie's companions,
if the dread of their laughter keep you from seeking, as yo8
have done, their society, forgive me, my love, if I say I shall
rejoice ; for you will then no longer be exposed to examnle and
precept contrary to those I have endeavored to instil."
" But, Lord Alphingham, what will he say or do ?" mur*
mured Caroline, almost inaudible.
" You must write to him, Caroline, dissolving your engage-
ment ; there is no other way."
" Write to him, mother, I oh, no, no, I cannot."
" If you do not, you will still be exposed to constant an-
noyance ; he may choose to believe that you were forced by
compulsion to return to us. The circumstance of the Duchess
herself accompanying you to town, he will consider as suffi-
cient evidence. Acting on your promise, on your avowed pre-
ference, unless you write yourself, he will leave no means un-
tried to succeed in his sinful schemes. Painful as is the task,
or rather more disagreeable than painful if you do not love
him, no one but yourself must write, and the sooner you do so
the better."
" But if he really loves me? How can I ^how dare I inflict
more pain, more disappointment, than I have done already?"
" Loves you !" repeated Mrs. Hamilton, and displeasure
mingled in her saddened tone ; " Caroline, do not permit your-
self to be thus egregiously deceived. He may fancy that he
does, but it is no true honorable love ; if it were, would he
thus bear you by stealth from the friend to whom you were
intrusted ? If his conscience were indeed free from all stain,
would he have refused your entreaties that you might confess
your love to us, and beseech our blessing on Jour union?
Would he have shrunk from defending his conduct according
to your advice ? Nay, more ; if this accusation, which he has
traced by some means to Percy, were indeed unfounded and
umjusbj do jou, think he would have refrained one mom^^
THE MOTHfiK's RfieOlIPBNSE. 1:63
frwn ooming forward and asserting, not only by word but by
proof, his unblemished innocence 1 His silence is to me the
dearest proof of conduct that will not bear investigation ; and
I tremble to think what miseries, what wretchedness might
have been your portion, had you indeed consented to his un-
worthy proposal" Her voice faltered, and she drew the still
weeping girl closer to her, as if her maternal love should pro-
tect her from every evil. Caroline answered not, and after a
few minutes Mrs. Hamilton said, with tenderness
" You do not repent your decision, my own child ? You do
iiot regret that you have returned to those who love and cher-
ish you so fondly ? Speak to me, love."
Convulsively Caroline's hand pressed her mother's, as if
that pressure should say nothing more should part them ; then
suddenly sinking on her knees before her, she forced back the
choking sobs, aud said, clearly and distinctly
" Mother, I dare no longer ask you to believe my simple
word, as in former years you would have done, I have deceived
you too long, too culpably for that ; but now, on my knees, sol-
emnly, sacredly I swear, I will never marry without papa's and
your consent. I dare no longer trust myself; I have once
been rendered blind by that sinful craving for freedom from
all authority, for unchecked independence of thought and word
and deed, and never, never more will I stand forth in my own
weakness. My fate is in your hands, for never will I marry
without your blessing; and may that vow be registered
above as solemnly as it is now taken. Mother, you will not
refuse to accept it," she added, laying her trembling hand on
Mrs. Hamilton's, and gazing beseechingly in her face.
" I will not, my chUd ;" and her mother struggled severely
to conquer her emotion and speak calmly. " Tell me only it
is in my affection you confide, that it is not under feelings of
remorse alone you have made this solemn vow. Promise n^
you will no longer permit a doubt of my affection and interest
in your happiness to enter your mind and poison your confi-
dence in me, as it has done. From that doubt all the present
misery has proceeded. You have imagined your parents harsh
and cruel, while they have only thought of your welfare. Say
only you will* trust in our affection, my child, my own Caroline."
" Oh, that I had ever trusted in it. My blindness and folly
concealed from me my misconduct, and bade me ascribe all my
sufferings to you, on whom I have inflicted so muoli "^%wi.
M!other oh^ forgive me, plead for me to papa. 1 ^lho^ V^ "^
I
l64 THE MOTHER'S RECOMPENSE.
geriously displeased, he has every right to be so ; but he knows
not all I have endured, the agony of the last week. I deserve
his severest reproaches, but my heart feels as if it would break
beneath his anger now," and she laid her aching head on her
mother's lap, and wept.
" My forgiveness, my blessing, are both yours, my own:
Do not weep thus," replied Mrs. Hamilton, imprinting a kiss
on that burning forehead. " And your father too, when he has
heard all, will not withhold his love."
" I will write to Lord Alphingham now, mother ; it is use-
less to defer it, and my mind will not regain its peace till it is
done," exclaimed Caroline, after a brief pause, which had fol-
lowed her mother's words.
" Not now, my love, you are too agitated still," replied her
mother, gazing anxiously on her flushed cheek ; " wait till sleep
shall have calmed this inward fever, and restored you to com-
posure. I do not think you can write it now."
" I cannot sleep till I have, mamma, indeed I cannot I
ought to have left it for him before I quitted Airslie, but I
could then think of nothing but the ardent longing to see you,
to hear your voice again ; let me write now."
And believing her words were true, that in all probability
she would not sleep while that letter was on her mind, Mrs.
Hamilton made no further objection, and rose to place the ink-
stand and portfolio on a table near her. Caroline remained
still kneeling, and by her attitude Mrs. Hamilton fancied was
engaged in secret prayer ; her tears were checked as she rose,
and it was with firmness she walked to the table and drew a
seat beside it. Anxiously for a few minutes did her mother
watch her as she wrote. At first her hand appeared to trem
ble, but a successful effort conquered that emotion, and the in-
creasing flush upon her cheek alone proclaimed the agitation
of her mind. So deeply was she engrossed in her painful task,
that she did not observe her mother had left the room, and re-
mained absent for a few minutes, returning, however, before
she had finished her letter. Without looking up, she placed
the paper in Mrs. Hamilton's hands, and, leaning her arms on
the table, buried her face in her hands.
Mrs. Hamilton folded the letter in perfect silence; but
then taking the hand of her daughter from her eyes, she
pressed it in hers, and said, in a voice of deep emotion
'^ I am satisfied, my child. Let this letter be directed and
002ed with jour own hand, and the name of Lord Alphingham
THE mother's JLSDOMPENSEf t65
shall never again pass my lips. It is enough that duty and
affection have triumphed oyer his intentions. I know not all
ihe evil that might have been yours had he succeeded, but you
are restored to me, and may God forgive him as freely as I do."
With a steady hand Caroline directed and placed her own
seal to the letter ; and then, exhausted by the agitation of that
evening, she leaned her throbbing head against her mother.
^ Caroline, my child !" exclaimed a deep aud saddened roioe
beside her. She started, and looking up, beheld her father,
who had been gazing at her an unobserved spectator for the
last half hour.
Foigive me, dearest father. Oh, let me not sleep to-night
without your forgiveness. Mamma will not cast me from her
heart ; she has blessed me, and I have injured her even more
than you. Papa, dear papa, oh, speak to me but one word of
fondness !" she entreated, as her father drew her to his bosom,
and as she ceased, mingled his blessing and forgiveness in that
warm embrace.
It was late, so late, that the early mom was beginning to
gild the horizon before Mrs. Hamilton had seen her agitated
child placed in bed, and persuaded her to compose her spirits
and invite sleep. Fondly her mother watched beside her till
the gray dawn had penetrated within the room ; and then per-
ceiving that calm sleep had come at length, she retired to her
own apartment. There sinking on her knees, her overcharged
heart found blessed relief in pouring forth to Heaven its fer-
vent thanksgiving for that great mercy vouchsafed her in the
restoration of her child. The anguish of the past, the suffer-
ing of the present were alike forgotten, in the thought that
Caroline's affection and confidence were again restored to her.
The veil had at length been removed from her eyes. Annie's
character was revealed before her, and the sorrowful and re-
pentant girl had once more sought for sympathy in the bosom
of her mother. She now felt that mother was her truest friend,
and a glow of sweet and soothing pleasure stole over Mrs.
Hamilton's mind at this conviction. Caroline had said it was
the recollection of her mother's care, devotion, and love that
had stayed her, ere it was too late She could not banish from
her heart the duty therein So long and carefully implanted ;
the principles of religion, of virtue, shaken as they had been in
that painful moment of indecision, had preserved her from
misery. Often, very often, Mrs. Hamilton had felt d\\i^^TV
ened, almost deapairlng in her task, during bot\i t\i^ e\vA.^QQ^
166 THE UOTBESJS &SCOICPERSS.
and youth of Caroline. b*it iivw ber recompense was apparniii
Had she not persevered ; had she been indolent or careless in
the discharge of her duty, had she left the care of that child to
strangers, who would never have thus studied or guided m
difficult a disposition, there would have been naught to bid her
pause. She would have done as others too often do, and fea^
ful indeed would have been her chastisement. Now, what
were all Mrs. Hamilton's self-conquering struggles, all the pain
she had suffered, compared with the exquisite happiness A
feeling that her care had preserved her child, and she knew
not as yet from what depth of wretchedness ? Fervent was
the gratitude for that grace which had permitted her to guide
her child aright ; and as she recalled the heartfelt approbation
of her conduct, which her beloved husband had gratefully ex-
pressed, happiness filled her heart, and many, very many might
have envied that noble Woman her feelings, as she laid her
head on her pillow that night, when sleep only hushed the still
lingering thanksgiving on her lips.
It may be well here briefly to relate all that had passed at
Airslie, from the moment we left Caroline implorimg pardon
and guidance from Him, to whom she had never appealed in
vain, to that when she so suddenly appeared in company with
the Duchess in Berkeley Square. To accede to Lord Alphing-
ham's wishes, she felt was no longer possible, but how to avoid
him was a matter of still greater difficulty. To accompany the
Duchess and thus elude him, she could not, for she felt neither
her strength nor spirits could sustain her through the whole of
that festive night. Each minute as it passed increased the
fever of her brain, at length in despair she determined on the
conduct with which we are already acquainted. As soon as
the last carriage had rolled from the door she summoned Alli-
son, the Duchess's own maid, and in accents that painfully
betrayed the agitation within, implored her to procure her a
carriage and fleet horses, as circumstances had occurred which
obliged her instantly to return to town. She besought her
neither to question her nor to speak of her sudden resolution
to any one, as the note she would leave behind for her Grace
would fully explain all. Allison remained for some few
minutes gazing on the agitated girl, in motionless astonish-
ment.
" Return to London at such a time of night, and alone,"
she rather allowed to drop from her lips than said, after a long
paase.
THE mother's RECOMPraffiE. 167
^ Oh, would to heaven some one would go with me ! bat I
know none whom I can ask,'' Caroline replied, in a toDe of
anguish, and seiziug Allison's hand, again and again implored
her assistance. Briefly she promised to do all she could for
her, and left her, not to do her bidding by seeking some oon
veyanoe, but to report the strange request and still more
alarming manner of Caroline to her Grace ; who from some
secret reason, which her daughters and friends in vain endear-
ered to solve, had at the very last iaoment declared her intention
of not accompanying them, and wishing them, with the utmost
kindness, a pleasant evening, commissioned Lady Lucy and
her eldest brother, who had lately joined them, to supply her
place in their own party, and to tender her excuses to the noble
master of the/d^e. The simple truth was, that the penetration
of the Duchess had observed and detected from the very first
the manoeuvres of Lord Alphingham and Caroline.
The former, as may have already been discovered, was one
of those against whom her prejudice was very strong. With
her own free will, Lord Alphingham would never have visited
at her house, although she was never heard to breathe one
word to his disadvantage ; especially invited he never was, and
in heart she was much annoyed at her husband's marked pre-
ference and encouragement of his society. She had observed
her friend Mrs. Hamilton's coldness towards him ; and as
much as she admired the conduct of the mother, so she some-
times found herself mistrusting the studied air and guarded
reserve with which Caroline ever treated the Viscount. The
sudden change in Mr. Hamilton's manner had also struck her,
and, therefore, when Alphingham joined her coterie, not once
did she ever fail in the jealous watchfulness with which she
regarded him and Caroline. Bendered suspicious by all that
she had observed, Caroline's determination not to join the
party that evening had increased her uneasiness to a degree
that almost amounted to alarm, and at that very instant her
resolution was fixed to remain at Airslie. She desired Allison
not to mention her intention of remaining to Miss Hamilton,
but to inform her minutely of all that passed during the
evening; and her astonishment was almost as great as her
domesitic's had been when Caroline's desire was related to her.
It wanted but one-half hour to the time appointed by the
Viscount, and Caroline still sat in a state of anxiety and sus-
pense, which tortured her almost to frenzy. XJnaVAe Vo \^^t \\
longer, her hand was on the hell once more to auiomoTv K)X\^q^^
168 THE mother's recompense.
when the lock of the door turned, and- starting forwards, the
words, " Is all ready ^hare you succeeded?" were arrested on
her lips by the appearance of the Duchess herself, who, closing
the door, stood gazing on the terrified girl with a glance of
severity and command few could have met unmoved. Scarcely
conscious of what she did, Caroline started^ back, and sinking
on a stool at the farthest end of the room covered her face wi^
her hands.
^' May I know with what intent Miss Hamilton is about to
withdraw" herself from my roof and my protection ?" she de-
manded, in those brief yet searching tones she ever used when
displeased. ^' What reason she can allege for this unceremo-
nious departure from a house where she has ever been regarded
as one of its most favored inmates? Your mother trusted
you to my care, and on your duty to her I demand an answer."
She continued, after a brief pause, in which Caroline neither
moved nor spoke, '' Where would you go at this unseasonable
hour ?"
" Home to my mother," murmured the unhappy girl, in a
voice almost inarticulate.
" Home !" repeated her Grace, in a bitterly satirical tone.
'^ Strange, that you should thus suddenly desire to return.
Were you not the child of those to whom equivocation is un-
known, I might well doubt that tale ; ^home, and wherefore ?"
" To save myself from the effects of my own sinful folly
my own infatuated madness," replied Caroline summoning with
a strong effort all the energy of her character, and with a ve-
hemence that flushed her palid cheek with crimson. '^ In this
at least I am sincere, though in all else I deserve no longer to
be regarded as the child of such noble-minded beings as are my
parents. Spurn me from you as you will, this is no moment
for equivocation and delay. I have deceived your Grace. I
was about to bring down shame upon your house, to cause your
indignant displeasure, my parents anguish, myself but endless,
remorseful misery. To save all this, I would return home to
implore the forgiveness, the protection of my parents ; they
alone can guard me from myself Oh, if you ever loved my
mother," she continued, starting up with agony, as the hour of
nine chimed on her ear, " send some one with me, and let me go
home. Half an hour more," and her voice grew almost inar-
ticulate with suppressed emotion, " and it may be too late.
Motherj mother, if I could but see you once again !"
^' Be fore f as the wife or theNvctvmof the Right Honorable
THE mother's kecohpense. 169
Lord AlpMngham, you fly from her for ever, and thus reward
her cares, her love, ner prayers, wretched and deceiving girl,"
sternly and slowly the Duchess said, as she rapidly yet with
her usual majesty paced the room, and laid her hand heavily
on Caroline's shoulder, as she sat bowed down with shame be-
fore her. " Deny it not ; it was thus you would bring down
shame on my home ; thus create agony for your devoted pa-
rents ; thus prove your gratitude, love, obedience, by wrench-
kig every tie asunder. Oh, shame, shame ! If this be the fruit
of such tender cares, such careful training, oh, where shall we
seek for honor and integrity ^in what heart find virtue r And
why not consummate your sin ? why pause ere your noble and
vi'rtuous resolution was put in force ? why hesitate in the ac-
complishment of your designs ? Why not fly with your honor-
able lover, and- thus wring the fond nearts of your parents at
once to the utmost ? Why retract now, when it will be only to
"delude again ? Miserable and deluded girl, what new wnim
has caused this sudden change? Wherefore wait till it be too
late to repent ^to persuade us that you are an unwilling abet-
tor and assistant in this man's schemes ? Go, fly w'^th him ; it
were better to reconcile your too indulgent mother to an eternal
separation, than that she should take you once more to her
heart, and be again deceived. Go, your secret is safe. How
dare you speak of inflicting misery on your parents ? Must not
hypocrisy lurk in every word, when wilfully, recklessly^ you
have already abused their confidence and insulted their love 1
much more you cannot do." She paused, as if in expectation
of a reply, but none came. Caroline's breaking heart had lost
that proud spirit whijeh, a few days before, would have called a
haughty answer from her lips. She writhed beneath those
stern unpitying accents, which perhaps in such a moment of
remorseful agony might have been spared, but she replied not ;
and, after a brief silence, the Duchess again spoke.
'^ Caroline, answer mo. What has caused this sudden
change in your intentions ? What has chanced between you
and Lord Alphingham to demand this sudden longing for
home ? What impulse bids you thus elude him !"
" The memory of my mother's love," and Caroline raised
her head, and pushing back her disordered hair, gazed upon the
face of the Duchess with an expression of suffering few could
have looked upon unmoved. " You are right, I have deceived
my too indulgent parents, I have abused their coxi^^exiCi^^ W
BiUted their love / hut I cannot, oh, I cannot siiW t\ioft^ wvxl*
8
170 THE mother's recompense.
ciples within me which they have implanted. In my houro of
maddening folly I remembered them not ; I believed they had
gone from me for ever, and I should be happy. They have re-
turned to torture me, to tell me that as the wife of Lord
Alphingham, without the blessing of my parents, I shall be
wretched. I have brought down endless misery on myself
that mattf i-s not ; but oh, I will not cause them further suffer-
ing. I will no longer wring the heart of my gentle mother,
who has so often prayed for her erring child. Too late, per-
haps, I have determined, but the wife of Lord Alphingham I
will never be ; but his character is still dear to me^ and I en-
treat your Grace not to withdraw your favor from him. He
alone is not to blame, I also am culpable, for I acknowledge
the encouragement I have given him. My character for in-
tegrity is gone, but his is still unstained."
" Fear not for him, my favor he has never had ; but my
honor is too dear to me for such an affair as this to pass my
lips. Let him continue the courted, the spoiled, the flattered
child of fashion he has ever been. I regard him not. Let him
run his course rejoicing, it matters not to me." She rang the
bell as she spoke, and slowly and silently paced the room till
Allison obeyed the summons. "Desire James to put four
swift horses to the chariot. Important business calls me in-
stantly to London ; bid him use dispatch, every moment is
precious."
Allison departed, and the Duchess continued pacing the
apartment till she returned, announcing the carriage as ready.
A very few minutes sufficed for their personal preparations, for
the Duchess to give peremptory orders to her trusty Allison
to keep her departure a profound secret, as she should return
before her guests were stirring the next morning, and herself
account for Miss Hamilton's sudden return home. Few words
were sufficient for Allison, who was in all respects well fitted
for the situation she held near a person of the Duchess of
Rothbury*s character; and the carriage rolled rapidly from
Airslie.
Not another word passed between the travelling compan-
ions. In feverish agitation on the part of Caroline, in cold,
unbending sternness on that of the Duchess, their journey
passed. To the imagination of the former, the roll of the
carriage-wheels was the sound of pursuing horses ; in every
turn of the road her fevered fancy beheld the figure of Lord
Alphingham : at one time glaTing on her in reproachful hitter*
THE mother's recompense. 171
ness. at another, in mockery, derision, satire ; and when she
elosed her eyes, those visions still tormented, nor did they de*
part till she felt her mother's arm around her, her gentle voice
pronounce her name.
True to her determination, the Duchess left London as
early as six the following day, and, as usual, was the first within
the breakfast-room, and little could her friends imagine that
since they had left her the preceding evening she had made a
loumey to London and back. Caroline's indisposition, which
had been evident for several days, although she had not com-
plained tin the day before, easily accounted for her return
home, although the exact time of her doing so was known to
none save her Grace herself ; and even, if surprise had been
created, it would speedily have passed away in the whirl of
amusements which surrounded them. But the courted, the
admired, the fascinating Viscount no longer joined the festive
group. His friend Sir Walter Courtenay accounted for and
excused his absence, by stating that Lord Alphingham had
received a disagreeable letter from an agent of his in Scotland,
which demanded his instant presence ; that he intended pas-
sing through London, thence proceed to the North, where, in
all probability, he should await the hunting season, being en-
gaged to join a large circle of noble friends.
It would be useless to linger on the impotent fury of Lord
Alphingham when he discovered his well-conceived plans were
utterly frustrated, and that his intended victim had eluded
him, under the stern guardianship of the Duchess of Rothbury.
In the first bitter moment of disappointment, he refused to
accuse Caroline of any share in it, but believed their plans had
been, by some unforeseen circumstance, discovered, and she
had been'forced to return home. If such were the case, he
vowed to withdraw her from such galling slavery ; he swore
by some means to make her his own. But when her letter
reached him, when he had perused its contents, and marked
that not one word gave evidence of agitation of mind or un-
steadiness of purpose, the current of his feelings changed. He
cursed his own mad folly for thus seeking one, in whom from
the first he might have seen there was no spirit, no quality
suited to be his partner in a fashionable world ; he vowed to
think no more of a weak, capricious fool, so he now termed the
girl he had fancied that he loved. As may readilv be imagin-
ed, he felt his self-love very deeply wounded \^ tke eom^^\ft
tmstTHtjon of hiB intentions, and being incapable oi ^"5^^^^^^^^^
172 THE mother's recompense.
the better principles which had fortunately actuated the resolTV
of Caroline, a spirit of revenge entered his heart. He chrush-
ed the letter in his hand, and paced the room in furj, and
would have torn it to atoms, when the thought struck him,
that by enclosing the letter to the confidant and adviser of his
plans regarding Caroline, he might save himself the mortifi-
cation of relating his defeat, and revenge himself efectually
by exposing her to ridicule and contempt.
He wrote therefore a few concise lines, regretting, in a
slightly satirical style, that Miss Grahame should have been so
deceived with regard to the views and feelings of her friend Miss
Hamilton, and referring her to the enclosed letter for all further
explanation.
Annie received the packet at the time she was in daily
expectation of the triumph of her schemes, the gratification of
her dislike for the being whose gentle admonitions she so much
resented, which had been dictated by Mrs. Hamilton's wish to
increase the happiness of her parents and herself Lord
Alphingham had regularly informed her of all his intentions,
and though Caroline had for some time entirely ceased to write,
yet she suspected nothing like defeat. Already she secretly
indulged in triumph, already anticipated the moment when
every malignant wish would be fulfilled, and she should see the
proud, cold, disdainful Mrs. Hamilton bowed down beneath the
conduct of her child, humbled to. the dust by the reflections
which would be cast upon her when the elopement of Caroline
should be made public ; at that very time the letter of Lord
Alphingham arrived, and told her of defeat, complete, irreme-
diable. Scorn, bitter scorn curled her lip, as she glanced over
Caroline's epistle, thus dishonorably transmitted for her perusal
Severe disappointment was for the time her portion, and yet,
amid all these violent emotions, attendant on one of her dispO'
sition, there was one of a very different nature mingling with
them, one that, while she resolved if she could not mortify
Mrs. Hamilton as she had intended, she would yet do so by
insinuations against Caroline's character, whenever she had an
opportunity ; would bid her rejoice, strangely rejoice, that she
was not the wife of Lord Alphingham, that he was still free.
While she looked forward to that letter announcing the union
of the Viscount and Caroline, as placing the finai seal on her
triumphant schemes, we may well doubt if even that enjoyment,
the exultations in the sufferings of another, would have stilled
(he anguish of her own heart, and permitted her to triumph
THE hothek's eeoomfense. 173
she intended to have done, when the man she loved was
the husband of another. It was even so, though rendered by
prejudice almost insensible to anything but her hatred of Mrs.
Hamilton.
Annie had not associated so intimately with Lord Alphing-
ham without feeling the efect of his many fascinations ; and,
therefore, though both provoked and disappointed at this un-
looked-for failure of her schemes, she was better enabled to
overcome them. Resolving to leave her designs against the
peace of Caroline and her mother henceforth to chance^ all her
energies were now put in action for the attainment of one
grand object, to so work upon the disappointed Viscount as
herself to take the place in his favor which Caroline had occu-
pied. Her reply to his letter, which he had earnestly requested
might enclose Caroline's, and be forwarded to him in London,
was guarded, but artfully tending to inflame his indignation
against Caroline; suppressing her own opinion on the subject,
and exciting admiration of herself, and perhaps gratitude for
her untiring sympathy in his welfare, which she ably contrived
should breathe despondingly throughout. As that important
afair, she added, wa^ thus unhappUy over, their correspondence
she felt ought to cease, and she oegged Lord Alphingham
would write to her no more. She had braved remark when
the happiness of two in whom she was so deeply interested was
at stake ; but as in that she had been disappointed, pain as it
was for her to be the one to check a correspondence which
could not fail to give her pleasure, being with one so enlight-
ened, and in every way so superior as Lord Alphingham, she
insisted that no more letters should pass between them. She
gained her point ; the Viscount wondered how he could ever
be 80 blind as to prefer Caroline to her, and her words added
weight to his resolution, to annoy the former by devoted atten-
tions to Miss Grahame, and if it suited his interests, make the
latter his wife.
The interviews Lord Alphingham contrived to have with
Miss Grahame, before he retired to Scotland, which he did not
do for a fortnight after his rejection, strengthened the inten-
tions of both. The Viscount found new charms in the reserve
and agitation which now marked Annie's behavior, in the
faint voice and well-concealed intelligence, that however she
might sympathise in his vexation, for herself she could not
regret his freedom. All this, though they were scarcely ever
alone, formed a perfect understanding between them, and
174 THE mother's recompense.
quickly banished the image of Caroline from the yain and ficklo-
minded Alphingham.
Wishing to keep up her pretended friendship for Caroline,
that she might the more effectually wound her, and not be*
lieving the sentiments of the misguided girl were changed to-
wards her also, Annie called at Berkeley Square a very few
days after Caroline's return, and she had become acquainted
with all that had passed. No one was visible in the drawing-
room ; the young men, she knew, had both arrived from col-
lege, but the house was destitute of that air of cheerfulnesif
and glee which generally attended their return. Some little
time she waited with impatient displeasure, which did not les-
son when, on hearing the door open, she beheld not Caroline
but Mrs. Hamilton herself, her cheek pale, as if from some in-
ternal suffering, but with even more than her wonted dignity
both in mien and step, and for a moment Annie struggled in
vain to speak with the eagerness with which she intended to
have inquired for Caroline ; before the mild yet penetrating
glance of Mrs. Hamilton even her self-possession appeared
about to abandon her. She felt lowered, humbled in her pres-
ence, and it was this, perhaps, this very sense of inferiority,
which had ever heightened dislike.
Mildly, yet coldly and briefly, Mrs, Hamilton answered
Miss Grahame's torrent of questions and regrets which fol-
lowed her information, that Caroline was not well enough to
see any one but her own family, and that, as they left London
some little time sooner than they had originally intended, she
had begged her mother to tender her farewell. Annie expressed
excessive sorrow, but no effort on either side was made to pro-
long this interview, and it was very quickly over. Annie re-
turned home dissatisfied and angry, determining to make one
attempt more ; and if that failed, she thought she could as
successfully wound by inuendoes and ridicule, should mere
acquaintance take the place of intimate friendship.
Miss Grahame accordingly wrote in a truly heroic and
highly-phrased style, regretting, sympathizing, and encourag-
ing ; but the answer, though guardedly worded, told her too
plainly all her influence was over.
" I am not strong enough," wrote Caroline, " yet to argue
with you, or defend my conduct, as I feel sure I should be
compelled to do, did we meet now. I find, too late, that on
many points we differ so completely, that the confidential in-
tercouraej which has hitherto been ours, must henceforth be at
THE mother's recomfeniie. 175
an end. Forgive me, dear Annie, if it grieves you to read
these words ; believe me, it is painful to me to write them.
But now that my feelings on so many important subjects have
been changed now that the blinding film has been mercifully
removed from my eyes, and I see the whole extent of my sin-
ful folly, I cannot hope to find the same friend in you. Too
late, for my peace, I have discovered that our principles of duty
are directly opposite. I blame you not for what I am, for the
suffering I am still enduring, no, for that I alone have caused ;
but your persuasions, your representations heightened the evil,
strengthened me in my sinful course. You saw my iblly, and
worked on it, by sowing the seeds of mistrust and dislike to-
wards my parents. I was a passive tool in your hands, and
you endeavored to mould me according to your notions of hap-
piness. I thank you for all the interest you have thus ende;iv-
ored to prove for me. You cannot regret withdrawing it, now
I have in your eyes proved myself so undeserving. This is
the last confidential letter I shall ever write, save to her who
is indeed my best, my truest, most indulgent friend on earth ;
but before I entirely conclude, the love, the friendship, I have
felt for you compels me to implore you to pause in your career.
Oh, Annie, do not follow up those principles you would have in-
stilled in me ; do not, oh, as you^ value future innocence and
peace, do not let them be your guide in life j you will find
them hollow, vain, and false. Pause but for one moment, and
reflect. Can there be happiness without virtue, peace without
integrity ? Is there pleasure without truth 1 W as deception
productive of felicity to me 1 Oh, no, no. That visit to Lon-
don, that introduction in the gay world, to which I looked for-
ward with so much joy, the retrospection of which I hoped
would have enlivened Oakwood, oh, what does it present ? A
dreary waste of life, varied only by remorse. Had my career
been yours, you would perhaps have looked on it differently ;
but I cannot. Oh, Annie, once more, I beseech, let not such
principles actuate your future conduct ; they are wrong, they
will lead to misery here, and what preparation are they for
eternity 1
" Farewell, and may God bless you ! We shall not, per-
haps, meet again till next season, and then it cannot be as we
have parted. An interest in your welfare I shall ever feel, but
intimacy must be at an end between us.
" Carolinb,"
176 THE mother's recompeuss^
CHAPTER VIII.
There was a dark lowering frown obscuring the noble and
usually open brow of the young heir of Oakwood, and undis-
guised anger visible in every feature and every :novement, as
he paced the library with disordered steps, about ten days
after the events wo have recorded, and three since his return
from college. He had crossed his arms on his chest, which
was swelling with the emotion he was with difficulty repress-
ing, and his tall, elegant figure appeared to increase in height
beneath his indignant, and, in this case, just displeasure.
Caroline's depression had not decreased since her brother's
arrival. She felt she had been unjust to Percy, and a degree
of coldness which had appeared at first in his conduct towards
her, occasioned, though she knew it not, by her rejection of
his friend St. Eval, which he believed was occasioned by her
love of Alphingham, whom he fancied she &till continued to
regard with an eye of favor ; both these causes created reserve
and distance between the brother and sister, in lieu of that
cordiality which had hitherto subsisted between them.
Percy had not been aware of all that had passed between
the Viscount and Caroline till that morning, when Emmeline,
hoping to soften his manner towards her sister, related, with
all her natural eloquence, the Viscount's conduct, and the
triumph of duty which Caroline had achieved. That he had
even asked her of his father, Percy knew not till then, and it
was this intelligence bursting on him at once which called
forth such violent anger. Emmeline had been summoned
away before she had time to note the startling effects of her
words ; but Herbert did, and though he was unacquainted
with the secret cause of his brother's dislike towards Lord Al-
phingham, he .endeavored by gentle eloquence to pacify and
turn him from his purpose, at which he trembled.
" The villain, the cold-blooded, despicable villain !" mut-
tered Percy at intervals, as he continued his hurried pace,
without heeding, perhaps not hearing, Herbert's persuasive
accents. " To act thus foully to play thus on the unguarded
feelings of a weak, at least, unsophisticated, unsuspecting girl
to gain her love, to destine her to ruin and shame, the heart*
less miscreant ! Oh, that my promise prevented not my ex
posing him to the whole world ; but there is another way tha
villain shall find such conduct passes not unheeded I"
THE mother's recompense. 177
" You arc right, Percy," interposed Herbert, gently deter-
mining not to understand him. ^ If his conduct be indeed
sach as to call forth, with justice, this irritation on your part,
his punishment will come at last"
'' It shall come, ay, and by this hand !" exclaimed Percy,
striking his clenched hand violently on the table ; ^ if his con-
duct be such. You speak coolly, Herbert, but you know not
all, therefore I forgive you : it is the conduct of a villain, ay,
and he shall know it too. Before three suns have set again,
he shall feel my sister has an avenger !"
^' His schemes against the peace, t^e honor, of the innocent
are registered on high ; be cahn, be satisfied, Percy. His last
hour will be chastisement enough."
" By heaven, it shall be !" retorted Percy, passion in-
creasing, it appeared, at every gentle word his brother spoke,
and irritating him beyond control. -^ Herbert, you will drive
me mad with this mistimed calmness ; you know not half the
injury she has received."
" Whatever might have been his schemes, they have all
failed, Percy, and therefore should we not rather feel thankful
for Caroline's restoration to her home, to herself, than thus en-
courage fury against him from whose snares she has escaped ?"
^' Yes ; and though his base plan, thanks to my sister's
strength of mind, or, rather, my mother's enduring counsel,
has not succeeded, am I to sit calmly by and see her health,
spirits, alike sinking beneath that love which the deceiving
villain knew so well how to call forth ? am I to see this, to
gaze on the suffering he has caused, unmoved, and permit him
to pass unscathed, as if his victim had neither father nor
brother to protect and avenge her injured honor ?"
''Her honor is not injured. She is as innocent and as
pure as before Lord Alphingham addressed her. Percy, you
are increasing this just displeasure, by imaginary causes. I
do not believe it to be love for him that occasions her present
suffering ; I think, from the conversations we have had, it is
much more like remorse for the past, and bitter grief that the
confidence of our parents must, spite of their excessive kind-
ness, be for a time entirely withdrawn, not any lingering affec-
tion for Alphingham."
" Whatever it be, he is the primary cause. Not injured !
every word of love from his lips is pollution ; his asking her
of my father an atrocious insult; his endeavors to fly with
her a deadly sin an undying stain. ^*
8*
t78 THE mother's RECOlfPENSE.
Herbert shuddered involnntarily.
** What would you say, or mean ?" he exclaimed. ^ "What
have you heard or known concerning him, that calls for wordft
like these ?
' Ask me not as you love me ; it is enough I know he is a
villain," and Percy continued his rapid walk. Herbert rose
from his seat and approached him.
"Percy," he said, "my dear brother, tell me what is it
you would do? to what would this unwonted passion lead?
Oh, let it not gain too great a dominion, Percy. Dea? Percy,
what would you do ?"
" I would seek him, Herbert," replied Percy, " wherever
he is ; by whom surrounded. I would taunt him as a deceiv-
ing, heartless, villain, and if he demand satisfaction, by heaven,
it would be joy for me to give it !"
" Has passion, then, indeed obtained so much ascendency,
it would be joy for you to meet him thus for blood?" de-
manded Herbert, fixing his large, melancholy eyes intently on
Percy's face, on which the cloud was becoming darker, and his
step even more rapid. " Would you seek him for the purpose
of exciting anger like your own ? is it thus you would avenge
my sister ?"
" Thus, and only thus," answered Percy, with ungoverned
fiiry. " As others have done ; man to man I would meet him,
and villain as he is, I would have honorable vengeance for the
insult, not only to my sister, but to us all. Why should I
stay my hand ?"
" Why 1 because on you more than on many others has
the light of our blessed religion dawned," answered Herbert,
calmly ; " because you know what others think not of, that the
law of our Master forbiddeth blood ; that whosoever sheds it,
on whatever plea, his shall be demanded in return ; because
you know, in seeking vengeance by blood, His law is dis-
obeyed, and His vengence you would call upon yourself.
Percy, you will not, you dare not act as this overwhelming
passion dictates."
" Dare not," repeated the young man, light flashing from
his eye as if his spirit chafed at that word, even from his
brother, " dare not ; you mistake me, Herbert. I will not sit
tamely down beneath an injury such as this. I will not see
that villain triumph without one eflFort to prove to him that he
is known, and make the whole world know him as he is."
'^And would a hostile meeting ^com^^liah this ? Would
THE mother's recompense. 179
that proclaim bis villainy, of whatever nature it may be, to
the -world 1 Would they not rather side with him, their pre-
sent minion, and even bring forward your unjustifiable con-
duct as a fresh proof in his favor? How would they give
credit to the terms they may hear you apply to him, when
eve a in your own family you speak not of the true cause of
this strange agitation and indignant anger."
Percy continued to pace the room for some minutes without
answering.
" My honor has been insulted in the person of my sister."
he muttered, at length, as if speaking more to himself than to
his brother ; " and am I to bear that calmly? Were the truth
made known, would not the whole world look on me with scorn
as a spiritless coward, to whom the law of honor was as nothing;
who would see his sister suffering from the arts of a miscreant,
without one effort to revenge her."
" The law of honor," replied Herbert, bitterly ; " it is the
law of blood, of murder, of wilful uncalled for murder. Percy,
my brother, banish these guilty thoughts. Do not be one of
those misguided beings who, from that false -deceiving plea, the
law of honor, condemn whole families to misery, and them-
selves, without preparation, without prayer, nay in the very act
of disobeying a sacred commandment of their God, rush heed
less into His presence, into awful eternity."
He paused, but not vainly had he spoken. Percy gazed on
his brother's features with greater calmness, and more kindly,
but still impetuously, said
" Would you have me then stand calmly by, and behold my
sister a suffering victim to his arts, though actual sin, thank
God has been spared, and thus permit that villain Alphingham,
to continue his course triumphant ?"
" Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord, and I will repay it,"
answered Herbert, instantly, twining his arm within that of
his brother, and looking up in his face with that beseeching
glance of affection which was so peculiar to his features. " Dear
brother, rest on those words and be contented. It is not for
us to think of vengeance or to seek for retribution ; justice is,
indeed, ours to claim, but in this case, there is no point on
which we can demand it. Let Alphingham, even granting you
know him as he is, pursue his course in peace. Did you en-
deavor to inflict chastisement, is it not doubting the wisdom
and justice of the Almighty ? And suppose you fell instead ot
your adversarj; in the meeting you would Beet ^\iX^ ^\\^
180 THE mother's IlECOBIPENSE.
you, would be the emotions of all those who so dearly love yon,
when they gazed on your bleeding corse, and remembered you
had sought death in defiance of every principle they had so i
carefully instilled ? Think of my mother's silent agony ; has I
not Caroline's conduct occasioned sufficient pain, and would you
increase it ? you, whose most trifling action is dictated by love
for her ; you, in whom she has every reason to look for so much
virtue, honor, and self-control ; whom she so dearly, so devot-
edly loves ? Kemember what she would feel ; and, if no other
consideration have efect, surely that will bid you pause."
Percy still paced the room, but his head was averted from
his brother as he spoke, and his step bespoke contending and
painful emotions. He did not answer when Herbert ceased to
speak, but his brother knew him well, and remained silent.
" You have conquered, Herbert," he exclaimed at length,
firmly clasping his brother's hand in his and raising his head ;
anger still lingered on his cheek, but his eye was softei*. '^ I
could not bear my mother's wretchedness ; I could not thus
repay her love, her cherished care. I will not seek this base
and heartless man. I tremble for my present resolution, if he
chance to cross my path ; but, for her sake, I will avoid him ;
for her sake, his villamy shall be still concealed."
" Endeavor to think of him more charitably, my dear Per-
cy, or forget him entirely, which you will."
" Think of him charitably ; him a fashionable, fawning,
seducing hypocrite !" burst from Percy, in a tone of renewed
passion. " No ! the gall he has created within me cannot yet
be turned to sweetness ; forget him that at least is impossi-
ble, when Caroline's coldness and reserve remind me disagree-
ably of him every day. It is plain she looks on me as the de-
stroyer of her happiness ; thinks, perhaps, had it not been for
my letter my father would have given his consent, and she
might have peacefully become the wife of Alphingham. It i
hard to bear unkindness from one whom I have endeavored to
preserve from ruin."
"Nay, do not be unjust, Percy; are you not cool and re-
served yourself? How do we know why Caroline is somewhat
more so than usual ? Poor girl, we may find excuses for her,
but I know no reason why you should treat her as you do."
"Her whole conduct demands it. How did she use that
noble fellow St. Eval ; encourage him, so that their union was
confidently asserted, and then reject him for no cause what*
ever ; or, if she had a cause, for love of a villain, who, it ap
THE mother's BB0OMFEN8E. 181
pears, in secret, possessed all the favor she pretended to lavish
on St. Eval, both false and deceiving."
" Percy you are determined to be angry with every body
to-day. I flattered myself my influence had allayed your pas-
sion, and behold, it is only withdrawn from one object to be
hurled upon another. Can you not And some good cause now
to turn it from Caroline on me 1 Is it nothing that I should
dare face the tempest of your wrath, and tell my impetuous
and headstrong brother exactly what I thought ^nothing, that
I should have ventured to say there was a thing on earth you
dared not do V*
Percy turned sharply towards him, as if in that moment
he could be angry even with him; but Herbert met his
fierce glance with a smile so full of afectionate interest, that
all Percy's displeasure and irritation seemed at once removed.
" Displeased with you !" exclaimed Percy, when involuntary
admiration had taken the place of anger, and unconsciously
the noble serenity of Herbert's temper appeared to soothe the
more irritable nature of his own. '* Ay, Herbert, when we two
have exchanged characters, such may be, till then I am con-
tented to love and reverence the virtue, the gentleness I cannot
make my own."
^ We are better thus, my brother," replied Herbert, feel-
ingly ; were we the same, could I have been the happy being
you have made me at college 7 Much, very much happiness
do I owe to your high spirit, Percy. Without your support, my
life, spite of the charms of study, would have been a painful
void at college ; and though I feel, you know not perhaps how
often and how bitterly, that in many things I cannot hope to
be your companion, yet to think my aflFection may sometimes
check the violence that would lead you wrong, oh, that is all I
can hope for or desire."
" Have you not my love, my confidence, my fondest, warm-
est esteem ?" exclaimed Percy, impetuously, and twining his
arm, as in fondness he often did, around his brother's neck.
^^ Is there one among my gay companions I love as you, though
I appear to seek their society more ?"
Herbert was silent.
" You do not doubt me, Herbert ?"
" Percy ^no !" exclaimed the youth, with unwonted ardor.
To speak more at that moment he could not, and ere words
came at his command, the library door slowly opened,^ and
Caroline languidly entered.
182 THE MOTHER^'S RECOMPXNSB.
Herbert somewbat bnrriedlj left tbe room, to conceal tbfl
agitation the interview with Percy had occasioned him.
For some little time Caroline remained in the library,
seeking, it appeared, a book, without a word passing between
her and Percy. Both evidently wished to speak, but neither
liked to begin ; at length Caroline approached him.
" Percy," she began, and her voice trembled sufficiently to
prevent more. Percy was softened.
" Well, dear Caroline, am I so very terrible you cannot
speak to me ? I have been angry and unjust, and you, per*
haps, a little too reserved ; so now let us forgive and forget,
as we did when we were children, and be friends for the
future."
He spoke with all his natural frankness, aci extend id his
hand towards her. Caroline's spirits were so depressed, that
the least word or token of kindness overcame her, and pressing
her brother's hand in both hers, she turned away her head to
conceal the quickly-starting tears, and Percy continued, trying
to smile
" Well, Caroline, will you not tell me what you were going
to say 1 I cannot quite penetrate your thoughts."
Again Caroline nesitated, but then with an effort she said,
fixing her heavy eyes on her brother's face
" Percy, had you a real cause for writing to my father as
you did some few weeks ago or was it rumor alone which ac-
tuated your doing so ? I implore you to answer me truly."
" I had all-sufficient cause," he answered, instantly. " It
was from no rumor. Do you think that, without good reason,
I would have eildeavored to traduce the character of any
man ?"
" And "w^at w^s that cause 1 Why did you implore my
father, as he valued my future peace, not to expose me to his
fascinations ?"
Caroline spoke slowly and deliberately, as if every word
were weighed ere it was uttered, but with an expression on her
features, as if life and peace depended on his answer.
Percy looked earnestly at her.
" Why should you ask this question, my dear sister ?" he
said. " If I answer it, what good will it do ? Why should I
solve a mystery, that, if you love this Alphingham, as this ex-
treme depression bids me believe, must bring but increase of
pain?"
" Percy," replied Caroline, raising her head, and standing
THE mother's keoomfense. 183
with returning dignity before him, ^^ Percy, do not let the idea
of my love bid you hesitate. Increase of pain I do not think
is possible ; but yet, do not mistake me, that pain does not
spring from disappointed affection. Percy, I do not love Lord
Alphingham ; I haye been fascinated, and the remembrance of
the past still clings to me with remorse and suffering ; but I
never loved him as, had I not been infatuated and blmd, had I
not rejected the counsels and confidence of my mother, I might
have loved another. You know not how I have been ?ed on,
how I have permitted myself to be but a tool in the hands of
those whose independence I admired, and aided them by my
own reckless folly the wish to prove, however differeatly I
was educated, still I could act with equal spirit. Had it not
been for that self-will, that perverse spirit, I might now have
been a happy and a virtuous wife, loving and esteeming that
superior being, whose affections I wilfully cast away ; but that
matters not now," she added, hurriedly. ^' My mother was
right, I was unworthy to share his lot ; but of this rest assur-
ed, I do not love, I never have loved, for I cannot esteem Lord
Alphingham."
'5 But. why then wish to know more concerning him V*
Percy said, much relieved by his sister's words, and more
pleased than he chose to appear by her allusion to St. Eval.
'^ Is it not enough your connection with him is entirely broken
off?"
" No, Percy ; I have rejected him, dissolved our engage-
ment, I scarcely know wherefore, except that I felt I could not
be his without my father's consent ; but there are times I feel
as if I had treated him unjustly, that I have had no cause to
think ill of him ; my conduct had encouraged him. To me he
has been devoted and respectful, and though I could not, would
not be his wife, yet these thoughts linger on my mind, and add
most painfully to the chaos already there."
Twice Percy slowly traversed the room, with a countenance
on which anxious thought was deeply imprinted. He paused
opposite to Caroline, took both her hands in his, and spoke in
a voice which, though low, was so solemn that it thrilled to her
inmost soul.
'^ Caroline, I had hoped the fatal secret made known to me
would never have passed my lips, but for the restoration of
your peace it shall be divulged, nor will the injured one who
first intrusted it to me, to preserve you from ruin, believe I
have betrayed her trust. You have not suspected the whole
184 THE MOTHEa's RBOOMPENSB.
extent of evil that would have been yours, had you indeed fled
with that hypocritical villain. Caroline, Lord Alphingham ii
a married man ^his wife still lives !"
Had a thunderbolt fallen at her feet, or the earth yawned
beneath her, not more pale or transfixed would Caroline haye
stood than she did as those unexpected words fell clear and
shrill as a trumpet-blast upon her tortured ear. Amid all her
conjectures as to the meaning of Percy's words, this idea had
never crossed her mind ; that Alphingham could thus have
deliberately been seeking her ruin, under the guise of love
and honor, was a stretch of villany that entered not into her
conception. Now that the truth was known, she stood as if
suddenly turned to marble, her cheek, her very lips bearing
the color of death. Then came the thoughts of the past ; had
it not been for those recollections of her childhood, her mother's
love, devotion, what would she now have been ? In vain she
struggled to bear up against that rushing torrent of thought ;
every limb was seized with violent trembling, ier brain reeled,
and she would have sunk to the ground, had not Percy, alarm-
ed at the effects of his words, led her tenderly to a seat, and
kneeling by her side, threw his arms around her. Her head
sunk on his shoulder, and she clung to him as if evil and guilt
and wretchedness still hovered like fiends around her, and he
would protect her from them all. Fire again flashed from the
eyes of the young man as he thought on Alphingham, but for
her sake he restrained himself, and endeavored by a few sooth
ing words to calm her.
" Tell me all all you know, I can bear it," she said at
length, almost inaudibly, and looking up with features as death*
like as before. Percy complied with her request, and briefly
related as follows :
He had become acquainted during his college life, he told
her, with a widow and her daughter, who lived about four or
five miles from Oxford. Some service he had rendered them,
of sufficient importance as to make him an ever welcome and
acceptable guest within the precincts of that cottage, which
proclaimed a refined and elevated taste, although its inmates
were not of the highest class. Both, Percy fancied- were
widows, although he scarcely knew the foundation of that fancy,
except the circumstance of their living together, and the hus-
band of the younger lady never appearing ; nor was his name
ever mentioned in the confidential conversations he sometimes
bad with tbem, which the service lie Vi^d kad in his power to
THE mother's recompense. 185
uanded. Mrs. Amesfort, the daughter, still possessed
beauty, which a shade of pensive thought, sometimes
iting to deep melancholy, rendered even more lovely,
ge might have been six or seven and twenty, she could not
een more. At an earlier age, there was still evidence that
id been a sparkling, lively girl, and her mother would
mtly relate to the young man the change that sorrow
)rrow, she hinted, of a peculiarly painful nature ^had
in one who, ten years previous, had been so full of life
lee. Decline, slow but sure, it seemed even to Percy's
3rienced eye, was marked on her pale features ; and at
times when bodily suflFering was greatest, her spirit would
e a portion of its former lightness, as if it rejoiced in the
pated release. There was a deep thrilling melody in her
whether in speaking, or, when strength allowed, in war-
forth the pathetic airs of her native land ; for Agnes
fort was a child of Erin, once enthusiastic, warm, devot-
were her countrywomen possessing feelings that even
bh that pale, calm exterior would sometimes burst forth
nge her cheek, and light up her soul-speaking eye with
ntary but brilliant radiance, and whispered too deafly
she once had been, and what was now the wreck.
1^ gayety, the frankness, and unassuming manner of Percy
red him a most acceptable visitant at Isis Lodge, so the
e was called ; he was ever ready with some joyous tale,
of Oxford or of the metropolis, to bring a smile even to
)s of Mrs. Amesfort. It was not likely that he should
juently visit the cottage without exciting the curiosity
isibility of his college companions ; but he was enabled
ully and with temper to withstand it all, feeling secure in
rn integrity, and confident that the situation in which he
relative to the inmates of that oottage was mutually un-
od. Several inquiries Percy made concerning these
sting females, but no intelligence of their former lives
he obtain ; they had only settled in the cottage a few
IS previous to the period of his first acquaintance with them ;
hence they came, and who they were, no one knew nor
to know. It was enough for the poor, for many miles
, that the assistance of the strangers was extended
is them with kind words, and consolation in their troubles ;
ir the Oxonians, that though they received with extreme
Ten grateful politeness the visits made them, llie^ Nfr^t^
retnraad
186 THE mother's recompense
One little member of this small family Percy bad not men
tioned, a little girl, who might haye been about eight or nine
years old, an interesting child, whom Percy had saved firom &
watery grave in the rapid Isis, which rolled at the base of the
grounds ; a child, in whom the affections of her widowed mother
were centered with a force and intensity, that it appeared death
itself could but divide ; and she was, indeed, one to love-
affectionate and fall of glee ; yet the least sign of increased
suffering on the part of her mother would check the wild exit
berance of childish spirits, without diminishing in the least her
cheerfulness, and she would throw her arms around her neck,
and fondly ask, if she might by kisses while aw&y the pain.
Many a game of play did she have with her preserver, whose
extreme kindness and excessive liveliness excited the affections
of the child, and increased and preserved the gratitude his
courageous conduct had occasioned in the bosom of that
young, devoted mother, whose every earthly joy was centred
in her fatherless child.
It happened, that in speaking one day of London society,
and of the reigning belles and beaux of the season, that Percy
casually mentioned the name of Lord Alphingham, whom he
declared was by all account so overwhelmed with attentions
and flatteries, since his return from a nine years' residence on the
Continent, that there was every chance of his being thoroughly
spoiled, if he were not so already, and losing every grain of sense,
if he had any to lose. He was surprised, as he spoke, at the very
visible agitation of the elder lady, whose color went and came so
rapidly, that involuntarily he turned towards her daughter,
wondering if any such emotion were visible in her ; and though
she did not appear paler than usual, nor was any outward
emotion visible, save that her arm was somewhat tightly bound
round the tiny figure of the little Agnes, he almost started as
he met those large soft eyes fixed full upon him, as if they
would penetrate his soul ; and though her voice was oalm, un-
hesitating, and firm, as she asked him if he were acquainted
with Lord Alphingham, yet its tones sounded even more thril-
ling, more sadly than usual. He answered truly in the negative,
adding, he was not ambitious of his acquaintance ; as a man,
he was not one to suit his fancy. Many questions did Mrs.
Amesfort ask relative to this nobleman, and still unconsciously
her arm held her child more closely to her side. The elder
lady's looks were bent on them both, expressive, it seemed to
Percy, of fondness for those two beloved objects, and struggling
with indignsitioji towards anotib^Cit.
THE mother's RE0OMPEN8B. 187
Percy returned to college thftt evening unusually thought*
fuL What could Lord Alphingham have to do with the in-
habitants of that simple cottage ? Incoherent fancies occupied
his mind, but from all which presented themselves as solutions
to the mystery his pure mind revolted ; and, compelled bv an
impulse he could not resist, he continued to speak of Alphing-
ham every time he vir Vid the cottage ; Mrs. Amesfort, it ap-
peared to him, rather encouraging than checking his conversa-
tion on that subject, by introducing it herself, and demanding
if bis name were still mentioned in Percy's letters from town.
Mrs. Morley, her mother, ever looked anxiously at her, as if
she could have wished the subject unnamed ; but still Alph-
, iagbam continued to be the theme so constantly discussed at
t Isis Lodge, that Percy felt no repugnance in mentioning those
reports which allied his sister's name with that of the Vis-
count. Again were the eyes of Mrs. Amesfort fixed intently
on his face, and she spoke but little more during that evening's
visit. Percy left her, unable to account for the deep and seri-
ous thought imprinted on her features, nor the look with which
she bade him seek her the following day at an appointed hour,
as she earnestly wished to speak with him alone. The day
passed heavily till he was again with her. She was alone ; and
steady determination more than ever marked on her clear and
polished brow. She spoke, and Percy listened, absorbed ; she
alluded to his preservation of her child, and, in that moment
of reawakened gratitude, all the enthusiasm of her country
spoke in her eyes and voice ; and then a moment she paused,
and a bright and apparently painful flush mounted to those
cheeks which Percy had ever seen so pale. She implored his
forbearance with her ; his pardon at what might appear an un-
warrantable interference on her part in the affairs of his family ;
hut bis many and eloquent descriptions of them, particularly of
ids mother, had caused an interest that compelled her to reveal
a fatal secret which, she had hoped, would never have passed
her lips. Was it a mere rumor, or were Lord Alphingham's
attentions marked and decided towards his sister 1 Percy be-
lieved there was very good foundation for the rumors he had
heard.
Did his parents approve of it 7 she again asked, and the
flush of excitement faded. Percy was not quite sure ; he ra-
ther thought by his mother's letters she did not, though Caro-
line was universally envied as an object of such pToioMcti^ %Xr
tention from one so courted and admired. Did \i\a \s\^T\cr^^
t88 THE mother's eecomfeicsb.
him ? the words appeared wrung with a violent effort frost
Mrs. AmesforVs lips.
He did not fancy she did as yet ; but he doubted not the
power of Alphingham's many fascinations and exclusive devo*
tion to herself, on one naturally rather susceptible to vanity as
was Caroline.
" Oh, if you love your sister, save her ere it be too late, ere
her affections are engaged," was Mrs. Amesfort's reply, with a
burst of emotion, the more terrible, from its contrast with her
general calm and unmoved demeanor. " Expose her not to
those fascinations which I know no heart can resist. Let her
not associate with him ^with my husband ; he is not free to
love I am his lawful wife ; and the child you saved is his
his own the offspring of lawfully-hallowed wedlock ; though
he has cast me off, though his eyes have never gazed upon my
child, yet, yet we are his. No cruel words of separation hafl
the law of England spoken. But do not, oh ! if you have any
regard for me," she continued, wildly seizing both P'ercy^a
hands, as she marked the dark blood of passion kindling on the
young man's brow, " do not betray him ; do not let him know
that his wife his injured wife has risen to cry shame upon
him, and banish him from those circles wherein he is formed
to mingle. Promise me faithfully, solemnly, you will not be-
tray my secret more than is necessary to preserve your sister
from misery and ruin. I thought even for her I coidd not havO
spoken thus, but I gazed on my child, and remembered she too
has a mother, whose happiness is centred in her as mine is in
my Agnes, and I could hesitate no more. Promise me you
will not abuse my confidence, Mr. Hamilton, promise me; let
me not have the misery of reproaches from him to whom my
fond heart still clings, as it did at first. Yes ; though for nine
long weary years I have never seen his face nor heard his voice,
still he knows not, guesses not how his image dwells within,
tow faithfully, how fervidly he is still beloved. Promise me
my existence shall not be suspected, that neither he nor any
one shall know the secret of my existence. It is enough for
me he lives, is happy. My child ! could I but see her in the
station her rank demands, but, oh, I would not force her on
her father."
She would still have spoken, still have entreated, but this
unwonted emotion had exhausted her feeble strength. G-reatlj
moved by this extraordinary disclosure, and struck with that
ieep devotedness, that undying love, Percy solemnly pledged
lis word to preserve her secret.
THE mother's &EGOHPENIfe. 1B9
" My coarse will soon be over, my sand run out," she said,
after energetically thanking him for his soothing and relieving
words, and in a tone of such sad, resigned hopelessness, that,
irritated as he felt towards Alphingham, his eye glistened and
his lips quivered. ^^ And wherefore should I dash down his
present enjoyment by standing forward and proclaiming my-
self his wife ? Why should I expose my secret sorrows, my
breaking heart, to the inspection of a cold and heartless world,
and draw down on my dying moments his wrath, for the poor
satisfaction of beholding myself recognized as Viscountess
Alphingham ? Would worldly honors supply the place of his
affection ? Oh, no, no ! I am better as I am. The tears of
maternal and filial love will hallow my grave; and he, too,
when he knows for his sake, to save him a pang, I have suffer-
ed my heart to break in uncomplaining silence, oh, he too may
shed one tear, bestow a thought on one who loved him to the
last!''
" But your child !" exclaimed Percy, almost involuntarily.
" Will be happier here, under my mother's care, uncon-
scious of her birth, than mingling in a dangerous world, with-
out a mother to cherish and protect her. Her father might
neglect, despise her ; she might be a bar to a second and a
happier union, and, oh, I could not die in peace did I expose
her thus."
Percy was silent, and when the interview had closed, he
bade that devoted woman farewell, with a saddened and deeply
thoughtful brow.t
Lord Alphingham had been a student in Dublin, in the
environs of whiQh city dwelt Mrs. Morley, a widow, and this
hei only child. At their cottage he became a constant and
devoted guest, and, as might have been expected, his impetuous
and headstrong nature became desperately enamored of the
beautiful and innocent Agnes, then only seventeen. Spite of
his youth, being barely twenty, neither mother nor daughtej^
could withstand his eloquent solicitations, and a private but
sacred marriage was performed. He quitted college, but still
lingered in Ireland, till a peremptory letter from his father
summoned him to England, to celebrate his coming of age. He
left his bride, and the anguish of parting was certainly at that
time mutual. Some few months Agnes hoped for and looked
to his return. Alphingham, then Lord Amesfort, on his part,
was restrained only by the fear of the inveteracy of \i\&fel\i^x'%
disposition from ooDfessiDg hia marriage, and aendvu^ iox^i^Sk
190 THE mother's recompense.
wife. Another bride, of rank and wealth, was proposed to him,
and then he confessed the truth. The fury of the old man
knew no bounds, and he swore to disinherit his son, if he did
not promise never to return to his ignoble wife, whom he vowed
he never would acknowledge. Amesfort promised submission,
fully intending to remain constant till his father's death, which
failing health proclaimed was not far distant, and then seek
his gentle wife, and introduce her in her proper sphere. He
wrote to this effect, and the boding heart of Agnes sunk at
once ; in vain her mother strove to rouse her eneigies, by al-
luding to the strain of his letter, the passionate affection
breathing in every line, the sacred nature of his promise. She
felt her doom, and ere her child was six months old, her feel-
ings, ominous of evil, were fully verified.
Lord Alphingham lingered some time, and his son found,
in the society in which the Viscount took good care he should
continually mingle, attractions weighty enough to banish from
his fickle heart all love, and nearly all recollection of his wifa
He found matrimony would be very inconvenient in the gay
circle of which he was a member. All the better feelings and
qualities of his youth fled ; beneath the influence of example
and bad companionship his evil ones were called forth and
fostered, and speedily he became the heartless libertine wf
have seen him. His letters to the unfortunate Agnes were
less and less frequent, and at length ceased altogether, and
the sum transmitted for her use every year was soon the only
proof that he still lived. His residence in foreign lands, the
various names he assumed, baffled all her efforts at receiving
the mont distant intelligence concerning him, and Agnes still
lingered in hopeless resignation " The heart will break, but
brokenly live on ;" and thus it was she lived, existing for her
child alone. Nine years they had been parted, and Agnes had
ever shrunk in evident pain from quitting her native land, and
-that cottage which had been the scene of her brief months of
happiness ; but when change of air was pleaded in behalf of
her child, then suffering from lingering fever, when change of
climate was strongly recommended by the physicians, in secret
for herself equally with that of her little girl, she hesitated no
longer, and a throb of mingled pain and pleasure swelled her
too fond heart as her foot pressed the native land of her hus-
band. Some friends of her mother, unacquainted with her sad
story, resided near Oxford, and thither they bent their steps,
and Anally xed their residence, -^Viwe Mr^. Amesfort soon
THE mother's recompense. 191
kad the happiness of beholdiDg her child restored to perfect
health and radiant in beauty ; perhaps the faint hope that
Alphingham might one day unconsciously behold his daughter,
reconciled her to this residence in England. She was in his
own land ; she might hear of him, of his happiness ; and,
deeply injured as she was, that knowledge, to her too warm, too
devoted heart, was all-sufficient.
Such were the particulars of the story which Percy con-
cisely yet fully related in confidence to his sister. Caroline
neither moved nor spoke during his recital ; her features still
retained their deadly paleness, and her brother almost involun-
turily felt alarmed. A few words she said, ad he ceased, in
commentary on his tale, and her voice was calm. Nor did her
step falter as she quitted the library, and returned to her own
room, when, carefully closing the door, she sunk on the near-
est seat, and covering her eyes with her hands, as if to shut
out all outward objects, gave unchecked dominion to the incon-
gruous thoughts occasioned by Percy^s tale. She could not
define or banish them ; a sudden oppression appeared cast upon
her brain, deadening its powers, and preventing all relief from
tears. The ruin, the wretchedness from which she had been
mercifully preserved stood foremost in her mind, all else ap-
pearing a strange and frightful dream. The wife and child of
Alphingham flitted like mocking phantoms before her eyes,
and the countenance of Alphingham himself glared at her,
and his gibing laugh seemed to scream in her ears, and trans-
form him into a malignant fiend revelling in the misery he
had created. She strove to pray, but vainly ; no words of
such soothing and consoling import rose to her lips. How long
she remained in this state of wretchedness she knew not, but
it was the mild accents of her mother^s voice that roused her
from her trance.
" Are you not well, Caroline ? What is the matter, love ?"
Mrs. Hamilton asked, alarmed at the icy coldness of her
daughter's hand, and kissing, as she spoke, her pallid cheek.
Caroline threw her arms round her, and a violent flood of
tears relieved the misery from which she was suffering so
painfully.
^' Do not ask me to reveal the cause of this weakness, my
dearest mother," she said, when voice returned. " I shall be
better now, and never, never again shall recollections of the
past, by afliicting me, cause you solicitude. Do not fancy this
appai 3nt grief has any thing to do with regret a\ Toy \i^^ ^^
192 THE mother's recompense.
oision, or for still lingeriDg afection ; oh, no, no. Do not look
at me so anxiously, mother ; I have had a long, long conyersft- t
tion with Percy, and that has caused the weakness you per
ceive ; but it will soon pass away, and I shall be your own
happy Caroline again."
Tears were still stealing from those bloodshot eyes ; but
she looked up in Mrs. Hamilton's face with an expression of
such confiding affection, that her mother's anxious fears were
calmed. She would not inquire more, nor question Percy,
when he sought her in her boudoir before dinner, to request
that no notice might be taken, if his sister's manner were that
evening less calm than usual. Mrs. Hamilton felt thankful
that an understanding had taken place between her children,
whose estrangement had been a source of severe pain, and she
waited trustingly and calmly for time to do its work on the
torn heart and agitated nerves of Caroline.
To Emmeline's extreme delight, preparations for their de-
parture from London and return to Oakwood were now pro-
ceeding in good earnest. Never did that fair and innocent
face look more joyous and animated, and never had her laugh
been more glad and ringing than when the carriage rolled
away from Berkeley Square. Every circumstance of their
journey increased their childlike glee, every town they passed
through was an object of interest, and even the pensive features
of her cousin Ellen reflected her unchecked joyousness. They
seldom travelled more than forty miles a day, and conse-
quently it was not till the evening of the fourth they neared
the village, whose inhabitants, clad in holiday attire, stood at
the doors of their houses to receive them, with silent and re-
spectful yet very evident tokens of joy. The evening was
most lovely ; the sun had lost the splendor of its beams,
though clouds of every brilliant hue proclaimed the increased
glory which attended its hour of rest, at times lost behind a
richly glowing cloud, and then bursting forth again and dyeiug
all nature with a flood of gold. The river lay calmly sleeping
before them, while on its glassy bosom the heavens cast &eir
radiance, relieved by the shade of the mighty trees that stood
to guard its banks ; the rich foliage of the trees, the superb
green of the fields, in some of which the ripening corn was
beginning to stud with gold the varied flowers gemming the
fertile hedge, the holy calmness of this summer eve, all called
forth the best feelings of the human heart. For a few minutes
even JSmmeline was silent, and then her clear silvery voice was
THE mother's RECOMFETtSE. 193
heard chanting, as if by an irresistible impulse, the beautiful
hymn of the Tyrolese, so peculiarly appropriate to the scene.
On, on they went, the white walls of the church peeping
through clustering ivy ; the old and venerable rectory next
came in sight ; a few minutes more, and the heavy gates of
Oakwood were thrown wide to receive them, and the carriages
swept along the well-known entrance. Every tree and shrub,
and even flower, was now looked on by Emmeline and Percy
with increased and somewhat boisterous expressions of delight.
" Try if you cannot be still a very short time longer, dear
Emmeline," whispered the more restrained Ellen, whose eye
had caught a glimpse of Caroline's countenance, and who per-
ceived in an instant her feelings were not in unison with Em-
meline's. She was right ; Caroline could not feel as did her
sister. She was not the same light-hearted, innocent being
she bad been when she quitted Oakwood ; the appearance of
the bomj of her childhood vividly recalled all that had oc-
curred since she had mingled in the world, that world of
which she had indulged so many brilliant visions ; and while
Emmeline's laugh conveyed gladness in that hour to all who
heard it, Caroline leaned forward to conceal from her com-
panions the tears that stole silently down her cheek.
A shout from Percy proclaimed the old hall in sight. A
group of domestics stood on the steps, and the setting sun
threw its brilliant hues on the mansion, as if with increased
and unusual lustre that venerable spot should welcome the re-
turn of the Hamilton family within its sheltering walls.
CHAPTER IX.
** There wants but the guardian spirit of yon old Manor to
render this scene as perfect as her society would bid the pre-
sent hours roll on in unalloyed felicity to me," was Herbert
Hamilton's observation some little time after their return to
Oakwood, as he stood, arm in arm with his friend Arthur
Myrvin, on the brow of a hill which overlooked, among other
beautiful objects, Greville Manor, now inhabited by strangers.
Young Myfvin smiled archly, but ere their walk that eve-
ning was concluded, he too had become interested in the being
o dear to his friend ; for Herbert spoke in perfect confidence,
secure of friendly sympathy. Oakwood was to YAm ^^ ^^'a.t^
perhaps eyen dearer tbfin to Emmeline, for bia "na.tuT^ xA
194 THE mother's recompense.
tastes were not such as. any amusement in London could
gratify. His recreation from the grave studies necessary foi
the profession which he had chosen, was to wander forth witL
a congenial spirit, and marking Nature in all her varied robes,
adore his Creator in His works as well as in His word. In
London his ever active mind longed intensely to do good, and
his benevolent exertions frequently exceeded his strength ; it
was his chief delight to seek the dwellings of the poor, to re-
lieve distress, alleviate affliction. The prisoner in his cell,
the bold and wilful transgressor of the laws of God, these
would he teach, and by gentle admonitions bring nearer to the
Throne of Grace. Yet notwithstanding the gratification which
the pursuits of Herbert gave to his parents, they often felt
considerable anxiety lest his health should suffer from his un-
ceasing efforts, and they rejoiced on that account when their
removal to Oakwood afforded their son a quieter and more
healthful field of occupation. For miles around Oakwood the
name of Herbert Hamilton was never spoken without a bless-
ing. There he could do good ; there he could speak of God,
and behold the fruits of his pious labors ; there was Mr. How-
ard ever ready to guide and to sympathize, and there was the
field of Nature spread before him, to fill his heart with in-
creased and glowing adoration and reverential love.
It was well for Herbert his parents were such as could un-
derstand and sympathize in these exalted feelings ; had harsh-
ness, or even neglect, been extended over his childhood and his
opening youth, happiness, such as had gilded his life, would
never have been his.
As Emmeline had rejoiced, so also might have Herbert, as
they neared the gates of his home, had there not been one
recollection to dim his happiness. She who had shared in all
his pleasures, who had shea a charm over that spot, a charm
which he had never felt so keenly as when he looked for it,
and found it not ; the favorite playfellow of his infancy, the
companion of his youth, his plighted bride, she was in far
distant lands, and vainly on his first return home did Herbert
struggle to remove the weight of loneliness resting on his
heart ; he never permitted it to be apparent, for to his family
he was the same devoted son and affectionate brother he had
ever been, but painfully he felt it. Mr. Myrvin and his son
were now both inmates of Mr. Hamilton's family. The ille-
gality of the proceedings against the former, in expelling him
from his ministry of Llangwillan, had now been clearly proved,
THE mother's recompense. 195
for the earnestness of Mr. Hamilton permitted no delay ; and
tears of pious gratitude chased down the cheeks of the injured
man, as he recognized in the person of his benefactor the
brother of the suffering woman whom he had sheltered, and
whose bed of death he had deprived of its sting. The persua-
sions of Mr. Hamilton succeeded in conquering his objections
to the plan, and he consented to make Oakwood his home
for a short time, ere he once more settled in his long-loved
rectory.
With Arthur, Ellen speedily resumed her place ; the re-
membrance of that neglected little girl had never left Mr.
Myrvin's mind, and when, radiant in animation and returning
health and happiness, she hastily, almost impetuously advanced
to meet him, he pressed her to his bosom with the affection of
a father; and even as a daughter Ellen devoted herself to
him during his residence at Oakwood. He had been the first
in England to treat her with kindness ; he had soothed her
childish sorrow, and cheered her painful duties ; he had been
the first since her father's death to evince interest for her, and
though so many years had passed, that the little girl was fast
verging into womanhood, yet such things were not forgotten,
and Ellen endeavored to prove the gratitude which time had
not effaced.
Ellen was happy, her health almost entirely restored ; but
it was scarcely possible for any observant person to live with
her for any time, without noticing the expression of pensive me-
lancholy, of subdued spirit, unnatural in one still so very young,
that, unless animated by any casual circumstances, ever rested
on her features. Mr. Myrvin soon noticed this, and rather
wondered such should still be, when surrounded by so much
kindness and affection. Her gentleness and controlled temper,
her respectful devotion to her aunt and uncle, were such as to
awaken his warmest regard, and cause him to regret that shade
of remaining sadness so foreign to her age. Traces of emotion
were so visible on her cheeks one day, returning from a walk
with Mr. Myrvin, that Mrs. Hamilton felt convinced the tale
of the past had been told, and fearing her niece had done
herself injustice, she scrupled no longer in alluding to it her-
self Mr. Myrvin was deeply affected at the tale, and much
relieved when the whole was known ; for when he had praised
her general conduct, and approved of so many feelings and
sentimentB she had acknowledged, and then tenderly demanded
the cause of that depression he sometimes witnessed, Ellen
196 THE mother's recompense.
bad given vent to a violent burst of emotion, and spoken of a
sin, a fearful sin, which long years of probation alone could
wash away. Her strong, her terrible temptation, her extreme
wretchedness and dreadful sufferings she had not mentioned,
and, consequently, when known, an air of even more gentle
and more affectionate interest pervaded Mr. Myrvin*s manner
towards her. Hearing her one day express an ardent desire once
more to visit Llangwillan,to see again her mother's grave, he ear-
nestly entreated Mrs. Hamilton's permission for her to visit him
for a few weeks ; her company would, he said, indeed shed a joy
over his home, and afford much pleasure to a widowed sister who
resided with him. Mrs. Hamilton smilingly consented, and a
flush of animated pleasure dyed Ellen's cheeks at the proposal
For about a quarter of an hour she was all delight and anima-
tion, when suddenly a thought entered her mind, banishing
her unusual mirth, and filling her eyes with tears. Her voice
faltered audibly, as she warmly thanked Mr. Myrvin and her
aunt for their wish to increase her happiness, but she would
rather not leave home that year. The change was so sudden,
her manner so contradictory to her words, that Mrs. Hamilton
believing some fanciful reason existed, would have insisted on
her compliance, and playfully accused her of unfounded caprice.
There was, however, a degree of earnest entreaty in her manner,
that Mr. Myrvin would not combat, and he expressed himself
contented with her promise for the following year. Mrs.
Hamilton was not, however, quite so easily satisfied. Ellen had
been latterly so open with her, that any thing like concealment
in her conduct gave her some little uneasiness ; but she could
not withstand the imploring look of her niece, as she entreated
her not to think her capricious and wilful ; she was sure Mrs.
Hamilton would approve of her reason did she confess it.
" I am not quite so sure of that," was her aunt's smiling re-
ply ; " but, however, I will trust you, though I do not like mys-
teries," and the subject was dismissed.
The manners and conversation of Arthur Myrvin were such
as to prepossess both Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton very much in his
favor, and strengthened the opinion they had already formed
concerning him, on the word of their son. The respectful de-
ference with which he ever treated Caroline and Emmeline,
often caused a laugh at his expense from Percy, but gratified
Mrs. Hamilton ; Percy declared he stood as much in awe of
his sisters as if they were the highest ladies in the land. Ar-
thur bore his raillery with unruffled temper, but he felt the dis-
THE mother's recompense. 197
tance that fortane placed between him and those fair girls, and
he hoped, by reserve, to lessen the danger that might in their
society attack his peace. Emmeline mistook this cautious re*
serve for coldness and distaste towards women, and, with the
arts of a playful child, she frequently endeavored to draw him
from his abstraction, and render him a more agreeable com-
panion.
There was still so very much of the child in Emmeline,
though now rapidly approaching her eighteenth birthday, she
was still so very young in manners and appearance, that the
penetration of Mrs. Hamilton must not be too severely criti-
cised, if it failed in discovering that intimately mingled with
this childlike manner the warm enthusiasm of a kind nature
^was a fund of deep reflection, and feelings quite equal to her
age. Mrs. Hamilton fancied the realities of life were still to
her a dream. Had any one spoken to her of the marriage of
Emmeline as soon taking place, she would have started at the
idea, as a thing for some years impossible ; and that her affec-
tions might become engaged that the childlike, innocent, joy-
ous Emmeline, whose gayest pleasures still consisted in chas-
ing with wild glee the butterflies as they sported on the sum-
mer flowers, or tying garlands of the fairest buds to adorn her
own or her sister^s hair, or plucking the apples from the trees
and throwing them to the village children as they sauntered at
the orchard gate ^whose graver joys consisted in revelling in
every poet that her mother permitted her to read, or making
hel harp resound with wild, sweet melody ^whose laugh was
still so unchecked and gay that such a being could think of
love, of that fervid and engrossing passion, which can turn
the playful girl into a thinking woman, Mrs. Hamilton may be
pardoned if she deemed it as yet a thing that could not be ;
and she, too, smiled at the playful mischief with which Emme-
line would someltimes claim the attention of young Myrvin, en-
gage him in conversation, and then, with good-humored wit
and repartee, disagree in all he said, and compel him to defend'
his opinions with all the eloquence he possessed.
With Ellen, young Myrvin was more at his ease ; he re-
called the days that were past, and never felt with her the bar-
rier which his sensitive delicacy had placed between himself
and her cousins. Arthur was proud, more so than he was
aware of himself He would have considered himself more
humbled to love and sue for one raised by fortune or rank
above him, than in uniting with one, who in both ths fssen-
198 THE MOI'HER's REC0MPEN8B.
tials was his inferior. He was ambitious, but for honors and
station obtained by his own endeavors, not conferred by ano-
ther. From his earliest youth he had grown up with so strong
an impression that he was intended for the Church, that he
considered it impossible any other profession could suit him
better. When he mingled intimately at college with young
men of higher rank and higher hopes, he discovered too late
that a clergyman's life was not such as to render him most
happy ; but he could not draw back, he would not so disappoint
his father. He felt and knew, to obtain the summit of his
desires, to be placed in a public situation, where his ambition
would have full scope, required a much larger fortune than his
father possessed. He clothed himself in what he believed to
be resignation and contentment, but which was in truth a mor-
bid sensitiveness to his lot in life, which he imagined poverty
would separate from every other. Association with Herbert
Hamilton, to whom in frankness he confided these secret feel-
ings, -did much towards removing their bitterness; and the
admiration which he felt for Herbert, whose unaffected piety
and devotion to the Church he could not fail to appreciate,
partially reconciled his ambitious spirit to his station. Yet
the exalted ideas of Herbert were not entirely shared by Ar-
thur, whose thoughts were centred in a more stirring field of
usefulness than it would in all probability be his to till. Her-
bert combated these objections with so much eloquence, he
pointed with such ardent zeal to the crown eternal that would
DC his, when divine love had triumphed over all earthly ambi-
tion, and his duties were done for love of Him, who had or-
dained them, that when the time of his ordination came (which
it did very shortly after the commencement of this chapter),
he would not have drawn back, even had a more attractive
professicj been offered for his acceptance. The friendship and
countenance of Mr. Hamilton did much to reconcile him to his
lot. Mr. Howard's curate died suddenly, at the very time that
Mr. Hamilton was writing to the Marquis of Malvern, in Ar-
thur's favor, for a vacant living then at his disposal. Both
now were offered to the young man's choice, and Percy, even
Mr. Hamilton himself, were somewhat surprised that, without
a moment's hesitation, he accepted that under Mr. Howard, in
the gift of Mr. Hamilton, inferior as it was in point of worldly
prospects to Lord Malvern's. His two parishes were situated
about nine or ten miles from Oakwood, and seven or eight from
Mr. Howard's rectory, and ere Mr. Myrvin returned to Liang*
THE mother's recompense 199
willan, he had the satisfaction of seeing his son settled com-
fortably in his curacy, performing his duties to the approval
of his rector, and gaining by his manner the afection of his
parishioners.
Herbert alone knew to its full extent the conquest his
friend had achieved over himself His inclination led him to
ambitious paths, where he might in time obtain the notice of
and mingle in the highest ranks ; but when the innate noble-
ness of his mind showed him where his duty lay, when con-
science loudly whispered now was the time to redeem the errors
of his college life, to prove his reverence for his father, to pre-
serve the kindness of those friends, exalted alike by rank and
virtue, with whom he still might mingle, with a strong effort
he banished all ambitious wishes, and devoted himself heart
and soul to his ministerial duties.
Herbert would speak of his friend at home, of his self-con-
quering struggles, till all would sympathize in the interest he
so warmly displayed, particularly Emmeline, with whom, spor-
tive as she was, Herbert from his childhood had had more
thoughts and feelings in common than he ever had with Caro-
line ; and now, whether he spoke of Mary Greville or Arthur
Myrvin, in her he ever found a willing and attentive auditor.
Whenever he had ridden over to Hawthorndell, which he fre-
quently did, Emmeline would always in their next walk play-
fully draw from him every particular of the " Lone Hermit,"
as in true poetic styb she termed Arthur. But there was no
seriousness in her converse either of or to young Myrvin.
There was always mischief lurking in her laughter-loving eye ;
always some wild joke betrayed in the arch smiles ever linger-
ing round her mouth ; but mischief as it was, apparently the
mere wantonness of childhood, or very early youth, something
in that glance or smile ever bade young Myrvin's heart beat
quicker than before, and every pulse throb with what at first
he deemed was pain. It was relief to him to seek the quiet,
gentle Ellen, and speak to her even as he would to a sister, of
all that had occurred to him since last they met, so secure was
be of sympathy in his future prospects, his present cares and
joys. But still that strange feeling lingered within his bosom
in his solitary hours, and he dwelt on it much more than on
the gentle accents of that fair girl whom in his boyhood he
had termed his wife ; and stranger still, if it were pain, that it
should urge him on to seek it, that he could not rest till the
glance of that eye, the tone of that voice, had once more been
200 THE MOTHEiiL's RECOJfPENSE.
seen and heard, till fresh excitement had been given to thought!
and emotions which were unconsciously becoming the main-
springs of his life.
The undisturbed and happy calmness of Oakwood removed
in a great measure Caroline's painful feelings ; all thoughts of
Lord Alphingham were gradually banished. The question
how she could ever have been so blind ai^ to imagine that he
had gained her affections, that she loved him, returned more
frequently than she could answer.
JBut another vision stood forth to confront the darkened me
of the Viscount, and the contrast heightened the lustre of the
former. Why had she been so mad, so infatuated, as to re-
ject with scorn and pride the hand and heart of one so noble,
so fond, so superior as Eugene St. Eval ? Now that the film
had been removed from her eyes, that all the past appeared in
its true colors, that self-will and love of independence had de-
parted from her, the startling truth burst upon her mind, that
she had Joved, truly loved, the very man who of all others
would have been the choice of both her parents ^loved, and as
his wife, might have been one of the happiest, the most envied
of her sex, had not that indomitable spirit of coquetry urged
her on, and lowered her to become a very tool in the hands of
the artful and designing Annie Grahame.
Caroline loved ; had she doubted the existence of that pas-
sion, every letter from Mary Greville would have confirmed it;
for we will not say it was jealousy she felt, it was more self-
condemnation and regret heightened at times almost into
wretchedness. That St. Eval should so soon forget her, that
he shotdd love again ere six months had passed, could not fail
to be a subject of bitter mortification to one in whose bosom
pride still rested. She would not have thus tormented herself
with turning and twisting Mary's information into such ideas,
had she not felt assured that he had penetrated her weakness,
and despised her. Fickleness was no part of St. Eval's char-
acter, of that she was convinced ; but it was natural he should
cease to love, when he had ceased to esteem, and in the society
and charms of LcfUisa Manvers endeavor to forget his dis-
appointment.
Through Emmeline's introductory letter. Lord St. Eval
had become sufficiently intimate with Mrs. Greville and Mary
as to succeed in his persuasions for them to leave their pres-
ent residence, and occupy a vacant villa on Lago Guard ia,
within a brief walk of Lord Delmont's, feeling sure that an in-
THE mother's RE00MPSI'91{ SO^
timaoj between Mrs. Manvers's family and that ot M^d. 6re
ville would be mutually pleasurable and beneficial ; his t'riendlf
wishes succeeded. Mrs. Greville found an able and sympar
thizing companion in the goodhearted, homely mother of th
elegant and accomplished Lord Delmont, and Mary's sadnesf
was at once soothed and cheered by the more animated LouisaL
whose lot in life had never known those murky clouds of sor*
TOW and anxiety which had so often dimmed the youth of Mary.
The brother of Louisa had been all in all to her. She felt as
if life could not have another charm, as if not another joy was
wanting to render her lot perfect, until that other charm ap-
peared, and her ardent fancy quickly knew to its full extent
the delights of female companionship and sympathy. Their
very dissimilitude of disposition rendered dearer the ties of
youthful friendship, and Emmeline sometimes felt a pang of
jealousy, as she read in the letters of her friend the constant
pr^uses of Louisa Manvers, not that any diminution of early
affection breathed in them. Mary ever wrote so as to satisfy
the most exacting disposition ; but it required all Mrs. Ham-
ilton's eloquence to persuade Emmeline she should rather re-
joice than grieve that Mary had found some one to supply her
place. But vainly Emmeline tried in playfulness to iofect her
brother Herbert with a portion of her jealousy, for she knew
not the contents of those letters Mary ever wrote to Herbert.,
or she would not for one moment have imagined that either
Lord Delmont or St. EvaH would usurp her brother's place.
" Few things would give me greater pleasure," one of Mary's
letters said, " than to see the union of Lord St. Eval and my
&ir friend. It appears to me strange that each, with affections
disengaged, can remain blind to the fascinations of the other.
They are well suited in every respect, and I should fancy their
union would certainly be a fair promise of happiness. I live
in hope, though as yet, 1 must confess, hope has but very little
to feed on."
St. Eval still lingered at Monterosa, and it was well for the
inhabitants he did, for an event occurred which plunged that
happy valley from joy and gayety into wailing and affliction,
and even for a brief interval infected the inhabitants of Oak-
wood with its gloom. Death came, and tore away as his vic-
tim the widow's son, the orphan's brother. The title of Del-
mont became extinct, for the last scion of that ancient race had
gone to his last home. He had gone with St. Eval and ^om^
other young meo on a Eshing expeditioUj at some d\.6.\.aTkfti\ t^
202 THE mother's recompense.
sudden squall had arisen, and dispersing with much damage th
little flotilla, compelled the crews of each to seek their own
safety. The sails of St. EvaPs boat were not furled quickly
enough to escape the danger ; it upset, and though, after much
buffeting and struggling with the angry waters, St. Eval suc-
ceeded in bearing his insensible friend to land, his constitution
had received too great a shock, and he lingered but a few brief
weeks ere he was released from suffering. He had been thrown
with violence against a rock, producing a concussion of the
brain, which, combined with the length of time he was under
water, produced fever, and finally death.
On the agony of the bereaved mother and sister it would
be useless to linger. St. Eval forgot his individual sorrows,
and devoted himself, heart and soul, in relieving those helpless
sufferers, in which painful task he was ably seconded by Mary
and her mother, whose letters to their friends at Oakwood, in
that season of affliction, spoke of him in a manner that, uncon-
sciously to themselves, confirmed every miserable suspicion in
Caroline's mind, and even excited some such feeling in her pa-
rents, whose disappointment was thus vividly recalled. That
he should ever seek their child again they deemed impossible,
as did Caroline herself; but still it was in vain they endeavor-
ed to look with any degree of pleasure to his union with ano-
ther.
Mr. Hamilton's family mourned Lord Delmont's early fate
with sincere regret, though they had known but little of him :
but about this time the thoughts of Mrs. Hamilton were turn-
ed in another direction, by a circumstance which caused unaf-
fected sorrow in her daughter and niece ; nor were she and her
husband exempt. Lucy Harcourt had been so many years a
member of the family, she had been so associated from their
infancy in the affections of her pupils, that to part from her
was the bitterest pang of sorrow that Emmeline had yet known,
and it was long before Mrs. Hamilton herself could be recon-
ciled to the idea of separation ; she had ever regarded and
treated Miss Harcourt as a sister, and intended that even when
her family were settled, she should never want another hom&
It was not only her own virtues that had endeared her to Mrs*
Hamilton ; the services she had rendered her children, her ac-
tive and judicious share in the arduous task of education, de-
manded and received from both Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton the meed
of gratitude and esteem, and never once, in the seventeen years
of Miss Harcourt's residence amongst them, had they regretted
THE mjther's recompense. 203
the impulse which had offered her a sheltering home and sym-
pathizing friends.
Emmeline and Ellen were still her pupils, and Mrs. Hamil-
ton intended them to remain so for two or three years longer,
even after they were introduced, and it was on that account
Miss Harcourt hesitated in complying with the earnest entrea-
ty of him whose happy home in her early youth she had so no-
bly quitted, preferring to live by her own exertions than to
share the home of the man she loved, when he was married to
another.
It had been very, very long ere disappointed affection had
permitted her to be cheerful. Her cousin, while rejoicing in
the happy home she had found, while congratulating her Tith
^tc rnal interest on the kind friends her mother's virtues had
procured her, imagined not the agony she was striving to con-
quer, the devoted love for him which disturl^d the peace
around her, which otherwise she might have enjoyed to its full
extent ; but she did conquer at length. That complete sepa-
ration from him did much towards restoring peace, although
perhaps love might still have lingered ; for what absence, what
distance, can change a woman's heart ? Yet it interfered no
longer with happiness, and she answered Seymour's constant
and affectionate letters in his own style, as a sister would have
done.
Sixteen yeart; had passed, and not once had the cousins
met. Womanhood in its maturity was now Lucy's, every
girlish feeling had fled, and she perhaps thought young affec-
tions had gone also, but her cheek flushed, and every pulse
throbbed, when she opened a long, long expected letter, and
found her cousin was a widower in declining health, which
precluded him from attending to his two motherless girls, im-
ploring her, as her duties in Mrs. Hamilton's family were
nearly over, to leave England and be the guardian spirit of
his home, to comfort his affliction, to soothe his bodily suffer-
ing, and learn to know and love his children, ere they were
fatherless as well as motherless, and deprived of every friend
save the aunt Lucy they had been taught to love, although to
them unknown. The spirit of deep melancholy breathing
through this epistle, called forth for a few minutes a burst of
tears from her who for so many years had checked all selfish
grief.
' If I can comfort him, teach his children to love me, and
be their mother now they are orphans, oh, I shall not have
204 THE mother's recompense.
liyed in vain." Such were the words that escaped her lips as
she ceased to weep, and sat a few minutes in thought, then
sought Mrs. Hamilton and imparted all to her. Mrs. Hamil^
ton hesitated not a moment in her decision. Her own regret
at parting with her friend interfered not an instant with the
measure she believed would so greatly tend to the happiness
of Miss Harcourt. Mr. Hamilton seconded her ; but the
sorrow at separation, which was very visible in the midst of
their exertions for her welfare, both gratified and affected
Lucy. Never had she imagined how dear she was to her
pupils till the time of separation came ; and when she quitted
England, it was with a heart swelling with interest and affec-
tion for those she had left, and the fervent prayer that they
might meet again.
Mr. Seymour had said, were it not for his declining health,
which forbade the exertion of travelling, he would have come
for her himself; but if she would only consent to his proposal,
if she could resign such kind friends to devote herself to an
irritable and ailing man, he would send one under whose escort
she might safely travel. Miss Harcourt declined that offer,
for Mr. Hamilton and Percy had both declared their intention
of accompanying her as far as Paris, and thence to Geneva,
w^ere Mr. Seymour resided.
It was long ere Mr. Hamilton's family became reconciled
to this change ; Oakwood appeared so strange without the
kind, the gentle Miss Harcourt, whose steady yet mild firm-
ness had so ably assisted Mrs. Hamilton in the rearing of her
now blooming and virtuous family. It required some exer-
tion, not only in Emmeline but in Ellen, to pursue their
studies with %ziy perseverance, now that tho dear friend who
had directed and encouraged them had departed. Ellen's
grateful affection had the last few years been returned with
equal warmth ; that prejudice which had at first characterized
Miss Harcourt's feelings towards her had entirely vanished
during her sufferings, and a few days before her departure,
Lucy with much feeling had admitted the uncalled-for harsh-
ness with which she too had treated her in her months of
misery, and playfully, yet earnestly asked her forgiveness.
They were alone, and Ellen's only answer had been to throw
herself on her friend's neck and weep.
Before Christmas came, however, these painful feelings had
been conquered. Pleasing letters from Miss Harcourt arrived
by almost every post for one or other of the inmates of Oak-
THE mother's recompense. 205
wood^ and their coDtents breathing her own happiness, and the
warmest, most affectionate interest in the dear ones she had
left, satisfied even Emmeline, from whom a fortnight's visit
from the Earl and Countess of Elmore had banished all re-
maining trace of sadness. Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton had wel
comed but very few resident visitors to Oakwood during the
early years of their children, but now it was with pleasure they
exercised the hospitality so naturally their own, and received
in their own domains the visits of their most intimate friends
cf London ; but these visits afford us no matter of entertain*
mentt, nor enter much into the purpose of this history. A
large party was never collected within the walls of Oakwood ;
the intimate friends of Mr. Hamilton were but few, for it was
only those who thought on the essentials of life as himself with
whom he mingled in the familiar position of host. The Mar-
quis of Malvern's family alone remained to spend Christmas
with them, and added much to the enjoyment of that domestic
circle. Their feelings and pursuits were in common, for the
Marchioness of Malvern was a mother after Mrs. Hamilton's
own stamp, and her children had benefited by similar princi-
ples ; the same confidence existed between them. The Mar-
chioness had contrived to win both the reverence and affection
of her large family, though circumstances had prevented her
devoting as much of her own time and care on their education
as had Mrs. Hamilton. Her eldest daughter was married ;
her second, some few years older than Caroline, was then stay-
ing with her, and oirly one of the three who accompanied her
to Oakwood was as yet introduced. Lady Florence was to
make her ddyuZ the following season, with Emmeline Hamil^
ton ; and Lady Emily was still, when at home, under the su-
perintendence of a governess and masters. Lord Louis, the
Marchioness's youngest child, a fine lad of sixteen, with his
tutor, by Mr. Hamilton's earnest desire, also joined their happy
party, and by his light-hearted humor and fun, added not a
little to the amusements of the evening. But it was Lady
Gertrude, the eldest of the three sisters then at Oakwood, that
Mrs. Hamilton earnestly hoped might take the place Annie
Grahame had once occupied in Caroline's affections. Hers was
a character much resembling her brother's, St. Eval, to whom
her features also bore a striking resemblance. She might, at
a first introduction, have been pronounced proud, but, as is
often the case, reserve was mistaken for pride. Yet in her
domestic circle she was ever the gayest, and the first to con*
206 THE mother's recompense.
tribute to general amusement. In childhood she had stood in
a degree alone, for her elder sisters were four or five years
older than herself, and Florence and Emily four and five years
younger. She had learned from the first to seek no sympathy,
and her strong feelings might perhaps, by being constantly
smothered, at length have perished within her, and left her the
cold unloving character she appeared to the world, had it not
been for the devoted affection of her brother Eugene, in whom
she soon learned to confide every emotion as it rose, at that
age when girls first become sensible that they are thinking and
feeling beings. They quickly became sensible that in almost
every point they were kindred souls, and the names of Eugene
and Gertrude were ever heard together in their family. Their
affection was at length a proverb among their brothers and
sisters, and perhaps it was this great similarity of disposition
and the regard felt for her noble brother, that first endeared
Gertrude to Mrs. Hamilton, whose wishes with regard to her
and Caroline promised fulfilment. Some chor-d of sympathy
had been struck within them, and they were very soon attachea
companions, although at first Lady Gertrude had hesitated, for
she could not forget the tale of scornfully-rejected love im-
parted to her by her brother. She had marked the conduct of
Caroline from the beginning. She too had hoped that in her
she might have welcomed a sister, although her observant eye
had marked some defects in her character which the ardent
St. Eval had not perceived. Coolness during the past season
had subsisted between them, for Caroline had taken no trouble
to conquer Lady Gertrude's reserve, and the latter was too
proud to make advances. In vain Lord St. Eval had wished
a better understanding should exi^t between them ; while Car-
oline was under the influence of Miss Grahame, it was impos-
sible for her to associate in sympathy with Lady Gertrude
Lyle ; yet now that they mingled in the intimacy of home,
now the true character of Caroline was apparent, that Lady
Gertrude had time and opportunity to remark her devotion to
her parents, more particularly to her mother, her affectionate
kindness to her brothers and Emmeline and Ellen, her very
many sterling virtues, which had previously been concealed,
but which were discovered by the tributes of grateful affection
constantly offered to her by the inhabitants of the village, by
the testimony of Mr. Howard, the self-conquests of temper and
inclination for the sake of others, which the penetrating eye
of Lady Gertrude 4wicovred, and, above all, the spirit of piety
THE mother's eecompense 207
neekness which now oharaoterized her actions, all bade the
of St. Eval reproach herself for condemning without suf-
it evidence. For her conduct to her brother there was in-
no excuse, and on that subject alone, with regard to Car-
, Lady Gertrude felt bewildered, and utterly unable to
irehend her. It was a subject on which neither chose to
c, for it was a point of delicacy to both. Had Lady Ger-
) been excluded from her brother's confidence, she too
t haye spoken as carelessly and admiringly of him us his
:s constantly did ; . but she could not so address the girl
had rejected him ; it would be pleading his cause, from
k she revolted with a repugnance natural to her high-
ed character.
If he still love her, as his letters would betray, let him
I and plead his own cause ; never will I say any thing that
nake Caroline believe I am in secret negotiating for him.''
Inch was the thought that ever checked her, when about
eak of him in the common course of conversation, and baf-
all Caroline's secret wishes that she would speak in his
e as her sisters and Lord Louis so constantly did.
Jut even as delicacy prevented all allusion to him from the
jf Lady Gertrude, so it actuated Caroline with perhaps
greater force. Would she betray herself, and coofess
she repented her rejection of St. Eval ? would she by word
ed betray that, would he return to her, she would be his own,
!cel blessed in his affections 1 She shrunk almost in horror
doing so, and roused her every energy to conceal and sub-
every emotion, till she could hear his name with compo-
Yet more than once had Lady Gertrude, as she silently
hed her countenance, fancied she perceived sufficient evi-
e to bid her wonder what could have induced Caroline's
conduct, to imagine that, if St. Eval could forget that, he
it be happy yet ; and for his sake, conquering her scruples,
she spoke openly of him, when she and Caroline were
ing some poor cottagers alone. She spoke of his character,
y points of which, though she admired, she regretted, as
ering-him less susceptible of happiness than many who
J less gifted. " Unless he find a wife to love him as he
3 one who will devote herself to him alone, regardless of
: or fortune, Eugene never can be happy ; and if he pass
ugh life, unblest by the dearest and nearest ties, he will be
irable." So much she did say, and added her earnest
les for his welfare, in a tone that caused the tears to spring
208 THE MOTHER^S RECOMPENSE.
to the eyes of her companion, who permitted her to speak foi
some time without in any way replying.
" What a pity you are his sister," she replied, rallying all
her energies to speak frankly and somewhat sportively; "a
woman like yourself is alone worthy of Lord St. Eval."
" You are wrong," replied Lady Gertrude, sadly ; " I am
much too cold and reserved to form, as a wife, the happiness
of such a character as my brother's. ,We have grown together
from childhood, we have associated more intimately and affec-
tionately with each other than with any other members of our
family, and therefore Eugene knows and loves me. The wife
of St. Eval should be of a disposition as ingenuous and open
as his is reserved ; her affection, her sympathy, must make his
felicity. He is grave ^too grave ; she should be playful, but
not childish. Even if she have some faults, with the love for
which my brother pines, the ingenuousness unsullied by the
most trifling artifice, her very faults would bind her more
closely to him."
Caroline was silent, and Lady Gertrude soon after changed
the subject. Had she heard no reports of Caroline's prefer-
ence of Lord Alphingham, of the affair which had somewhat
hurried Mr. Hamilton's departure from London, that conversa-
tion would have confirmed her suspicions, that her brother was
no subject of indifference to Caroline. She longed for her to
be candid with her, to hear the whole truth from her own lips.
The happiness of the young Earl was so dear to her, that she
would have done much, very much to secure it ; yet so far she
could not force herself to go, particularly as he had given her
no charge to do so. She little knew that Caroline would have
given worlds, had they been at her disposal, to have confided
all to her : her repentance, her folly, her earnest prayers for
amendment, to become at length worthy of St. Eval. Caroline
loved, truly loved, because she esteemed. Lady Gertrude ; her
friendship for her differed as much from that she believed she
had felt for Apnie Grahame, as her regard for St. Eval was
unlike that which Lord Alphingham had originated. Once,
the superiority of Lady Gertrude's character would have ren-
dered her an object of almost dislike to Caroline, as possessing
virtues she admired but would not imitate. Now those vii'-
tues were appreciated, her own inferiority was felt moi^e pain-
fully; and while associating with her, the recollections of the
past returned more than ever, embittered by remorse. Sir
George Wilmot and Lilla Graham were also guests at Oak
THE mother's recompense. 209
ood. The former declared he had seldom anchored in moor*
igs 60 congenial to his taste. In Lilla the effects of happi-
3SS and judicious treatment were already distinctly visible,
he young men spent the Christmas recess at home, and added
uch to the hilarity of their domestic circle ; nor must we
Tget Arthur Myrvin, who spent as much of his time at Oak-
ood, as his duties permitted; the friendship of Herbert
Hamilton doing much to remove the bitter feelings which often
ill possessed him. He would at first have shunned the invi-
ttion, but vainly he strove to do so ; for there was one fair
)ject there who held him with an iron chain, which excited
bile it bound him. He could not break it asunder, though
^ace he felt was flying from his grasp.
CHAPTER X.
Q-ehtrude's letters this morning have brought her some ex-
aordinarily agreeable tidings," exclaimed Lady Florence Lyle,
kyly, as her sister entered the breakfast-room, rather later
an usual.
'* On my honor, her countenance is rather a clearer index
an usual to-day," observed the Marquis, laughing. " Well,
ertrude, what is it ?"
' News from Eugene," exclaimed Lady Emily and Lord
Duis in a breath ; " he is going to be married. Either Miss
anvers or Miss Greville have consented to take him for bet-
r or worse," added Lord Louis, laughing. " Gertrude, allow
3 to congratulate you on the gift of a new sister, who, as the
fe of my right honorable brother the Earl of St. Eval, will
dearer to you than any other bearing the same relationship."
" Reserve your congratulations, Louis, till they are needed,"
plied Lady Gertrude, fixing her eyes steadily on Caroline's
30, which was rapidly changing from pale to crimson.
" I have no such exciting news to communicate," she added,
ry quietly. " Eugene is in England, and alone.''
" In England !" repeated Percy, starting up ; "I am de-
;hted to hear it. I just know enough of him to wish most
dently to know more. Will he not join us 1 He surely
11 not winter at Castle Malvern alone, like a hermit, sur-
undcd by snows ; if he do, he is a bachelor confirmed : not
hope for his restoration to the congenial warmth of life."
** He has no such intention " replied Lady Gertrude, smil-
f
210 THE MOTHER*S RECOMPENSE.
ing ; ^ our present happy circle has too many attractio:
permit his resting quietly in solitude, and, with Mr. and
Hamilton's kind permission, will join us here by Chrit
Eve."
" There are few whom we shall be so pleased to weleoi
my noble young friend St. Eval," answered Mr. Hamilto
stantly ; " few whose society I so much prize, both for n
and my sons."
^^ And the minstrePs harp shall sleep no more, but
her boldest chords to welcome such a guest to Oakwood's
walls," exclaimed Emmeline, gayly.
" Thus I give you leave to welcome him, but if he tak
place with you in our evening walks, I shall wish him
again at Monterosa in a twinkling," observed Lord Lou
the same gay tone, and looking archly at his fair compai
" when Eugene appears my reign is always over."
" Louis, I shall put you under the command of Sir G
Wilmot," said his father, laughing, however, with the re
the circle.
" Ay, ay, do ; the sea is just the berth for such young
as these," remarked the old Admiral, clapping his hand k
on the lad's shoulder.
While such badinage was passing, serious thoughts
occupying the minds of more than one individual of
circle. It would be difficult to define the feelings of Cai
as she heard that St. Eval was in England, and coming to
wood. Had he so soon conquered his affections, that he (
associate with her on terms of friendly intimacy? She Ic
to confess to her mother her many conflicting feelings :
felt that her earnest prayers were her own, but shame
vented all disclosure. She could not admit that she now
that very man whom she had once treated with such cont
and scorn, rejected with proud indifference. Even her m(
her fond mother, would say her present feelings were a
punishment fer the past ; and that she could not bear,
wardly she resolved that not a word should pass her lips
would suffer unshrinkingly, and in silence.
Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton, and the Marquis and Marchi
of Malvern also became engrossed with the same subject
latter had seen and highly approved of their son's attentio
Caroline, and appeared gratified by the manner in whic
accepted them. Disappointment and indignation for a
tucceeded the young Earl's departure for the Contineni
THE HOTHBE's recompense. 211
fche friendship so long subsisting between the families prevented
ill unpleasant feeling, except, perhaps, a little towards Caro-
line herself They gladly welcomed the intelligence that St.
Eyal was in England, and wished to join them at Oakwood,
for they hailed it as a sign that his fancy had been but fleet-
iDg, and was now entirely conquered. Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton
thought the same, though to them it was far more a matter of
disappointment than rejoicing ; but hope mingled almost un-
oonsciously with regret, and they too were pleased that he was
Eibont to become their guest.
Lady Gertrude^s eyes were more than once during that
morning fixed on Caroline, as the subject of St. Eval's travels
and residence abroad were discussed, but she was silent; what-
ever were her secret reflections, they were confined within the
recesses of her own heart.
Lord St. Eval came, and with him fresh enjoyment for
Percy and Herbert ; and even for young Myrvin, who found
nothing in the society of the young nobleman to wound his
pride by recalling to his mind his own inferior rank. Mr. and
Mrs. Hamilton fancied they had read his character before ; but
their previous intimacy had not discovered those many pleasing
qualifications which domestic amusements and occupations be-
trayed. Much of his reserve was now banished ; his manners
were as easy and as free from pride or hauteur as his conver-
sation, though chaste and intellectual, was from pedantry. To
all the individuals of that happy circle he was the same ; as
kind and as^ gay to Emmeline and Ellen as to his own sisters ;
there might, perhaps, have been a degree of reserve in his de-
meanor towards Caroline, but that, except to those principally
concerned, might not have been remarked, for his intercourse
with her was even more general than with others. Emmeline
and Ellen, or even Lilla, Was often his selected companion for
a walk, but such an invitation never extended to Caroline, and
yet he could never be said either to neglect or shun her ; and
she shrinking from attracting his notice as much as she had
once before courted it, an impassable yet invisible barrier
seemed to exist between them. In St. Eval's manner, his
mother, and Lady Gertrude read that his feelings were not
sonquered ; that he was struggling to subdue them, and puV
ting their subjection to the proof ; but Caroline and her parents
imagined, and with bitter pain, that much as he had once
esteemed and loved her, a feeling of indifference now possessed
bim.
' I
212 THE HOTHEE's EEC0MPEN8B.
Herbert found pleasure in the society of the young Earl,
for St. Eval had penetrated the secret of his and Mary's love j
though with innate delicacy he refrained from noticing it fa^
ther than constantly to make Mary his theme during his walks
with Herbert, and speaking of her continually to the family,
warming the heart of Emmeline yet more in his favor, by his
sincere admiration of her friend. He gave an excellent ao
count of her health, which she had desired him to assure her
friends the air of Italy had quite restored. He spoke in warm
admiration of her enthusiasm, her love of nature, of all whidi
called forth the more exalted feelings ; of her unaffected good-
ness, which had rendered her a favorite, spite of her being a
foreigner and a Protestant, throughout the whole hamlet of
Monterosa ; and as he thus spoke, the anxious eye of Mrs.
Hamilton ever rested on her Herbert, who could read in that
glance how tru and fond was the sympathy, which not once
since he had confided in her his happiness, had he regretted
that he had sought.
The remaining period of the Marquis of Malvern's sojourn
at Oakwood passed rapidly away without any event of suffi-
cient importance to find a place in these pages. They left
Oakwood at the latter end of January for St. Eval's beautiful
estate in Cornwall, where they intended .to remain a month
ere they went to London, about the same time as Mr. Hamil-
ton's family. That month was a quiet one at Oakwood ; all
their guests had departed, and, except occasional visits from
Arthur Myrvin and St. Eval, their solitude was uninterrupted.
St. Eval's estate was situated a few miles inland from the
banks of the Tamar, one of the most beautiful spots bordering
that most beautiful river. He was wont leisurely to sail down
the stream to Plymouth, and thence to Oakwood, declaring the
distance was a mere trifle ; but, nevertheless it was sufficiently
long for Mr. Hamilton sometimes to marvel at the taste of his
noble friend, which led him often twice and regularly once a
week to spend a few hours, never more, at Oakwood, when he
knew they should so soon meet in London. St. Eval did not
solve the mystery, but continued his visits, bringing cheerful-
ness and pleasure whenever he appeared, and bidding hope
glow unconsciously in each parent's heart, though had they
looked for its foundation, they would have found nothing in the
young Earl's manner to justify its encouragement.
In March Mr. Hamilton's family once more sought their
residence in Berkeley Square, about a week after the Marquis
THE mother's &ECOMPENSS. 2l3
of Malvern's arriyal ; and this season, the feelings of the sisters,
relative to the gajeties in which they were now both to mingle,
were more equal. The bright hues with which Caroline had
before regarded them had faded, ^too soon and too painfully,
indeed.
She had been deceived, and in that word, when applied to
a young, aspiring, trusting mind, what anguish does it not
comprise. True, she deserved her chastisement, not only
that she had acted the part of a deceiver to one who trusted her
far more than she had done Lord Alphingham, but wilfully
she had blinded herself to her own feelings, that she might
prove her independence ; yet these facts lessened not ihe bit-
terness of feeling which was now often hers. But she did not
relinquish society ; the dread of encountering Lord Alphing-
ham was not strong enough to overcome her secret wish that,
by her conduct in society, she might prove to St. Eval that,
although unworthy to be selected as his wife, she would yet
endeavor to regain his esteem. She had resolved to think less
of herself and more of others, and thus become more amiable
in their sight, and not feel so many mortifications, as by her
constant desire for universal homage, she had previously en-
dured. She knew the task was difficult so to conquer herself,
and doubting her own strength, was led to seek it where alone
it could be found. To none did she confess these secret feel-
ings and determination ; calmly and steadily she looked for-
ward, and so successfully had she schooled herself to submis-
sion, that no word or sign as yet betrayed to her parents the
real state of her affections.
Emmeline's dislike to London had abated as much as had
her sister's glowing anticipations. They were now only to be
four months in the metropolis ; the strict routine of masters,
etc., was at an end, and she was to accompany Mrs. Hamilton
whenever she went out. She left Oakwood with regret, and
the society and conversation of Arthur Myrvin were missed
more often in London than she chose to confess, but enjoyment
was ever found for Emmeline life was still a romance to her.
In the society of London, as in the cottages of Oakwood, she
was beloved, and she was happy ; but those of the opposite sex,
much as they thronged around her, had no more thought of
demanding such a being in marriage, than she had of what is
termed making conquests. It was therefore with feelings of
much less anxiety Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton mingled in society
this season, for the conduct of both their daughters was such
as to afford them satisfaction.
I
214 THB mother's recompense.
Some changes had taken place in many of the personage!
with whom we are acquainted, since the last time we beheld
them. Short and eyanescent is fashionable popularity. Lord
Alphingham's reign might be, in a degree, considered over.
Some rumors had been floating over the town at that time
of the year when, in all probability, he thought himself most
secure, that is, when London society is dispersed ; rumors
which had the effect of excluding him from most of those cir-
cles in which Mr. Hamilton's family mingled, and withdrawing
from him in a great measure the friendship of Moutrose Gra-
hame ; who, the soul of honor himself, shrunk from acy con-
nection with one whose reputation the faintest breath had
stained. Yet still there were many who regarded these ru-
mors as the mere whisperings of envy, and with them he was
as much a favorite as ever. Amongst these was Annie Gra-
hame, whose marked pneference more than atoned to the Vis-
count for her father's coldness. In vain Grahame commanded
that his daughter should change her manner towards him.
She, who had prevailed on a daughter to disobey this very
mandate from the lips of an indulgent parent, was not likely to
regard that of the father whose sternness and often uncalled-
for severity had completely alienated her affections, and Lord
Alphingham had now another urgent reason to flatter Annie's
vanity and make her his own.
A distant relation and godmother of Lady Helen Grahame
had, most unexpectedly, left her at her death sole heiress to a
handsome fortune, which was to descend undivided to her el-
der daughter, and thus to Annie's other attractions was now p
added that all-omnipotent charm, the knowledge that she was
an heiress, not perhaps to any very large property, but quite |-^
sufficient to mosu agreeably enlarge the fortune of any gentle-
man who would venture to take her for better or worse. One
would have supposed that now every wish of this aspiring
young lady was gratified ; but no. It mattered not, though
crowds were at her feet, that when they met, which was very
seldom, even Caroline was no longer her rival, all the affection
she possessed was lavished without scruple on Lord Alphing-
ham, and every thought was turned, every effort directed to-
wards the accomplishment of that one design. So deeply en-
grossed was she in this resolution, that she had no time nor
thought to annoy Caroline, as she had intended, except in ex-
ercising to its full extent her power over Lord Alphingham
whenever she was present, in which the Viscount's own irri-
THE mother's eecompense. 215
tated feelings towards her ably assisted. Caroline felt the truth
of her mother's words, that Lord Alphingham, indeed, had never
honorably loved her ; that Annie's conduct justified Mrs. Ha-
milton's prejudice, and as her heart shrunk in sadness from
the retrospection of these truths, it swelled in yet warmer af-
fection, not only towards her fond and watchful mother, but
towards the friends that mother's judicious choice selected and
approved.
Cecil Grahame had been continually in the habit of draw-
ing upon his mother's cash for the indulgence of his eztrava
gant pleasures, and Lady Helen had thoughtlessly satisfied all
his wishes, without being in the least aware of the evil propen-
sities she was thus encouraging. It was not till Cecil was
about to leave Eton for the University, that she was at all
startled at the amount of his debts, and then her principal
alarm arose more from the dread of her husband's anger to-
wards her son, if he discovered the fact, than from any maternal
anxiety for Cecil's imsteady principles. Her only wish was to
pay off these numerous debts, without disclosing them to the
husband she so weakly dreaded. How could she obtain so
large a sum, even from her own banker, and thus apply it, with-
out his knowledge and assistance? The very anticipation of
so much trouble terrified her almost into a fit of illness ; and
rather than exert her energies or expose her son to his father's
wrath, she would descend to deceit, and implore his assistance
in obtaining the whole amount, on pretence that she required
it for the payment of her own expenses and debts of honor.
She imagined that she had sunk too low in her husband's esteem
to sink much lower ; and therefore, if her requiring money to
discharge debts of honor exposed her yet more to his contempt,
it was not of much consequence ; besides, if it were, she could
not help it, a phrase with which Lady Helen ever contrived to
silence the rebukes of conscience when they troubled her,
which, however, was not often.
She acted accordingly ; but as she met the glance of her
husband, a glance in which sadness triumphed over severity,
ghe was tempted to throw herself at his feet, and beseech him
not to imagine her the dissipated woman her words betrayed, for
Lady Helen loved her husband as much as such a nature could
love ; but, of all things, she hated a scene, and though every
limb trembled with emotion, she permitted him to leave her
stung almost to madness by the disclosure her request implied
Did she play ? was that fatal propensity added to her numer-
216 THE mother's recompensr
0U8 other errors ? ai^. yet never had any thinfj; fallen nnder *'^-
his eye to prove that she did. And what dehts had she con-
tracted to demand such a sum ? Grahame felt she had deceived
him ; that the money had never been expended on herself; f
but he would not torture himself by demanding a true and full
disclosure. The conduct of his children had ever grieved him, ' =
and fearing too justly the request of his wife related to them, -^
madly and despairingly he closed his eyes and his lips, thus i
probably encouraging an evil which he might have prevented, ^i
He delivered the stated sum, and that same day made over to I's
his wife's own unchecked disposal the whole of that fortune ^
which, when first inherited, she had voluntarily placed in his ^-
hands as trustee for herself and for her daughter, to whom it '"
would descend. Briefly he resigned the office she h^ en- =
treated him to take, sternly observing that Annie had better ~
moderate her expectations, as, did Lady Helen frequently incur ^*
Buch heavy debts, not much was likely to descend to her daugh- 4
ter. It was a great deal too much trouble for Lady Helen to c
expostulate, and if any feeling predominated to conquer the
pang occasioned by Grahame's determination, it was relief^
that she might now assist Cecil, if he should require it, without
applying to his father.
Montrose Grahame was naturally not only an excellent hut
a judicious man ; but to a great extent, his jud^ent had de-
serted him, when he selected Lady Helen as his wife. Had
he been united to a woman in whose judgment and firmness
he could confide, he would have been quite as much respected
and beloved in his family as were Mr. Hamilton and the Ma^
quis of Malvern in theirs ; but now neither respect nor affeo-
-tion was extended towards him, except, perhaps, by Lilla, and
unconsciously by Lady Helen. Severity, constantly indulged,
was degenerating into moroseness; and feelings continually
controlled, giving place to coldness and distrust. It was for-
tunate for Lilla's happiness and, as it afterwards proved, for
her father's, that she was now under the kindly care of Mrs.
Douglas, for constantlv irritated with his elder girl, who, it
must be owned, gave him abundant cause, that irritation and
suspicion would undoubtedly have extended towards his
younger, and at once have destroyed the gentleness and amia-
bility which Mrs. Douglas was so carefully and tenderly fos-
tering. Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton saw this change, and regret-
ted it ; but their influence, powerful as it was, could be of no
avail iR counteracting the effect, oi ^oTii^^XAti w\i\\v3%s^^!^,^v
-ij
f"
THE mother's recompense. 917
ternal anxiety, and constantly-arooBed irritation. Of all the
evils in life, domestic discord is one of the greatest, one under
which the heart bleeds the most ; want of sympathy always pre-
vents or banishes affection. Had Grahame been a careless, self-
ish man, he might possibly have been happier ; his very sensi-
tiveness was his bane. The silly weaknesses of his wife might
partially have lessened his love for her, but his children, with
all their faults, were dear to their father; they knew not,
guessed not, how much his happiness was centred in theirs ;
how his heart was rent with anguish every time that duty, as
he imagined, called on him to be severe. Had he followed the
dictates of his nature, he would rather have ruined his children
by over-indulgence than severity ; but the hope of counteract-
ing the effect of their mother's weakness had guided his mis-
taken treatment. Could his inmost soul have been read by
those who condemned his harshness, they would have sincerely
pitied the keen and agonized sensitiveness with which he felt
the alienation of their affections. Much as he saw to blame
in Annie, had she ever given him one proof of filial love, all
would have been forgiven, and the blessing of a parent been
her own in all she did or wished. Had Cecil confessed those
errors of which he was conscious that he was guilty to his fa-
ther, he would have found a true and tender friend, who would
have led hii^ naturally good, though too yielding, character
aright, and misery to both might have been spared, but such
was not to be ; and in the fates of Alfred Greville and Cecil
Grahame we may chance to perceive that, whatever may be
the difficulties surrounding her, however blighted may appear
the produce of her anxious labors, yet reward will attend the
firm, religious mother, however difficult may be the actual ful-
filment ol her duties ; while that mother who, surrounded by
luxury and prosperity, believes, by unqualified indulgence, she
is firmly binding her offspring in the observance of love and
duty, will reap but too bitter fruit.
It was when in the presence of the Duchess of Kothbury
Caroline felt most uncomfortable. The family were as cordial
as ever, but there was somewhat in the cold, penetrating eye
of her Grace, that bade her almost unconsciously shrink from
meeting its glance. In the previous season the Duchess had
ever singled Caroline out as an object of her especial regard,
a circumstance so unusual in one of her character, that it ren-
dered her present haughty coldness more difficult to bear.
Caroline would have borne it in silence had it only extended
10
218 THE mother's recompense.
towards herself, but it appeared as if both Emmeline and EILq
shared the contempt she perhaps had justly called forth on
herself, as the Duchess, tenacious of her penetrating powers,
feared to honor either of them with her favor, lest she shoula
be again deceived. Caroline longed to undeceive her on this
point, to give her a just estimate of both her sister and cou-
sin's character, acknowledge how far superior in filial respect
and affection, as well as in innate integrity and uprightness,
they were to herself; but her mother entreated her to let time
do its work, and wait till the Duchess herself discovered they
were not what she either believed they were or might be, ana
she checked her wish.
"We will here mention a circumstance which occurred in
Mr. Hamilton's family soon after their arrival in town, which
occasioned Mrs. Hamilton some uneasiness. Ellen's health
was now perfectly re-established, and on Miss Harcourt's un-
expected departure, Mrs. Hamilton had determined on intro-
ducing her niece with Emmeline in the present season. If
Lucy had remained in her family, Ellen would not have made
her d^biU till the following year ; not that her age was any ob-
stacle, for there were only eight months difference between her
and Emmeline, but her retiring disposition and delicacy of con-
stitution caused Mrs. Hamilton to think this plan the most
advisable. "When, however, there was no longer any excuse
with regard to failing health, and no Miss Harcourt with whom
her evenings at home might be more agreeably spent, Mrs.
Hamilton, by the advice of her husband, changed her intention ;
and Emmeline even made a joke with Ellen on the admirable
fun they should have together, rejoicing that such an impor-
tant event in the lives of each should take place on the same
day. It so happened that Ellen never appeared to enter into
her cousin's everlasting merriment on this subject ; still she
said nothing for or against till the day all-important with the
ordering their elegant dresses for the occasion. Timidly and
hesitatingly she then ventured to entreat her aunt still to ad-
here to her first plan, and allow her to remain quietly at home,
under the care of EUis, till the following year. Mrs. Hamil-
ton and her cousins looked at her with astonishment ; but the
former smiHngly replied, she could not indulge her niece in
what appeared an unfounded fancy. The dress she should
order, for she hoped Ellen would change her mind before the
day arrived, as, unless a very good reason were given, she could
not grant her request. Ellen appeared distressed; but the
THE mother's JELEC0MPEN8E. 219
eonversation changed, and the subject was not resumed till the
day actually arrived, in the evening of which she was to ac-
company her aunt to a ball at the Marchioness of Malvern's,
and two days affcer they were all engaged at a dinner-party at
the Earl of Elmore's.
Summoning all her courage, Ellen entered her aunt's bou-
doir in the morning, and again made her request with an
earnestness that almost startled Mrs. Hamilton, particularly as
it was accompanied by a depression of manner, which she now
did not very often permit to obtain ascendency. With affec-
tionate persuasiveness she demanded the reason of this extra-
ordinary resolution, and surprise gave way to some displeasure,
when sne found Ellen had really none to give. Her only en-
treaty was that she might not be desired to go out till the next
year.
" But why, my dear Ellen ? You must have some reason
for this intended seclusion. Last year I fancied you wished
much to accompany us, and I ever regretted your delicate
health prevented it. What has made you change your mind
so completely? Have you any distaste for the society in which
I mingle 1"
Falteringly, and almost inaudibly, Ellen answered, " None."
" Is it a religious motive ? Do your principles revolt from
the amusements which are now before you ? Tell me candidly,
Ellen. You know nothing displeases me so much as mystery ;
I can forgive every thing else, for then I know our relative po-
sitions, and am satisfied you are not going far wrong ; but when
every reason is studiously concealed, I cannot guess the biuth,
and I must fancy it is, at least, a mistaken notion biiuding
your better judgment. I did not expect a second mystery
from you, Ellen."
Mrs. Hamilton's expressive voice clearly denoted she was
displeased, and her niece, affcer two or three ineffectual efforts
to prevent it, finally burst into tears.
" I do not wish to be harsh with you, or accuse you un-
justly," continued her aunt, softened at the unaffected grief
she beheld, " but if your reason be a good one, why do you so
carefully conceal it 7 You have been lately so very open with
me, and appeared to regard me so truly as your friend, that
your present conduct is to me not only a riddle, but a painful
reflection. Is it because your conscience forbids ? Perhaps
in your solitary moments you have fancied that worldly
amusements, even in the moderate way in which we regard
220 THE mother's recompense.
them, unfit us for more serious considerations, and you feaf
perhaps to confess that such is your reason, because it will seem
a reproach to me. If such really be your motive, do not fear
to confess it, my dear girl ; I should be the very last to urge
you to do any thing that is against your idea of what is right
To prove the fallacy of such reasoning, to show you that you
may be truly religious without eccentricity, I certainly should
endeavor to do, but I would not force you to go out with me
till my arguments had convinced you. I fancy, by your blush-
ing cheek, that I have really guessed the cause of your ex-
traordinary resolution, and sorry as I shall be if I have, yet
any reason, however mistaken, is better than a continued
mystery."
'^ Indeed, indeed, I am not so good as you believe me," re*
plied Ellen, with much emotion. '^ It is not the religious mo-
tive you imagine that urges me to act contrary to your wishes.
Did you know my reason, I am sure you would not blame me;
but do not, pray do not command me to tell you. I must
obey, if you do, and then ^^
" And then, if I appove of your reason, as you say I shall,
what is it that you fear ? Why, if your conscience does not
reproach you, do you still hide it from me ?"
Ellen was painfully silent. Mrs. Hamilton continued, in
a tone of marked displeasure, " I fear I am to find myself
again deceived in you, Ellen, though in what manner, as yet, I
know not. I will not do such extreme violence to your incli-
nations as to command you to yield to my wishes. If you de-
sire so much to remain at home, do so ; but I cannot engage
to make any excuse for you. Neither failing health nor being
too young can I now bring forward ; I must answer all inqui-
ries for you with the truth, that your own wishes, which I could
not by persuasion overcome, alone keep you at home. My
conscience will still be clear from the reproaches so plentifully
showered on me by the world last season, that I feared to bring
forward my orphan niece with my daughters, lest her charms
should rival theirs."
" Did the ill-natured and ignorant dare to say such a thing
to you ?" demanded Ellen, startled at this remark.
" They knew not the cause of your never appearing in pub-
lic, and therefore, as appearances were against me, scrupled
not to condemn."
" And do you heed them? Do these remarks affect you?"
exclaimed Ellen, earnestly.
THE mother's RECOBIPENSE. 221
" No, Ellen. I have done my duty ; I will still do it, un-
disturbed by such idle calumnies, even should they now bo
believed by those whose opinions I value, who, from your se-
clusion, may imagme they have good reason. In my conduct
towards you the last two years I have nothing to reproach
myself."
" The last two years. Oh, never, never, from the first mo-
ment I was under your care, never can your conduct to me
have given you cause for self-reproach, dearest aunt. Oh, do not
say that the gratification of my wishes will give rise to a sus-
picion so unjust, so unfounded," entreated Ellen, seizing with
impetuosity the hand of her aunt.
" In all probability it will ; but do not speak in this strain
now, Ellen ; it accords not well with the mystery of your
words," and Mrs. Hamilton coldly withdrew her hand. There
was a moment's silence, for Ellen had turned away, pained to
her heart's core, and soon after she quitted the room to seek
her own, where, throwing herself on a low seat by the side of
her couch, she gave way to an unrestrained and violent flow
of tears. Mrs. Hamilton little knew the internal struggle her
uiece was enduring, the cause of her seclusion ; that the term
of her self-condemned probation was not fulfilled, that the long,
tedious task was not accomplished ; that it was for this pur-
pose she so earnestly desired that her time might not be occu-
pied by amusement, till her task was done, the errors of her
earlier years atoned. Mrs. Hamilton had seldom felt more
thoroughly displeased and hurt with her niece, than at the
present moment. Gentle, and invulnerable as she ever seemed
to irritation, open as the day herself, she had ever endeavored
to frame her children's characters in the like manner ; inge-
nuousness always obtained forgiveness, whatever might have
been the mistake or fault. Ellen had always been a subject
ot anxiety and watchfulness ; but the last two years her re-
serve had so entirely given place to candor, that solicitude had
much decreased, till recalled by the resolution we have re-
corded. Had Ellen alleged any reason whatever, all would
have been well ; Mrs. Hamilton would not have thought on
the subject so seriously. A mystery in her conduct had once
before been so productive of anguish, that Mrs. Hamilton
could not think with her usual calmness and temper on the
circumstance.
It was so long before Ellen regained her composure, that
traces of tears were visible even when she joined the family at
222 THE mother's recompense.
dinner, and were remarked by her uncle, who jestingly de-
manded what could occasion signs of grief at such an important
era in her life. Vainly Ellen hoped her aunt would spare her
the pain of answering by even expressing her displeasure at
her resolution, but she waited in vain, and she was compelled
to own that the era of her life, to which her uncle so playfully
referred, was postponed by her own earnest desire till the next
season.
Mr. Hamilton put down his knife and fork in unfeigned
astonishment. ^' Why, what is the meaning of this sudden
change ?" he exclaimed. " You were not wont to be capri-
cious, Ellen. Will your aunt explain this marvellous mys-
tery ?"
" I am sorry I cannot," Mrs. Hamilton replied, in a tone
that plainly betrayed to the quick ears of her husband that
she was more than usually disturbed. '^ I am not in Ellen's
confidence ; her resolution is as extraordinary to me as to yon,
for she has given me no reason." Mr. Hamilton said no more,
but he looked vexed, and Ellen did not feel more comfortable.
He detained her as she was about to leave the room, and briefly
demanded in what manner she intended to employ the many
hours which, now that Miss Harcourt was away, she would
have to herself A crimson flush mounted to Ellen's temples
as he spoke, a flush that, combined with the hesitating tone
in which she answered, "to read and work," might well justify
the sternness of tone and manner with which her uncle re-
plied :
" Ellen, had you never deceived ns, I might trust you, spite
of that flushed cheek and hesitating tone ; as it is, your con-
duct the last two years urges me to do so, notwithstanding
appearances, and all I say is, beware how you deceive me a
second time."
Ellen's cheek lost its color, and became for the space of a
minute pale as death, so much so, that Mrs. Hamilton regret-
ted her husband should have spoken so severely. Kallying
her energies, Ellen replied, in a steady but very low voice
" My conduct, uncle, during my aunt's and your absence
from home, has been and shall ever be open to the inspection
of all your household. I am too well aware that I am unde-
serving of your confidence, but I appeal to Ellis, on whose
fidelity I know you rely, to prove to you in this case you sus-
pect me unjustly." The last word was audible, but that was
all, and, deeply pained, Ellen retired to her own room, which
THE mother's recompense. 223
she did not quit, even to see her favorite consin decked for the
ball. Emmeline sought her, however, and tried by kisses to
recall the truant rose, the banished smile, but Mrs. Hamilton
did not come to wish her good night, and Ellen's heart was
heavy.
Some few days passed, and Mrs. Hamilton accepted three
several invitations without again expressing her wishes ; but
though the subject was not resumed, equal perplexity existed
in the minds of both aunt and niece. Ellen did not accuse
Mrs. Hamilton of unkindness, but she could not fail to per-
ceive that she no longer retained her confidence, and that
knowledge painfully distressed the orphan's easily excited feel-
ings. Another circumstance gave her additional pain; her
strange and apparently capricious behavior had been casually
mentioned to Herbert, and he, aware that his advice was al-
ways acceptable to Ellen, ventured to remonstrate with her,
and playfully to reason her out of what he termed her extraor-
dinary fancy for seclusion. Some indefinable sensation ever
prevented Ellen from speaking or writing to Herbert as she
would have done to any other member of the family, but she
answered him, acknowledging she deserved his hinted reproach,
but owning that she could not change her conduct, even in
compliance with his request ; nevertheless, it grieved her much
to know that he, whose approbation she unconsciously but ar-
dently wished to gain, should believe her the capricious, unac-
countable being it was evident he did : still she persevered.
These, and whatever more she might have to endure, were but
petty trials to which her secretly chastened mind might bend,
but should noi weakly bow. She knew, if her aunt were con-
scious of her intention, much as perhaps she might approve of
the motive, she would deem it a needless sacrifice, and pro-
bably prohibit its continuance ; or, if she permitted and encour-
aged it, the merit of her action would no longer exist, nor could
she indeed, while in the enjoyment of praise, have finished a
task, commenced and carried on purely ^r the sake of duty,
and as an atonement for the. past, by the sacrifice of inclina-
tion, make peace with the gracious God she had offended.
Petty trials were welcome then, for if she met them with a
Christian temper, a Christian spirit, she might hope that, what*
ever she might endure, she was progressing in His paths,
" whose ways are pleasantness, and whose paths are peace ;"
eould she but remove the lingering displeaame ^iXi^ ^b\x\v&\ d
her aunt and unclej she would be quite happy.
224 THE mother's recompense.
It so happened that Emmeline's nezt engagemeut was ti
the Opera, which was always Ellen's greatest conquest ol
inclination. She had amused herself by superintending her
cousin's dressing, and a sigh so audibly escaped, that Emme-
line instantly exclaimed
" Ellen, you know you would like to go with us. In the
name of all that is incomprehensible, why do you stay at
home ?"
'^ Because, much as I own I should like to go with you, I
like better to stay at home."
" You really are the spirit of contradiction, Ellen. What
did you sigh for 1"
" Not for the Opera, Emmeline."
" Then why ?
'^ Because I cannot bear to feel my aunt has lost all her
confidence in me."
" You are marvellously silly, Ellen ; mamma is just the
same to you as usual ; I have observed no difference."
"Dear Emmeline, coldness is not seen, it is ^c/^; and as
you have been so happy as never to have felt it, you cannot
understand what I mean."
" Nor do I ever wish to feel it. But do not look so sor-
rowful, dear Ellen ; mamma's coldness is an awful thing to
encounter, I own."
" If you have never felt it, how can you judge ?" said a
playful voice beside them, for Emmeline had been too deeply
engrossed in arranging and disarranging a wreath of roses in
her hair, and Ellen too much engaged in her own thoughts, to
notice the entrance of Mrs. Hamilton.
" Is it possible yon are not ready, Emmeline ? what have
you been about?"
^^ Teasing Ellen, mamma; besides, Fanny was engaged,
and I could not please myself"
' Or rather you were disinclined for exertion. I have
been watching you the last few moments, and you have played
witli that pretty wreath till it is nearly spoiled."
" I plead guilty, dear mamma, but let Fanny come, and
I will be ready in a second," answered Emmeline, looking
archly and caressingly in her mother's face. Mrs. Hamilton
smiled, and turned as if to speak to her niece, but Ellen was
gone. She was sitting in her own room a few minutes after-
wards, endeavoring to collect her thoughts sufl&oiently to un-
derstand the book of the new opera which her cousin had lent
THE mother's recompense. 225
her, when she was interrupted by a hand gently placed upon
the leaves.
" So coldness is felt, not seen, is it, my dear Ellen ? well,
then, let that kiss banish it for ever," exclaimed Mrs. Hamil-
ton, encircling the delicate form of her niece with her arm.
^'I have been more distant and unkind, perhaps, than was
necessary, but your mysterious resolution irritated me beyond
forbearance, and I have been very unjust and very cruel, have
I not ? will you forgive me ?"
Ellen looked up in her face, and, unable to control her
feelings, threw her arms around her and burst into tears.
" Nay, dearest, do not let me leave you in tears. I am
eatisfied you have some good reason for your conduct, though
my usual penetration is entirely at fault. Will you quite con-
tent me by looking steadily in my face, and assuring me that
your conscience never reproaches your conduct. I shall not
have one lingering doubt then."
Ellen smiled through her tears, as she tried to obey, but
her lips so quivered as she answered, that Mrs. Hamilton
laughingly added, " That would never do in a court of justice,
my silly little girl ; no one would pronounce you innocent if
thus tearfully affirmed ; but as you generally compel me to
regret severity, when I do venture to use it, I must be content
to let you follow your own inclinations this year at least.
Next season, I give you no such license ; nolens volens^ as
Percy would say, I must take you out with me ; you shall not
hide yourself in solitude ; but I do not fancy your resolution
will hold good, even the remainder of this season," she added,
smilingly.
" Do not, pray do not try to turn me from it, my dear,
ki'^d aunt," said Ellen, earnestly ; " I do not deserve this in-
dulgence from you, for I know how much you dislike conceal-
ment ; but indeed, indeed, you shall never regret your kind-
ness. I do not, I will not abuse it ; it is only becauseT, be-
cause ^" she hesitated.
" Do not excite my curiosity too painfully, Ellen, in return
for my indulgence," said Mrs. Hamilton, sportively.
" No, dear aunt, I only wish to finish, a task I have sec
myself, and my various avocations during the day prevent my
having any time, unless I take it from such amusements," said
Ellen, blushing as she spoke ; " indeed, that is my real and
only reason."
Mrs. Hamilton fixed an anxious glance upon her, but
10*
226 THE mother's recompensk.
though she really felt satisfied at this avowal, the actual truth
never entered her mind.
^ You have quite satisfied me, my dear girl ; I will not ask
more, and you may stay at home as often as you please.
Yjonr uncle and I have both been very unjust and very severe
upon our little Ellen, but you have quite disarmed us ; so you
shall neither feel nor fancy my coldness any more. There is
Emmeline calling as loudly for me as if I were after my time.
Good night, love. God bless you ! do not sit up too late, and
be as happy as you can."
" I am quite happy now," exclaimed Ellen, returning, with
delighted eagerness, Mrs. Hamilton's fond embrace, and she
was happy. For a moment she felt lonely, as the door closed
on her aunt's retreating form ; but as she roused herself to
seek her work, that feeling fled. When the nature of her
work was sufficiently simple to require but little thought,
Ellen was accustomed to improve herself by committing to
memory many parts of the Bible suited for prayer, confession,
or praise, so that her thoughts might not wander, during those
solitary hours, in the paths of folly or of sin, but, once centred
on serious things, her mind might thence become strengthened
and her judgment ripened.
These lonely hours did much towards the formation of the
orphan's character. Accustomed thus to commune with her
Creator, to gather strength in the solitude of her chamber,
she was enabled, when her trial came, to meet it with a spirit
most acceptable to Him who had ordained it
CHAPTER XI.
Lord Malvern's family and Mr. Hamilton's were still in
town, though the younger members of each were longing for
the fresh air of the country.
One ^.fternoon, hot and dusty from rapid riding, the young
Earl St. Eval hastily, and somewhat discomposedly, entered
his sister Lady Gertrude's private room.
" Thank Heaven, you are alone !" was his exclamation, as
he entered ; but throwing himself moodily on a couch, he did
not seem inclined to say more.
*^ What is the matter, dear Eugene ? Something has dis-
turbed you," said Lady Gertrude, soothingly, and in a tone
tending rather to allay his irritation than express her own
desire to know what had happened.
THE mother's recompense. 227
" Something ^yes, Gertrude, enough to bid me forswear
England again, and bury myself in a desert, where a sigh
from your sex could never reach me more."
" Not even mine, Eugene ?" exclaimed his sister, laying
down her work, and seating herself on a stool at his feet, while
she looked up in his excited features with an expression of
fondness on her placid countenance. " Would you indeed for-
bid my company, if I implored to share your solitude ?"
" My sister, my own kind sister, would I, could I deprive
myself of the blessing, the comfort your presence ever
brings ?" replied St. Eval, earnestly. " No, dearest Gertrude,
I could not refuse you, whatever you might ask."
'^ Then tell me now what it is that has disturbed you thus.
With what new fancy are you tormenting yourself?"
"Nay, this is nd fancy, Gertrude. You are, you have
been wrong from the first, and I am too painfully right.
Caroline does not and never will love me."
Lady Gertrude started.
" Have you been again rejected ?" she demanded, a dark
flush of indignant pride suffusing her cheek.
Lord St. Eval mournfully smiled.
" You are as summary in your conclusions as you say I am
sometimes. No, Gertrude, I have not ; I feel as if I could not
undergo the torture I once experienced in saying those words
which I hoped would seal my happiness."
" Nay, then, I must say them for you," said Lady Gertrude,
smiling. " I have watched Caroline narrowly, and I feel so
confident she loves you, that I would, without the slightest
doubt or fear, consign your happiness, precious as it is to m 3,
to her disposal."
" Forbear, Gertrude, for pity ! " exclaimed Lord St. Eval,
starting up an i pacing the room. " You saw not what I saw
last night, nor heard the cold, malicious words warning me
against her ; that even when she had accepted, she Was i^lse ;
ar, if she were not false, that she still loved another. I saw
it in her varying cheek, her confused manner ; I heard it in
her hurried accents, and this morning has confirmed all alL
Gertrude, I ever told you, my lot was not happiness ; that as
the fate of some men is all bright, so that of others is all gloom,
sind such is mine."
" Eugene, hew often must I entreat you not to speak thus.
Man*s happiness or misery, in a great measure, depends upon
bimself. You have often said that when with me, you reason
228 THE HOTHS&'O RECOMPENSE.
more calmly than when you think alone ; only tell me cohe
rently what has chanced, and all may not be so gloomy as yon
believe."
St. Eval suffered himself to be persuaded, and seating him
self beside his sister, he complied with her request.
The fact was simply this. He had returned to England,
at the entreaty of his sister, determined to discover if indeed
there, existed any hope of his at length obtaining Caroline's
affections. Lady Gertrude's letter to him purposely portrayed
the many amiable qualities existing in Cfaroline's character,
and the general tenor of her words had led him to resolve that
if he could indeed make so favorable an impression on her
heart as to teach her to forget the past, he too would banish
pride, and secure his happiness, and he hoped hers, by a second
offer of his hand. Her conduct, guarded as it was, had un-
consciously strengthened his hopes, and the last few weeks he
had relaxed so much in his reserve, as to excite in the mind of
Caroline the hope, almost the certainty, that he no longer de-
spised her, and created for himself many truly delightful hours.
It so happened that, on the evening to which he referred, Caro-
line had gone to a large party, under the protection of the
Countess of Elmore, who, at the entreaty of the lady of the
house, had obtained the permission of Mrs. Hamilton to intro-
duce her. The young Earl had devoted himself to her the
greater part of the evening, to the satisfaction of both, when
his pleasure was suddenly and painfully alloyed by her visible
confusion at the unexpected entrance, and still more unex*
pected salutation, of Lord Alphingham. Caroline had so sel-
dom met the Viscount during the season, that she was not yet
enabled to conquer her agitation whenever she beheld him.
She ever dreaded his addressing her ; ever felt that somewhat
lurked in his insinuating voice, that would in the end lead to
evil ; besides which, her abhorrence towards him whenever
Percy's tale flashed across her mind, which it never failed to do
when he appeared, always prevented her retaining her calm-
ness undisturbed. Lord St. Eval had left England with the
impression that Alphingham was his favored rival, and his im-
agination instantly attributed Caroline's emotion at his en-
trance into a preference for the Viscount. His earnest manner
suddenly became chilled, his eloquence checked. Intuitively
Caroline penetrated his suspicions ; the wish to prove they
were mistaken and unjust increased her confusion, and instead
of lessening, confirmed them. St. Eval said little more to hei
THE mother's eecomfense. 229
during the evening ; but he watched her. He saw Lord Alph-
Ingham whisperinglj address her. She appeared to become
more painfully confused, and St. Eval could scarcely restrain
himself from hurrying from her sight for ever ; but he did re*
strain himself, only to be more tortured.
The Viscount now believed the hour of his vengeance was
at hand, when, without the slightest exertion, he might disturb
not only St. Eval's peace, but that of Caroline.
If St. Eval had but heard the few words he said to her,
jealousy would have been instantly banished, but for that he
was not sufficiently near ; he could only mark the earnest and
insinuating manner which the Viscount knew so well how to
assume, and notice her confusion, and the shade of melancholy
expressed on her features, which was in fact occasioned by
Lord St. EvaPs sudden desertion, and her annoyance at the
cause. His quick imagination attributed all to the effect of
Lord Alphingham's tender words. The Viscount was well
known to him, and near the end of the evening approached and
remained in conversation by his side, spite of the haughty re-
serve maintained by the young Earl, which said so plainly,
" your presence is unwelcome," that it would speedily have dis-
missed any one less determined ; but Lord Alphingham spoke
admiringly and enthusiastically of Caroline. Lord St. Eval
listened, as if fascinated by the very torture he endured.
They were quite alone, and after a few such observations, the
Viscount lowered his voice to a confidential tone, and said,
triumphantly
" Will you envy me, St. Eval, if I confess that I, more
than any other man, am privileged to speak in Miss Hamil-
ton's praise, having once had the honor of being her accepted
lover,' and had not cruel parents interfered, might now have
claimed that lovely creature as my own ? but still I do not de-
spair, for the affections of a being so superior once given to
me, as they have been, I am convinced they will never be
another's. I am treating you as a friend, St. Eval, you will
Dot betray me ?"
" You may trust me, sir," replied the young Earl, coldly.
'^ Your confidence has been given unasked, but you need not
fear its betrayal"
" Thank you, my kind friend ;" and the wily villain con-
dnued his deceiving tale, with an eloquence we will not trouble
urselves to repeat. It is enough to know its effect on St
Eval was to turn him from the room, his sensitive feelings
230 TH mother's recompense.
wrought almost to madness by malignant bitterness. Lord Al*
phingham looked after him, and then tamed his glance on Oa*
roline, and an acute physiognomist might easily have read hifl
inward thoughts " My vengeance is complete."
Alphingham had more than once mentioned the name of
the Duchess of Rothbury ; but in such a manner, that thougb
it sounded well enough in his tale, yet when afterwards re-
called by the young Earl, he could not understand in what po-
sition she stood towards them. Lord Alphingham knew well
her Grace's character ; he wished St. Eval to seek her, for M
felt assured what she would say would confirm his tale, and
render the barrier between him and Caroline more impassable.
His plan succeeded admirably : St. Eval gallopped off to Airs-
lie early the next morning. The Duchess welcomed him with
the greatest cordiality, for he was a favorite ; but the moment
he spoke of Caroline her manner changed. She became as re-
served as she had previously been warm ; and when the young
Earl frankly asked her if the refusal of her parents had been
the only bar to her union with the Viscount, she referred him
to Mr. or Mrs. Hamilton. That she was aware of something
to Caroline's disadvantage appeared very evident, and that
she was not the favorite she had been last year, equally so. St
Eval left her more disturbed than ever, and it was on return-
ing from his long yet hurried ride he had sought his sister in
the mood we have described.
Lady Gertrude listened with earnest attention. The tale
startled her, but she disliked the very sight of Lord Alphing-
ham ; she believed him to be a bad, designing man. She felt
convinced Caroline did love her brother, much as appearances
were against her ; and both these feelings urged her to sift
the whole matter carefully, and not permit the happiness of
two individuals to be sacrificed to what might be but the idle
invention or exaggerations of a bad man. Her ready mind
instantly formed its plan, which calmly but earnestly she im-
parted to her brother, and implored his consent to act upon it.
Startled and disturbed, St. Eval at first peremptorily refused;
but his sister's eloquence at length succeeded.
Early in the morning of the succeeding day, Caroline Ha-
milton received the following brief note :
" Will you, my dear Caroline, receive me half an hour this
afternoon ? I have something important to say ; I have van-
ity enough to believe as it concerns me it will interest yoa
THE mother's recompense. 281
We shall be more alone at your house than mine, or I might
ask you to come to me.
" Yours afifectionately,
" Gertrude Ltle."
Completely at a loss to understand the meaning of this
little note, Caroline merely wrote a line to say she should be
quite at Lady Gertrude's service at the appointed time ; and
so deeply was she engrossed in the sad tenor of her own
thoughts, that all curiosity as to this important communication
was dismissed.
Three o'clock came, and so did Lady Gertrude, whose first
exclamation was to notice Caroline's unusual paleness.
" Do not heed my looks, dear Gertrude, I am perfectly
well ; and now that you are before me, overwhelmed with curi-
osity as to your important intelligence," said Caroline, whose
heavy eyes belied her assurance that she was quite well.
" Dearest Caroline," said Lady Gertrude, in a tone of feel-
ing, " I am so interested in your welfare, that I cannot bear
to see the change so evident in you ; something has disturbed
you. Show me you consider me your friend, and tell me what
it is."
*' Not to you, oh, not to you : I cannot, I dare not !" burst
involuntarily from the lips of the poor girl, in a tone of such
deep distress, that Lady Gertrude felt pained. " Gertrude, do
net ask me ; I own I am unhappy, very, very unhappy, but I
deserve to be so. Oh, I would give worlds that I might speak
it, and to you ; but I cannot ^will not ! But do not refuse me
the confidence you offered," she added, again endeavoring to
smile, ^' I can sympathize in your happiness, though I refuse
jours in my sadness."
" I am not quite sure whether I have sorrow or joy t^ im-
part," said Lady Gertrude, still feelingly ; for she guessed why
Caroline believed she dared not confide in her, and she hailed
it as proof that she was right in her surmise, that her bro-
ther's honorable love would not be again rejected.
^' Eugene seems bent on again quitting England, and I fear
if he do, he will not return home again. On one little circum-
stance depends his final determination ; my persuasions to the
contrary have entirely failed."
The cheek of her companion blanched even paler than be-
fore, two or three large tears gathered in her eyes, then slowly
fell, one by one, upon her tightly-clasped handa
232 THE mother's eeoohpense.
' And if you have failed, who will succeed ?" she asked
with a strong effort.
*' The chosen one, whose power over the heart of St. Eval
is even greater than mine" said Lady Grertrude, steadily.
'^ Ah, Caroline, when a man has learned to love, the affection
of a sister is of little weight."
^'He does love, then," thought Caroline, and her heart
vf elled even to bursting, ^^ and he goes to seek her. And will
not the being Lord St. Eval has honored with his love second
your efforts ? if she be in England, can she wish him to quit
it ?" she said aloud, in answer to her friend.
" If she love him, she will not," said Lady Gertrude ; " but
St. Eval fears to ask the question that decides his fate. Strange
and wayward as he is, he would rather create certain misery
for himself, than undergo the torture of being again re-
fused}'*
For a few minutes Caroline answered not ; then, with a sud-
den effort, rallying her energies, she exclaimed, as if in jest
" Why, then, does he not make you his messenger ; the
affection you bear for him would endow you with an eloquence,
I doubt much whether his own would surpass."
She would have spoken more in the same strain, but the
effort failed ; and turning away from Lady Gertrude's pene-
trating glance, which she felt was fixed upon her, though she
could not meet it, she burst into tears.
More than ever convinced of the truth of her suspicions,
Lady Gertrude's noble mind found it impossible to continue
this mode of discovery any longer. She saw that Caroline
imagined not she was the being alluded to ; that not even the
phrase ^^ again refused " had startled her into consciousness,
and she felt it was unkind to distress her more.
" I knew it was false," she exclaimed, as the Viscount's tale
flashed across her mind ; then, checking herself, she took Caro-
line's cold and half-reluctant hand, and added, in a voice of
extreme feeling, " Caroline, dearest Caroline, forgive my having
penetrated your secret ; fear me not, dear girl, I honor too
much the feeling which dictates your conduct. You have
learned to love St. Eval ; you have repented the wilful and ca-
pricious treatment he once received from you. Deny it not ;
nay, do not shrink from me, and think, because I appear so
oalm, I cannot feel for those who are dear to me, and even
sympathize in their love. I do not, I will not condemn the
past ; I did once, I own, but since I have known you, I have
THE mother's RECOHPENSEi 233
ibrgivcn the mistaken wilfulness of a misguided girl. You
love him confess that I am right, dearest."
Caroline's face was concealed within her hand, and almost
agonized was its expression as she looked up.
" Gertrude," she said, in a low, suffocated voice, " is it well,
is it kind in you thus to speak, to lead me to avow a love for
one who, your own words inform me, will soon be the husband
of another ?"
" I said not of another, my dear girl ; forgive me this stra-
tagem to penetrate your well-preserved secret. My brother's
happiness is so dear to me, I could not trust it to one of whose
affection I was not certain. I am not aware I said he would
soon be the husband of another ; since, if he be again refused,
that he never will be. Simply, then, for I have been quite
tormenting enough, Eugene has striven long with himself
to conquer his love, to be happy as your friend ; associating
with you as he does with Emmeline, but he cannot. He still
loves you, Caroline, as devotedly, as faithfully perhaps more
so than when he first offered you his hand ; he dares not renew
that offer himself, for he feels a second refusal from your lips
would wound him too deeply. Your voice may chain him to
England, an altered and a happier man, or send him from its
shores a misanthrope and wretched ; it is for you to decide,
Caroline, dearest. Must T plead with that eloquence, which
you said would surpass even his own, or will the pleadings of
your own kind heart suffice ?"
She paused, in evident emotion, for with a faint cry Caro-
line had thrown herself on her neck, and buried her cheek
upon her shoulder. Every limb trembled with agitation ;
the ecstatic delight of that one moment doubt was, indeed,
at an end. He loved her, and in spite of her faults he would
cherish her with tenderness ; he had chosen her as his wife
chosen her, though she had rejected, injured him, in preference
to the very many she felt so much more worthy than herself;
but unalloyed happiness was hers only for a few 'fleeting
minutes; he knew not the extent of her imprudence ^how
strangely and deeply she had been fascinated by the arts of
Lord Alphingham. Could he love, respect her as the partner
of his life, did he know that ? and for a moment painfully did
she long to conceal it from him, to prevent his ever knowing
it ; but nOj her innate nobility and ingenuousness of character
would not be thus trampled on. She wept, and Lady Gertrude
was startled, for those bitter tears were not the signs of joy.
234 THE mOfTSKKS
*-! *: oc:*ieai bit w^akaess. dearest Gertrude," sbt
skii XI Leii^ri^ stra^Il:!^ i:T compoeiineL ^ You do not knov
vij I vcrrT- : TOfi cl:li: gTfjgg the ca^se q tears at sacha
ni: !E.en5. Yes. j:^ are ri^i : I do iore jwir ltther with an
2.5atti:'a c*}^^ to Lis own. b*at I tiioagiit it woold never pass
ie;t iir^ : i-jf wilfaHj. Kiodij I bad rejected the aiffection of
LLs g^:d and ii*:'ie heart; I had inteiitiMialIj caused him
p;mi, b&ziLied hhn fmm his co^mtnr and his fi^ends, and my
i; cmi^kme^nt vas just. I thooght h^^ would forget one so at-
ScrlT uBworthj. and the thoo^t was agtr^ij. Snt, oh, 6e^
tr^iie. I shall nerer regain hi5 loxe ; when he knows all, he
will case to trust me ; his esteem I hare lost for erer ! 6er-
tn.de. b^ar with me ; you cannot know the wretchedness it is
to fei he knows not all mj follj. The girl who could wilfully
east aside duty and ohedienee to a parent, listen to forhiddea
TOWS, weakly place her honor in the power of one against
whom she had been warned oh. GerOnde, Gertrude, when
S^ Tal learns this tale, he will spurn me front his heartl
and yet I wiH not deedre him. he shall know all, and he fret
to act as he will his proposals shall he no tie"
The flush of firm yet painfol resolution dyed her ^eek as
she spoke, and checked her tearsL Alarmed as she was hy the
incoherence yet connection oi her words wh^[i attaehel to
Lord Alphingham's hints, which still lingered on her mind,
yet the high-minded Lady Gertrude felt as if Caroline's hon-
orable determination had struck a new chord of sympathy with-
in her heart Integrity itself was hers^ and truth in others
was ever to her their most attractire quality.
^ St Eral's douhts and fears have bec^ already painfully
aroQsed.^' she said, gently ; ^ an open explanation from you
is more likely to make him happy than produce the effect you
80 much, though so naturally dread : fear not to impart it In
the relation you now stand to each other, the avowal of past
errors will increase rather than lessen affection, hy the integ-
rity it will display ; hut leave it till years have paseed, and if,
instead of being known now, it is then discovered, then, indeed,
might you fear, with some show of justice, the loss of his
esteem. Such will not be now ; hut tell him yourself, dear
Caroline, the truth or fdsehood of the scandalous tale he heard
a night or two ago."
" What did he hear ? if you know, for pity's sake, do not
conceal it from me, dearest Gertrude !" entreated Caroline,
almost gasping for breath ; and Lady Gertrude, without heei"
^.
*h
THE mother's recompense. 235
tation or abbreyiation, related the whole tale her brother had
imparted to her, dwelling on the suffering he endured, as he
fancied Caroline's conduct confirmed the words he heard.
^' Then is it, indeed, time for me to speak, though my tale
be one of shame," she exclaimed, as Lady G-ertr1ide paused,
and indignation restored her usual energy. " Never were at-
tentions so revolting to me as were those of Lord Alphingham
that night. He knew he had no right to address me, and,
therefore, did he ever refrain when mamma was present. Ger-
trude, solemnly, sacredly, I protest he has no hold on my
affections he dare not say he has ^nor ever again venture to
demand my hand ; it has been irrevocablv refused. Not only
would my own will prevent my ever becoming his, but I
have " she paused a moment, for Percy's fatal secret was on
the point of escaping from her lips, but checking herself, she
added, " I am not at liberty to say why, but an inseparable
barrier is placed between us. Listen to me, Gertrude, you
will condemn me, be it so ; but I implore, I beseech you to
believe me true." Then, without further hesitation, Caroline
briefly yet circumstantially related all those events in her life
with which our jeaders are so well acquainted. She did not
suppress one point, or endeavor in the least to excuse herself,
and Lady Gertrude, as she listened to that unvarnished tale
of youthful error, felt her heart glow more warmly towards
her companion, and her eye glisten in sympathy for the pain
she felt Caroline was inflicting on herself. Lady Gertrude
could feel for others ; twice had her carriage been announced,
but she heeded not the summons ; a third came, just as Caro-
line had ceased to speak, and silently she rose to depart. She
niet the imploring look of her young friend, and folding her to
h 3r heart, she said, in a low and gentle voice
" Ask not me, my dearest girl ; St. Eval shall come and
speak for himself" She kissed her affectionately, and was gone.
Caroline seated herself on a low couch, and closing her eyes
on every outward object, she gave herself up to thought.
Might she indeed be happy ^were the errors of her former
years so forgiven, that she would indeed be blessed with the
husband of her choice? Had St. Eval so conquered pride as
again to seek her love ^would the blessing of her parents now
sanctify her marriage ? it could not be ; it was too much bliss
^happiness of which she was utterly unworthy. Time rolled
by unheeded in these meditations ; she was quite unconscious
ibat nearly half an hour had elapsed since Lady Gertrude had
236 THE HOTflER's EECOMPENSE.
left her ; scarcely did it appear five minutes, and yet it must
have been more, for it was the voice of St. Eval himself that
roused her, that addressed her as his own bride. St. Eval
himself, who clasped her impetuously to his beating heart, im-
printed one long, lingering kiss upon her cheek, and murmured
blessings on her head. He had waited for the return of his
sister to the carriage, in a state of impatience little to be en-
vied, flung himself in after her, and in a very brief space had
heard and heard again every particular of her interview with
Caroline. His doubts were satisfied, not a lingering fear re-
mained.
" Gertrude told me, you said not to her the magic word
that will seal my happiness, though she wrung from you that
precious secret of your love," said the young Lord, after many
very fond words had been exchanged between them, and nearly
an hour had passed away in that unrestrained confidence;
" nor have I heard it pass your lips. You have told me that
you love me, Caroline ; will you not promise that but a very
short time shall pass, ere you will indeed be mine ; that you
will not sentence me to a long probation ere that happy day is
fixed ?
"It is not in my power to answer you, St. Eval," and
though her tone was sportive, her words startled him. " I
cannot even promise to be yours ; my fate is not in my own
hands."
" Caroline !" exclaimed the alarmed young man, " what
can you mean ?"
" Simply, that I have vowed solemnly and sacredij never
to marry without the consent and blessing of my parents. I
have given you all I can, to them I refer you for the rest."
" Then I am satisfied," replied St. Eval, the flush of joyous
excitement staining his cheek, and rendering his expressive
countenance more than usually handsome, by the animation it
produced.
Mrs. Hamilton, with Emmeline and Ellen, had returned
from their ride rather later than usual, for they had gone to
see a friend some few miles out of town, and flnding it near
the hour of dinner, they had dispersed to their dressing-rooms
instead of entering the drawing-room as usual. On inquiring
for Caroline, if she had been out with Lady Gertrude, or was
still at home, she heard, to her extreme astonishment, that
Miss Hamilton had not gone out, but that Lord St. Eval had
been with her above an hour, nor had she left him to obey the
THE mothee'^s recompense. 237 '
lommons of the dressing-bell, as usuaL A throb of pleasure
jhot through the heart of Mrs. Hamilton, she scarcely knew
s^herefore, for it was no uncommon thing for Lord St. Eval to
spend an hour at her house, but it was that he should thus
have sought the society of Caroline alone.
^ Had either of her sons been with him ?" she asked, and
the answer was in the negative.
Martyn silently concluded her task, for she saw deep
thought was on her lady's brow, which she was too respectfd
to disturb ; an earnest thought it was, it might have been that
Bilent prayer had mingled with it. Still was that wish upper-
most in Mrs. Hamilton's mind, that she might one day see her
Caroline the happy wife of Lord St. Eval ; but when she en-
tered the drawing-room, words were not needed to explain the
scene before her. Mr. Hamilton had drawn his daughter to
him, and was pressing the young EarPs hand in his with a
grasp that spoke volumes.
" St. Eval, you have been too long the son of my affections,
for one instant to doubt my consent,'' Mrs. Hamilton heard her
husband say, as she entered; '4t is yours, freely, gladly.
Speak not of fortune, I would give my child to you, had you
but yourself to offer. But I am but a secondary personage
in this business," he added, playfully ; '^ there is the enchant-
ress who holds the fate of my Caroline more firmly than I do.
Away with you, St. Eval, plead your cause to her."
^ Caroline^ my own,' does your happiness depend on my
consent, or have you done this merely for my sake ?" mur-
mured Mrs. Hamilton, as her child clung in silence to her
neck, and Lord St. Eval seized her hand and pressed it to his
lips, as if eloquent silence should tell his tale, too, better than
words. Mrs. Hamilton spoke in a voice so low, as to be heard
only by Caroline.
" Speak to me love ; tell me that St Eval will be the hus-
band of your free, unbiassed choice, and my fondest blessing
shall be yours." Caroline's answer was inaudible to all, save
to the ear of maternal affection, to her mother it was enough.
" Take her, St. Eval ; my consent, my earnest wish to be-
hold you united has long been yours; may God in heaven
bless you, my children, and make you happy in each other !"
Solemnly she spoke ; her earnestness was affecting, it struck
to their hearts ; for a moment, there was silence, which Mrs.
Hamilton was the first to break.
" Does my G&Toline intend appearing at dinxiet m ^\^ ^^v
238 THE mother's eecohpersb.
tome?" she asked, playfdlly, alluding to her daughter's morn-
ing dress. Startled and blushing, Caroline, for the first time,
perceived her mother was dressed for dinner, and her ffttbcr,
determining to banish all appearance of gravity, held up his ^
watch, which pointed to some few minutes after the usual
dinner-hour. Glad to escape for a few minutes to the solitude
of her own room, Caroline nastily withdrew her hand from Si
Eval's detaining grasp, and smiling a brief farewell, brushed
by Emmeline and Ellen, who were that instant entering, ^ih-
out speaking indeed, but with very evident marks of confa-
sion, which Mr. Hamilton very quickly explained to the ex-
treme satisfaction of all parties.
Caroline was not long before she returned. Happiness
had caused her eyes to sparkle with a radiance her parents had
not seen for many a long day ; and they felt as they gazed on
her, now indeed was she worthy to be the honored wife of St
Eval, and their thoughts were raised in silent unison to hea-
ven for the blessing thus vouchsafed to them. And scarcely
could Mr. Hamilton restrain the emotion which swelled his
bosom, as he thought, had it not been for the untiring care
the bright example of that mother, his child, instead of being
a happy bride, might now have been ^he shuddered as he
thought, and the inward words were checked, he could not
give them vent, they were hidden in the silent recesses of his
own breast ; and did not that same thought dwell in the mind
of his wife, when she contrasted the present with the past ? It
did, but she looked not on herself as the cause of her child's
escape from wretchedness and sin. Her efforts she knew
would have been as nought, without the blessing of Him
whose aid she had ever sought ; and if indeed the thought of
her had arrested Caroline on the brink of ruin, it was His
work, and Him alone she praised. She looked on the glowing
countenance of her daughter ; she marked the modest gentle-
ness of her demeanor, the retiring dignity with which she
checked the effusions of her own fond affection, and received
the attentions of her devoted lover, and she felt sure those
few moments of solitude had been passed in thanksgiving and
prayer to Him who had pardoned the errors of the past, and
granted such unlooked-for joy. And she guessed aright, for
the mind of Caroline had not been entirely engrossed by the
bright and glowing visions which anticipation in such a mo-
ment of our lives is apt to place before us. Her thoughts
during the last year had been secretly under the guidance of
THE mother's recompense. 239
the mosfc rigid self-control, and thus permitted her to raise
them from the happiness of earth to blessedness yet more ex-
alted. Oh ! who can say that religion is the heavy chain that
fetters ns to gloom and everlasting sadness ; that in chastening
the pleasures of earth, it offers no substantial good in return ?
True piety, opening the heart by its sweet, refreshing influ-
ence, causes us to enjoy every earthly blessing with a zest, the
heart in which the love of God is not an inmate will seek in
, vain to know. It is piety that strengthens, purifies affection.
' Piety, that looks on happiness vouchsafed us here, as harbin-
. gers of a state where felicity will be eternal. Piety that, in
lifting up the grateful soul to God, heightens our joys, and
^ renders mat pure and lasting which would otherwise be eva-
l^ nescent and fleeting. Piety, whose soft and mildly-burning
'^ torch continues to enlighten life, long, long after the lustre of
t worldly pleasures has passed away. It was this blessed feel-
, ing, kindled in earliest infancy by the fostering hand of pa-
_, rental love, which now characterized and composed every emo-
r^ tion of Caroline's swelling bosom, which bade her feel that this
'. mdeed was happiness. With blushing modesty she received
the eagerly-offered congratulations of her affectionate family ;
the delighted embrace which Percy in the enthusiasm of his
I joy found himself compelled to give her.
" Now, indeed, may I hope the past will never again cross
^, my mind to torment me," he wluspered to his sister, and
. wrung St. Eval's hand with a violence that forced the young
^ man laughingly to cry for mercy. There had been a shade of
^1 unusual gloom shrouding the open countenance and usually
j frank demeanor of Percy since his return from Oxford, for
^ which his parents and sisters could not account, but as he
: 8een\ed to shrink from all observation on the subject, they did
j, not ask the cause ; but this unexpected happiness seemed to
, make him for a few following days as usual the gayest, mer-
riest member of his amiable family.
^ Often in these days of happiness did Caroline think on
: the qualities which Lady Gertrude had once said should
adorn the wife of her brother. Faults he could pardon, if
they were redeemed by affection, and ingenuousness unsullied
by the slightest artiflce. Affection she well knew she possess-
ed ; but she also knew that, to be as unreserved as would form
the happiness of her husband, she must effectually banish that
pride, which she knew still lurked within. Often would she
converse on these things when alone with her mother, and
240 THE mother's recompense.
implore her advice as to the best method of securing not only
the love but the esteem of St. EvaL
'' Grertrnde was quite right in the estimate of her brother's
character," Mrs. Hamilton would at such times observe, hei
fond heart fully repaid for past anxiety and disappointment
by this confidence in her child ; ^' and so too are you, dearest,
in your idea that not the faintest sign of pride must mark
your intercourse with him. Perhaps he is more reserved than
proud ; indeed, in his case, I cannot call it pride, but it is that
kind of reserve which would jar most painfully did it come in
contact with any thing resembling pride. Had you grown up h
such as you were in childhood, your union with St. Eva),
much as you might think you loved each other, would not
have been productive of lasting happiness to either. Let him
see dependence is not merely a profession which your every
action would contradict ; from independence springs so many
evils, that I feel sure you will avoid it. It is, I regret to say,
a prevailing error in those circles wherein your rank will
entitle you to mingle ; an error that must ever endanger con-
jugal happiness. When a woman marries, the world, except
as the arbiter of propriety, ought to be forgotten; all her
endeavors to please, to soothe, to cheer, must still be exerted
even more than before marriage, but exerted only for her
husband ; not one little pleasing art, not one accomplishment
should be given up, but used as affection dictates, to en-
hance her value in the eyes of him whose felicity it should
be her principal aim to increase. You will be placed in an
exalted station in the opinion of the world, my beloved
child, a station of temptation, flattery, danger, more so than
has ever yet been yours ; but I do not tremble now as I did,
too forebodingly, when the world was first opened to your
view. You have learned to mistrust your own strength, to seek
it where alone it can be found, to examine your every action by
the Word of Grod, and with these feelings you are safe. My
Caroline will not fail in duty to her husband or herself"
" Nor to you, my mother, my devoted mother ! " exclaimed
Caroline, as she fondly kissed her. " It is to you, next to my
God, I owe this blessing ; and oh, if it be my lot to be a mother,
may I be to my children, as far, at least, as one so much in-
ferior in piety and virtue can be, what you have been to me.
Oh, might I but resemble you, as my full heart has so lately
longed, St. Eval might be happy ! "
At the earnest entreaty of St. Eval and Caroline, both
THE mother's REC'OHPENBE. 241
families consented that the ceremonial of their marriage should
take place in the same yenerable church where the first childish
prayers of Caroline had ascended from a house of God, and
the service be performed by the revered and pious rector of
Oakwood, the clergyman who, from her earliest childhood, she
bad been taught to respect and love, as the humble represen-
tative of Him whose truths he so ably taught. Caroline had
sonsented to name the second week of September as the
period of her espousals. The few chosen friends of both
families who were to be invited to the ceremony were to assem-
ble in the hospitable halls of Oakwood, and earnestly did every
nember of Mr. Hamilton's family hope that the loug-absent
sailor, Edward Fortescue, who was soon expected home, might
unive in time to be present at the marriage of his cousin.
Sow the young heart of his orphan sister fluttered with delight
it the thought of beholding him again we will not attempt to
iescribe, but it was shared with almost equal warmth by Mrs.
Samilton, whose desire was so great that her gallant nephew,
the brave preserver of her husband, might be present at the
approaching joyful event, that she laughingly told Ellen she
sertainly would postpone the ceremony till Edward arrived,
whatever opposition she might have to encounter.
The engagement of the Right Honorable Earl St. Eval, the
heir to the marquisate of Malvern, embracing such rich posses-
sions, with a plain gentleman's daughter, was a matter of
mingled wonder, scorn, admiration, and applause to the fashion-
able world ; but these opinions and emotions were little re-
garded, save as a matter of continued jest to Percy, who
unused himself by collecting all the reports he could, and re-
peating them at home, warning them against a marriage which
caused such a universal sensation. It might 'be supposed
this sensation would have been felt in various ways in the
family of Montrose Grahame; but it happened that Annie
was so engrossed with her own plans, her mind so occupied by
one interesting subject, that she and Lord Alphingham had
but little time, to think of any thing but each other. Annoyed
tiiey were indeed, for all their designs were foiled ; St. Eval
and Caroline were happy, spite of their eflforts to the contrary.
Lady Helen was really so delighted at the prospects of Caro-
line, who had ever been a favorite with her, that she actually
exerted herself so much as to call in person to offer her best
wishes, and promise that she would spead the whole winter at
Woodlands, to be present at the ceremony. Lilla was over-
11
242 THE MOTHE&'S RECOMPEHSE.
joyed, for Mrs. Hamilton promised she should be omoDg th
guests at Oakwood. Mr. Grahame, whose friendship with Mr.
Hamilton would have and did render him most interested in
the event, was at Paris when their engagement was first pub-
lished, but his warmly-written letters to his friend proclaimed
his intention of very soon returning to England, but till then
entreating the young couple to accept his sincerest prayers and
best wishes for their happiness, and warmly congratulated Mr.
and Mrs. Hamilton on the prospects of their child ; but there
was a sadness pervading his letters which gave them pain to
note, for they knew too well the cause.
The letters of Mary Greville, too, added pleasure to the
betrothed. Informed by Herbert of both past and present
events, St. Eval's long affection for Caroline, which he play-
fully hoped would solve the mystery of his not gratifying her
wishes, and falling in love with Miss Manvers, Mary wrote
with equal sportiveness, that she was quite satisfied with his
choice, and pleased that his residence at Lago Guardia had
enabled her to become so well acquainted with one about to be
so nearly connected with her Herbert.
About a week or fortnight before Mr. Hamilton's intended
return to Oakwood, Percy one morning received a letter which
appeared to produce excessive agitation. But as be evidently
did not wish it remarked, no notice was taken, except by Hei^
bert, to whom alone he had shown the letter, and who seemed
equally interested, though not so much agitated by its contents.
To the anxious inquiries of his parents, if individual embar-
rassment or distress occasioned Percy's uneasiness, Herbert
answered readily in the negative ; that the letter informed
them of the death of an unfortunate individual in whose fate
both he and Percy had been most deeply interested. Trusting
in the well-known integrity of their sons, Mr. and Mrs. Hamil-
ton inquired no farther, and dismissed the subject ; but Percy
did not rouse himself from his gloomy abstraction till startled
by intelligence, which regard for his father's friend Grahame
could not permit him to bear with calmness.
Two mornings after the receipt of that letter, as the family,
with the addition of St. Eval, were sitting together after break-
fast, ere they separated to the various avocations of the day,
Lord Henry D'Este bustled in with a countenance expressive
of something extraordinary.
" Have you heard the news?" was his first eager exclamation.
"If we had, it would be no news," replied Emmeline,
THE mother's recompense. 243
archly; "but we have heard nothing. Papa has something
else to do than to seek out news for me, ditto the Right
Honorable Lord St. Eval. Percy has been suddenly con-
verted into the spirit of gloom, and to Herbert it is in vain to
look for gossip, so, for pity's sake, satisfy my curiosity."
" Perhaps you will say I have been exciting it unnecessa-
rily," he answered. " An elopement is too common a thing now
to cause much astonishment."
"It depends on the parties," observed Mr. Hamilton.
*Who are they?"
" Those, or rather one of them, I fear, for her father's sake,
in whom you will be too deeply interested Lord Alphingham
and Miss Grahame."
" Annie !" burst from Caroline's lips, in an accent of dis-
tress that struck all, and fell somewhat painfully on Lord St.
Eval's ear, when starting from the seat she had occupied near
him, she sprung forward, and wildly continued, " when ^when ?
Lord Henry, for pity's sake, tell me ! is there no time ? Can
they not be overtaken ? When did they go ?"
Bewildered at the wild earnestness of her manner, at the
muttered execration of Percy, Lord Henry was for a moment
silent ; but, on the repeated entreaty of Mr. and Mrs. Hamil-
ton, he said that the particulars were not yet all known, except
that she had been staying with her friend, that same lady of
rank in whose family Miss Malison had been installed ; that
from her house the elopement had taken place, when, he did
not exactly know ; the report had only that morning gained
credit. Lady Helen was not in the least aware of what had
passed, nor would she, in all probability, till Annie's own let-
ter announced it, as she turned a careless ear to all that her
friends had hinted. He greatly feared, however, that it was
useless to think of overtaking them ; they had been seen and
recognized, on the road between York and Berwick, by a friend
of his, three days previous. He had at first regarded his
friend's letter as a mere jest, but finding he had written the
same to many others, and that the report was gaining ground,
he felt sufficient interest in Mr. Grahame to discover the truth,
that he might be informed of it, and take measures accord-
ingly, and as Grahame was from home, he thought the best
thing he could do was to tell the whole story to Mr. Hamilton.
" And is there indeed no hope 1 Can they not be over
taken ?" again demanded Caroline, almost choked with an agi
tation for which even her parents could not account.
244 THE hother's recompense.
Lord Henry did not think there was the slightest pos^
bilitj, and unable to control her emotion, for she could not
forget the long years she had regarded Annie as her friend,
the favorite companion of her childhood, Caroline sunk, pale.as
death, on the nearest seat Her mother and St. Eval ap-
proached her in some alarm, the former to demand the canse
of this agitation, and implore her to be calm ; the latter to
connect, with a swelling heart and trembling frame, this deep
emotion with the words of Lord Alphingham, which he vainly
endeavored to forget ; but Percy alone had power to restore
her to any degree of composure ; taking her trembling hand in
his, he whispered a few words, and their effect was instan-
taneous.
" Thank God, she will be at least his wife !" escaped Caro-
line's quivering lips, and then burst into tears.
" Mother, do not ask more now. St. Eval, do not doubt
my sister, her agitation arose for Miss Grahame alone, not
for the villain, the cold-hearted villain, Alphingham !" ex-
claimed Percy, in a low but impressive voice, as he alternately
addressed his mother and the Earl, and then, as if fearing
their further questions, he hastily turned away to join his
father in demanding every possible information from Lord
Henry : and perceiving that Caroline was becoming calm, and
also that St. Eval looked somewhat disturbed, Mrs. Hamilton
followed her son to the other end of the room. Still St. Eval
spoke not, and Caroline, as she read the reproach, the doubt
expressed upon his features, for a moment felt her natural
pride swelling high within her, that he could for one moment
permit a doubt of her truth to enter his mind ; but her resoln-
tion, her mother's advice, the observation of Lady Gertrude,
all rese to combat with returning pride, and they conquered
'^ Eugene, dearest Eugene," she said, as she extended her
hand towards him, " you have, indeed, every reason to look
disturbed. In my deep anxiety for her whom I so long loved
as my friend, I forgot that my agitation might indeed confirm
the unworthy tale you heard. Forgive me, Eugene j I know
that I have pained you, but, indeed, I meant it not. If Lord
Alphingham did cross my mind, it was in detestation, in ab-
horrence, that he should thus have acted. I trembled for
Annie, for her alone, for the fearful fate that, when Lord
Henry first spoke, I believed must be her lot. Were I at lib-
erty to disclose all, you would not wonder such should have
been my feelings, Eugene" Aie k^^^^/\\i %.\i%A^\!tiQf ^ntle
THE mother's recompense. 245
^roaob. '' Must I indeed solemnlj and sacredly assnro yoiL
^at my agitation was occasioned by no lingering affection for
lOrd Alphingham? will nothing else satisfy you? Is it kind,
) it generous thus to doubt me ?"
Softened at once, ashamed of his own jealous tendency, the
onng Earl could only implore her forgiveness, assure her he
lad not the faintest doubt remaining; and suggesting, air
fould reyive her sooner than any thing, he drew her to the
)pen window of the adjoining room, which looked out on the
little garden, and there they remained in apparently earnest
oonversation, till Caroline, to her extreme astonishment, was
gammoned by her cousin to luncheon, and Lord St. Eval sud-
denly discovered he had permitted the whole morning to slip
away in idleness, when he imagined he had so very much
to do.
Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton were more grieved than surprised
at the intelligence they had heard ; but in what manner to act,
what measures to take they knew not Grahame was expected
to arrive in England on the morrow, or the next day at the
farthest, and his agony they dreaded to witness ; they feared
lest reports should reach him ere he was in any way prepared,*
and Mr. Hamilton determined on travelling instantly to Dover,
that he might be there ready to receive him, and console to the
best of his ability this mistaken but truly affectionate father.
Percy, rousing himself, entered with activity into all his fath-
er's plans ; but Mrs. Hamilton fancied that he too had some
plan to follow up, which his absence two or three days from
home confirmed. Nor was it idle sympathy she felt ; that
same day she sought the residence of Lady Helen.
Scarcely ever did she enter that house without being struck
by the melancholy pervading it. Wrapped in her own plea-
sures, her own desires and amusements, Annie never cast one
thought on her mother, whose declining health it would have
been her duty to tend and soothe ; indeed, she scarcely ever
entered her room, and believing her parent's ailments were
all fancy, mado it a rule to take no notice of them. Cecil
liked not gloom and quiet, and his fashionable cousins occu-
pied almost all his time. He could not comprehend, much less
return the deep affection his mother felt for him ; and Lilla,
whose naturally warm heart and right principles would have
made her an affectionate attendant on her mother's couch, was
seldom at home to perform her part. But already \ik^ LaA:^
Helen felt the difference a year's residence 'mt\i lAx^. T^ovsi^iA
246 THE mother's recobipense.
had made in her younger girl ; already had her indolent nar
ture felt the comfort of her presence, and bitterly regretted
when her short vacations were at an end, for then she was in-
deed alone.
On being admitted, Mrs. Hamilton fancied, somewhat
eagerly, the first person she encountered at Lady Helen's was
her young friend, clad, it seemed, for walking, with traces of
anxiety and sorrow clearly written on her countenance.
" The very person I was about to seek,'' she exclaimed, in
a voice of intense relief, springing down the stairs to reach her
friend. " Dearest Mrs. Hamilton, mamma Annie~" The
words choked her, and she burst into tears.
" Compose yourself, love, I know all ; only tell me how
your mother bears the shock 7" whispered Mrs. Hamilton, in-
stantly penetrating at once the truth, that either the report
had reached Lady Helen, or she had received the intelligence
direct from her daughter ; and anxious to escape the curious
eyes of the domestics who were in the hall, she hastily yet
kindly drew the weeping Lilla to the nearest parlor, and,
closing the door, succeeded in hearing all she desired. Lilla
said, her mother, only an hour before, had received a letter
from Annie, briefly announcing her marriage, and informing
her they intended very shortly to embark for the Netherlands
from Leith, thence to make a tour in Germany and Italy,
which would prevent their returning to England for some time,
when she hoped all pre:ient irritation at her conduct would
have subsided ; that he" father's severity had tended to this
step. Had he been k*id, and like other fathers, she would
have sacrificed her o^n desires, conscious that his reason for
prohibiting her unioi with Alphingham was good, however it
might be secret ; but when, from her childhood, her every wish
had been unreasonably thwarted, she was compelled to choose
in such a case for herself. She should be sorry to live in en-
mity with her father, but even if she did, she never could
regret the step she had taken. To her mother she wrote as if
assured of her forgiveness, or rather her continued favor;
forgiveness she did not seem to think it at all necessary to
ask, saying, she was sure her kind and indulgent mother
would nji regret her union with Lord Alphingham, when she
Bolemnlj declared it had made her happier than she had ever
been be^ )re. Such Lilla said were the contents of her letter ;
but thf irarm-hearted girl could not refer without indignation
^ i^ iter want of affection Nilaifth. breathed throughout
THE mother's recompense. 247
Her mother, Lilla continued to say, had been in a most alarm*
iDg state from the time she received the letter, but, she fancied|
occasioned more by the dread of what her father would say
on his return, than from Annie's conduct.
When Mrs. Hamilton saw Lady Helen, she felt that Lilla
was right. The unhappy mother reproached her own careless-
ness, indolence, and Annie's ingratitude, but it was evident
the dread of her husband was uppermost in her mind a
dread which made her so extremely ill, from a succession of
yiolent and uncontrolled hysterics, that Mrs. Hamilton did
not leave her the whole of that day ; nor would she permit
the unhappy father to enter his wife's apartment on his
return, till she had exacted from him a promise to forbear all
reproaches towards his suffering wife, all allusions to the
past.
With the stern brevity of the injured, Grahame addressed
Ms disobedient child. His forgiveness and his blessing he
sent, though he said she had asked for neither ; that he bore
no enmity to her, he wrote ; his home and his heart were ever
open to receive her, should she again require the protection
of the one, the affection of the other. She had chosen for her-
self ; linked her fate with one against whom many tongues
had spoken, and he could only pray that her present happiness
might never change. Lord Alphingham he did not name.
Lady Helen's letter was a curious mixture of reproach and
affection, complaint and congratulation; and Annie might
have found it difficult to discover in what manner she was
affected towards the Viscount, or with regard to the elope-
ment i self Perhaps of all the letters she received from
home, Lilla's was the most irritating to her, for it was written
in all the bitter indignation, the unchecked reproaches of a
young and ardent spirit, in whose eyes the heartlessness of her
letter was inexcusable, and she wrote as she thought. Annie,
as might have been expected, deigned her no reply. A few
languidly-written letters her mother received from her during
her tour ; but the chief of her correspondence was reserved for
Miss Malison and the lady who had so ably assisted their se-
cret plans. The friendly influence of Mr. Hamilton succeeded,
after a few days, in restating his friend to comparative out-
ward composure, although the wound within, he too sadly felt,
was beyond his power to heal.
A few days passed in peace. Mrs. Hamilton wA \vst
family were stntioipating with pleasure the quiet \ia.^Y^^^ ^^
248 THE mother's recompense.
Oakwood, and the event then to take place. Scarcely a week
intervened before their departure, when they were one afte^
noon startled by the appearance of Grahame, whose counte-
nance bore the pallid hue of death, and every action denoted
the most fearful agitation. Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton, Caroline,
and St. Eval, were alone present, and they gazed on him in
unfeigned alarm.
^' Hamilton, I start for Brussels to-night," was his saluta-
tion, as he entered.
" Brussels ! " repeated Mr. Hamilton. " Grrahame, you are
beside yourself What affairs can call you to Brussels so sud-
denly?"
" Affairs ^business ; ay, of such weight, I cannot rest till
they are attended to. Hamilton, you are astonished; yon
think me mad ; oh, would to God I were ! " and striking his
forehead with his clenched hand, he paced the room in agony.
Ere his friend could approach or address him, he suddenly
paused before Caroline, who was watching him in alarm and
commiseration, and grasping her arm, with a pressure that
pained her, he said, in a voice which blanched her cheek with
horror
'' Hamilton, look on this girl, and, as you love me, answer
me. Could you be a Bom an father, did you see her dishonor-
ed the victim, the wilful victim oi a base, a treacherous, mis-
erable villain ? say, could you wash away the blackening stain
with blood ^with her blood or his, or both ? * Speak to me
counsel me. My child, my child ! " he groaned aloud.
" Grahame, you are ill ; my dear friend, you know not what
you say," exclaimed Mr. Hamilton, terrified both at his wild-
ness and his words. '' Come with me till this strange mood
has passed ; I entreat it as a favor come."
^' Passed ^till this mood has passed I Hamilton, it will
never pass till the grave has closed over Annie and myself
Oh, Hamilton, my friend, I had reconciled myself to this mar-
riage ; taught myself to believe that, as his wife, she might be
happy ; and oh God ! can I say the words ? she is not his
wife ^e is already married." His trembling limbs refused
support, and he sunk, overcome by his emotion, on a chair.
Without a minute's pause, a moment's hesitation, and ere her
father could find words to reply, Caroline sprang forward, and
kneeling beside the wretched father, she seized his hand
"Be calm, be comforted, dearest Mr. Grahame,*' she ex-
ehimedf in a voice that caused him to ^aze at her with aston*
THE mother's recompense. 24^
shmcnl ^ It is a mistaken tale you have heard ; a cruel false-
lood, to disturb your peace. Lord Alphingham was married,
at Annie is now. his lawful, wedded wife ; the partner of his
^outb, the devoted woman whom for eight years he deserted,
s no more. She died the day preceding that which united
[iord Alphingham to your child. I speak truth, Mr. Grahame j
lolemnly, sacredly, I affirm it Percy will tell you more ; I
was pledged to secrecy. On her death-bed she demanded a
iolemn promise from all who knew her tale, never to divulge
t, lest it should prove to the discredit of her cruel husband,
^hom her last accents blessed. I promised Percy it should be
sacred, unless an emergency demanded it. Be comforted, Mr.
!}rahame; indeed, I speak the truth. Lord Alphingham was
Tee, restrained by no tie, when he was united to your child."
Elapidly, hurriedly, she had spoken, for she trembled at the
pfild gaze Grrahame had fixed upon her. Caroline's voice rang
3lear and distinct upon his ear, and every word brought com-
fort, still he spoke not ; but when she ceased, when slowly,
more impressively her last words were spoken, he uttered a
faint cry, and folding her slight form convulsively to his heart,
sobbed like an infant on her shoulder. Thoughts unutterable
thronged the minds of Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton as they too list-
ened with fascinated eagerness to Caroline's words ; thoughts,
not only of the present, but the past, rushed quickly to their
minds. A year previously Lord Alphingham's wife still lived ;
though he, villain as he was, had heeded not the sacred tie.
Well could they enter into the blessed relief her words had
brought to the distracted father. Mr. Hamilton permitted
some minutes to elapse in silence, and then, gently withdraw-
ing Caroline from Grahame's still convulsive hola, said a few
words, in a voice which, though low, expressed that kindly
sympathy whicn seldom fails to reach the inmost soul ; and
finally succeeded in passing his arm through that of his friend,
and leading him to an adjoining room, where, after a time,
Grrahame conquered his agitation sufficiently to give a con-
nected account of the means through which he had learned the
information which had so distracted him. Caroline's words
and the influence of his friend restored him to comparative
composure ; but all was not at peace within until Percy had
obeyed the summons of his father, and the information of his
fiister was confirmed in every point by him. He related the
tale of Mrs. Amesfort, with which our readers ate ^Ix^^^-^
well acquainted^ with the addition of her deaVih, oi ^\icl^\)^^
250 THE mother's recompense.
letter he received a few days preyious had informed him.
Many affecting interviews he had had with her, in which she
spoke of her husband, her mother, her child, so fondly, that
the tears often started to the eyes of Percy, though her own
were dry. In parting from him, she had again implored him
not to divulge her secret, unless the interest of her child de
manded it, or he saw urgent occasion.
'^Let not the breath of calumny sully the name of mj
child," she said, grasping his hand with a painful effort. ^^ Let
her not be looked on as a child of shame, when her birth is as
pure and noble as any in the land. If her birth be question
ed, let the whole world know she is the daughter of Lord Al*
phingham. In my mother's care is the certificate of my mar
riage, also of the christening of my Agnes. But if nothing bo
demanded, if her lot be happy, it is better both for fsither and
daughter that they remain unknown to each other."
Percy had made the solemn promise she demanded, but .
the remembrance of her pale features, her drooping form, had
haunted him on his return home, and caused that deep gloom
his family had remarked. It was more than a week after Mr&
Amesfort's death, before her afflicted mother could write the
tidings to the young man, who, on hearing of Annie's conduct,
had instantly and actively set about obtaining the exact date
of the unfortunate lady's death, and also that of the Viscount's
hasty marriage in Scotland. The result was most satisfecto-
ry ; rather more than a week had elapsed between the two
events, and his marriage with Annie was, consequently, sa-
cred and binding. Percy also said, Mrs. Morley had men-
tioned her intention of instantly returning to Ireland with the
Uttle Agnes, from whom she fervently prayed she might neyei
De compelled to part.
Relieved, and truly thankful, Grahame consulted with his
friends on the best plan to pursue to silence the rumors which,
having overheard in a public coffee-house, would, he had no
doubt, be immediately circulated over the town. Mrs. Mor-
ley said, she had written to inform Lord Alphingham of the
death of his broken-hearted wife, inclosing one from the ill-
fated Agnes herself He was, therefore, perfectly aware cf the
validity of the second marriage, for Percy had inquired and
found the letter had been forwarded ; there was no need of
communication with him on that point. Grahame's first care
was to travel to Scotland, and obtain the registry of their ma^
riage; his next, to proceed to Brussels^ with Mr. Hamiltonj
THE mother's recompense. 251
coolly and decisiyely inform Lord Alphingham that, un-
the ceremony was publicly solemnized a second time, in
)resence, and before proper witnesses, other proceedings
d be entered upon against him. Astonished and some-
alarmed as Lord and Lady Alphingham were at his un-
Bted appearance, the former had too many sins on his con-
ce to submit to a public expose ^ which he might justly
was intended in this threat, and, with great apparent wil-
less, he consented. The ceremony was again performed ;
ame possessed himself of the certificate, and left Brussels,
the half-formed resolution that, while Lord Alphingham
, he would never see his child again. The death of the
t Honorable Viscountess Alphingham, and the subse-
t marriage in Scotland of the Eight Honorable Lord Vis-
b Alphingham with Miss Grahame, appeared in all the
papers. The splendor of tlie second solemnization of their
ials in Brussels was the next theme of wonder and gossip,
y the time that subject was exhausted, London had be-
deserted, and Lord and Lady Alphingham might proba-
lave returned to the metropolis without question or re-
: ; but such was not Lord Alphingham's intention. He
d that probably were his history publicly known he might
Lunned for the deceit he had displayed ; and he easily ob-
d Annie's glad consent to fix their residence for a few
J in Paris. Irritated as in all probability he was, when
and himself again fettered, yet he so ably concealed this
ttion, that his wife suspected it not, and for a time she
lappy.
Ls Lord and Lady Alphingham are no longer concerned
ir tale, haying nothing more in common with those in
Q, we trust, our readers are much more interested, we may
formally dismiss them in a few words. They liyed, but
le happiness dwells only with the yirtuous and good, with
Lpright and the noble, it gilded not their lot ; but if those
are well acquainted with the morality of the higher classes
e French capital can .pronounce that it dwells there, then,
3d, might they be said to possess it, for such was their
They returned not again to England, but liyed in
ce and Italy, alternately. Alphingham, callous to eyery
T and softer feeling, might haye been happy, but not such
the fate of Annie. Bitterly, ere she died, did she regret
oily and disobedience ; remorse was sometimes busy with^
hough no actual guiii dimmed her oaieei*. ^\ift ^xq^\!l^\
252 THE HOTHt's BECOMPENSE,
the Yoice of conscience in the vortex of frivolity and fashion.
But the love she bore for Alphingham was the instrument of
retribution : her husband neglected, despised, and frequently
deserted her. Let no woman unite herself with sin, in the vain
hope of transforming it to virtue. Such thoughts had not, in-
deed, been Annie's, when wilfully she sought her fate. She
knew not the man she had chosen for her husband ; she disre-
garded the warnings she had heard. Fatal delusion ! she
found, too late, the fate her will had woven was formed oi
knotty threads, the path that she had sought beset with
thorns, from which she could not break. . No children blessed
her lot, and it was better thus ^for they would have found but
little happiness. The fate of Lord Alphingham's child, the
little Agnes, was truly happy in her own innocence ; she lived
on for many years in ignorance of her real rank and the title
of her father, under the careful guidance of that relative to
whom her mother's last words had tenderly consigned her.
Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton remained but little longer in town ;
Caroline's trousseau was quite completed, for but very few
weeks now intervened ere her marriage. Lady Gertrude had
devoted herself to the young Earl, and remained -with him
superintending the improvements and embellishments of his
beautiful estate, Castle Terryn, in the vicinity of the Tamar,
on the Cornwall side, which was being prepared with the
greatest taste and splendor. Lady Gertrude was to remain
with her brother till a week previous to the wedding, when she
joined her family at Oakwood, where they had been staying
since their departure from London, at the earnest persuasions
of both Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton. Seldom had the brinks of the
placid Dart been so gay as they were on this occasion ; the
beautiful villas scattered around were all taken by the friends
of the parties about to be so nearly connected. Rejoicings
were not only confined to the higher class ; the poor, for many
miles round, hailed the expected marriage of Miss Hamilton
as an occasion of peculiar and individual felicity. Blessings
on her lot, prayers for her welfare, that Lord St. Eval might
prove himself worthy of her, were murmured in many a rustic
cot, and every one was employed in earnest thought as to the
best, the most respectful mode of testifying their humble sym-
pathy in the happiness of their benefactors. Such were the
feelings with which high and low regarded the prosperity of
the good.
THE mother's recompense. 252
CHAPTER XII.
^ Who amongst this merry party will become sufficiently sober
k assist me in a work of charity?" was Mrs. Hamilton's
iddress, one afternoon, as she entered her daughter's room,
nrhere Emmeline, her young friends. Lady Florence and Lady
Bmily Lyle, and even the usually quiet Ellen, were employing
bhemselyes in drawing, embroidery, and such light amusements
IS diligently as the merry speech, the harmless joke, and the
joyous laugh of truly innocent enjoyment would permit.
'' A case of extreme distress has come before me," she
continued, ''for which alms and other relief will not be
sufficient ; clothing is principally required. Can any of you
3onsent to put aside these pretty things for a few days, merely
for the sake of obliging me and doing good 1 I have set every
band to work, and now for further assistance have come to
70U. To whom shall I appeal ?"
" To me ^to me to me !" every voice exclaimed spon-
taneously, and they eagerly crowded round her to know what
she required, what case of distress had occurred, for whom
they were to work.
Gratified and pleased at their eagerness, Mrs. Hamilton
smilingly imparted all they wished to know. The simple tale
drew from the artless group many exclamations of pity, com-
bined with the earnest desire to relieve in whatever way their
kind friend would dictate, and their task was received by all
with every demqnstration of pleasure.
" You, too, Ellen," said Mrs. Hamilton, smiling ; " I thought
you once said you had no time for work."
" Not for ornamental work, aunt, ; but I hope you have
never asked in vain for my assistance in such a case as this,"
answered Ellen, blushing as she spoke.
' No, love ; my words did you injustice. But you appear to
have found time for ornamental work also, if this very pretty
wreath be yours," said Mrs. Hamilton, bending over her
niece's frame, and praising the delicacy of her flowers.
" Oh, I have time for any and every thing now," exclaimed
Ellen, in a tone of animation, so very unusual, that not only
her aunt but her young companions looked at her with aston*
ishment.
" Ellen, you are becoming more and more incomprehenai-
blo,' said Emmeline, laughing. "If Edward do \io\ CkQtCkft
254 THE mother's recohpensb.
home soon, as I suspect this extraordinary mood is ocoasioned
by the anticipation of his arrival, I am araid your spirits will
carry you half way over the Channel to meet him. Mamma,
take my advice, and keep a strict watch over the person of
your niece."
^' You know, Ellen, you are as full of fan and mischief as
[ am, quiet and demure as we once thought you," said Lady
Emily.
^ Is she ? I am glad of it," said Mrs. Hamilton, playfolly.
' Do not look so very much ashamed of your mirth, my dear
Ellen, and bend over your work as if you had been gmlty of
some extraordinary misdemeanor. You know how pleased I
always am to see you happy, Ellen," she added, in a lower
voice, as she laid her hand sportively on her niece's head, which
was bent down to conceal the confusion Emmeline's words had
called forth.
^Some little time longer Mrs. Hamilton remained with the
young party, entering with her usual kindness into all their
pleasures and pursuits, and left them perhaps even happier
than she had found them.
Ellen's change of manner had been noticed by the whole
party assembled at Oakwood ; and by most of them attributed
to the anticipation of the long-absent Edward's return. That
indefinable manner which had formerly pervaded her whole
conduct had disappeared. She no longer seemed to have
something weighing on her mind, which Mrs. Hamilton some-
times fancied to have been the case. Cheerful, animated, at
times even joyous, she appeared a happier being than she had
ever been before ; and sincerely her aunt and uncle, who really
loved her as their child, rejoiced in the change, though they
knew not, guessed not the real cause. Ingratiating herseft
with all, even the stern Duchess of Rothbury, who, with her
now only unmarried daughter, Lady Lucy, had accepted Mra
Hamilton's pressing invitation to Oakwood, relaxed in her
manner towards her; and Sir George Wilmot, also a resi-
dent guest, declared that if Edward were not proud of his
sister on his return, he would do all in his power to hinder his
promotion.
Mr. Hamilton and his family had employed the greater
part of a very beautiful August in conducting their guests to
all the most picturesque and favorite spots in the vicinity of
Oakwood. About a week after the circumstance we have nar-
rated; St. Eval and Lady Gertrude joined them in the morning
THE mother's recompense. 255
of a proposed excursion, which incladed the whole party, with
the exception of Mrs. Hamilton and Ellen. The Earl and his
sister had been instantly enlisted as a most agreeable rein-
forcement ; nor was the young Earl very sorry for an excuse
to spend the whole day in enjoying^ the beauties of Nature
tete-d'tete with his betrothed, who, since the candid explanation
of her agitation on first hearing of Annie's elopement, for
which her knowledge of Lord Alphingham's former marriage
had well accounted, had become if possible dearer than ever ;
and this excursion was indeed one of perfect enjoyment to
both.
!Ellen, for some unaccountable reason which her young
&iends could neither penetrate nor conceiye, refused to accom-
pany them, declaring that most important business kept her at
home.
" Edward will not come to-day, so do not expect him," had
been Emmeline's parting words.
The ruralizing party were to dine amid the ruins of Berry
Pomeroy, and were not expected home till dusk, to a sub-
stantial tea.
It might have been seyeif in the evening that Ellen quietly
entered the library, where her aunt was engaged in writing,
and stood by her side in silence, as if fearful of interrupting
by addressing her.
" Wait a few minutes, my love, and I shall be ready to
attend to you, if you require my assistance in the arrangement
of your work," Mrs. Hamilton said, alluding to the parcel of
baby-linen she perceived in her niece's hand. Ellen smiled
and obeyed. In a few minutes Mrs. Hamilton laid aside
her writing, and looked up, as if expecting her niece would
speak.
"Well, Ellen, what grand difficulty can you not over-
come ?"
" None, my dear aunt. My task is done ; I only want
your approval," replied Ellen.
" Done I" repeated her aunt, in an accent of astonishment.
" My dear Ellen, it is impossible ; I only gave it you a week
ago. You must have worked all night to finish it."
" Indeed I have not," replied Ellen, quickly yet earnestly.
" Then I certainly must examine every little article," said
Mrs. Hamilton, laughiug, "or I shall decidedly fancy this
extreme rapidity cannot have been productive of neatness,
which last I rather prefer to the first."
256 THE mother's BECOICPENSE.
Ellen submitted her work to her scrutiny, without reply,
and remained kneeling on a stool at her aunt's feet, withoid
any apprehension as to the sentence that W0uld be pronoon*
ced.
* Eeally, Ellen, I shall incline to Emmeline's opinion, and
beiieye some magic is at work within you," was Mrs. Hamil
ton's obseryation, as she folded up the tiny suit with yeij
eyident marks of satisfaction. ^^ How you haye acquired the
power of working thus neatly and rapidly, when I have
scarcely eyer seen a needle in your hand, I cannot compre-
hend. I will appoint you my seamstress-general, in addidoD
to bestowing my really sincere thanks for the assbtance you
haye afforded me,"
Ellen pressed her aunt's hand to her lips in silence, for ar
enotion Mrs. Hamilton beheld, but could not understand
choked her yoice. '
^' What is the matter, loye? has an^ thing occurred to an
noy you to-day ? You look paler and more sad than usual ;
tell me what it is."
" Do you remember what ^what chanced ^haye you forgot-
ten the eyent that took place this yery day, this yery hour,
in this yery room, three years ago ?" demanded Ellen, almost
inaudibly, and her cheek blanched to the color of her robe
as she spoke.
" Why recall the painful past at such a moment, my sweet
girl ? has it not been redeemed by three years of undeviating
rectitude and yirtue ? I had hoped the recollection had ere
this long ceased to disturb you," replied Mrs. Hamilton, with
much feeling, as she pressed her lips to her niece's brow.
" It neyer can, it neyer will, unless ^unless " Strong
and almost fearful emotion preyented all she had wished to
say, and throwing into Mrs. Hamilton's lap a small calf-skin
pocket-book, she flung her arms round her neck, and burying
her face in her bosom, murmured, in a yoice choked with sobs,
" The amount of all I took is there all all. Oh, take it,
and let me thus feel it as a debt which I haye paid."
"Ellen, my own Ellen, be composed," entreated Mrs.
Hamilton, alarmed by the extreme agitation she beheld.
"Tell me, loye, what are the contents of this pocket-book?
why do you entreat me so earnestly to take it?"
Struggling yiolently with herself, Ellen tore open the little
book, and placed in her aunt's hand bank notes to the amcunt
of those which had once been so fatal a temptation.
THE hotheb's recompense. ^57
^ hej are mine all mine. I have gained them honestly ;
ideed, indeed I haye ; I have worked for them. It was to
ain time for thi^ I refused to go out with you last winter.
had hoped my long, long task would have been done before,
ut it was not. Oh, I thought I should never, never gain the
rhole amount, but I have now ; and, oh, tell me I have in part
edeemed my sin ; tell me I am more worthy of your love,
'our kindness ; tell me I am again indeed your own happy
Sllen."
She would have said more, but no words came at her com-
nand, and Mrs. Hamilton remained silent for a few minutes,
n surprise and admiration.
" My Ellen, my own much-loved Ellen !" she exclaimed at
.engtb, and tears of unfeigned emotion mingled with the re-
peated kisses she imprinted on her niece's cheek, '' this moment
has indeed repaid me for all. Little did I imagine in what
manner you were employed, the nature of your tedious task.
How could you contrive to keep ib thus secret from me ? what
time could you find to work thus laboriously, when not one
study or employment have I seen neglected ?"
" I thought at first I never should succeed," replied Ellen,
her strong emotion greatly calmed ; " for while Miss Harcourt
remained with us, I had only two hours before prayers in the
morning, and sometimes I have ventured to sit up an hour or
two later at night ; but not often, for I feared you would dis-
cover me, and be displeased, for I could not, dared not tell
you in what I was employed. The winter before last I earned
80 much from embroidery and finer kinds of work, that I
thought I should have obtained the whole a year ago ; but I
was disappointed, for here I could only do plain work, at which
I earned but little, for I could not do it so quickly. I had
hoped there would have been no occasion to refuse your wish,
that I should accompany you and Emmeline, but I found the
whole amount was still far from complete, and I was compelled
to act as I did."
" And is it possible, my Ellen, you have intrusted your
secret to no one : have demanded no sympathy, no encourage-
ment in this long and painful task ?"
'^ I could not have accomplished nor did I commence it
without the kind assistance and advice of Ellis. My deai
aunt, I knew, reposed great confidence in her, and I thought
if she did not disapprove of my plan, I should iiot\i^ ws\.\\i%%^
very independently, and that with her assiatau^ tk^ ^^^t^\
258 THE mother's recompensc.
would not be so difficult to keep ; she procured me employ-
ment. My name nor my reasons for seeking it were neyei
known to those for whom I worked."
'^ And could she approve of a task such as this, my Ellen ^
Gould she counsel such painful self-denial and tedious labor?"
'* She did all she could to dissuade, and at first positively
refused to assist me ; but at last yielded to my Entreaties, for
she saw I never should be happy till I could look on the past
more as a debt than than " She paused, then added
^ My own spirit rebelled enough ; that was far more difficult to b:
overcome than other dissuasions." t;
'' And what strong impulse could have urged you to this te
course of self-denial, my sweet girl ? I know not yet whether I pi
shall not scold you for this almost needless infliction of pais,
and for the deception it involves towards me," said Mrs. Ham'
ilton, with reproachful tenderness.
" Forgive me, oh, forgive me that !" exclaimed Ellen, clasp-
ing the hand she held. " I have often and often felt I was de-
ceiving you; failing in that confidence I had promised yon
should never again have to demand ; but I dared not tell yon,
for I knew you would have prohibited the continuance of my
task."
'^ I should indeed, my Ellen ; and tell me why you have
done this. Was it indeed because you imagined nothing else
could atone for the past ?"
" Because I felt ^I knew, though I was restored to your
favor, your confidence, my conscience was not at peace, becaose
I had read, * Jff' t/ie tvicked restore the pledge, give again that
which he had robbed, walk in the statutes of life without com-
mitting iniquity, he shall surely live, he shall not die ;' and I
felt, however I might endeavor to be virtuous and good, till I
had given again that which I had robbed, I dared not implore
the mercy of my God."
It is impossible to do justice by mere description to the
plaintive eloquence, to the mournfully expressive voice with
which these simple words were said, betraying at once those
thoughts and feelings which had been so long concealed in El-
len's meek and youthful heart, the hidden spring from which
her every action had emanated ; Mrs. Hamilton felt its power,
the sentiment was too exalted, too holy for human praise.
She folded her niece to her bosom.
^^ May the Almighty searcher of hearts accept this sacrifice
and blesa jou, my dear child.. ^^^ix^vV^^ 'vtfxQ^\ijAa,l\awalY^ it
THE mother's recompense. 259
las been done. Pore mnst have been the thoughts which
yere yours when thus employed, when such was their origin,
knd we may hope, indeed, they haye been accepted. Had no
lelf-denial attended the payment of your debt, had you merely
mtreated your uncle to repay himself from the fortune you
ossess, I would not have accepted it ; such a payment would
leither have been acceptable to me, nor to Him whom, I firmlj'
)elieye, my Ellen sought more to please. But when every
iction the last few years has proved to me, the words you re-
peated have indeed been the foundation of this self-conquest, I
;annot but humbly, trustingly, think it will be an accepted
Bering on high. Nor will I refuse to comply with your re-
pest, my dearest Ellen ; I will receive that which you have so
perseveringly and so painfully earned; it shall be employed in
purchasing prayers for us all, from those whom it may relieve.
Let not the recollection of the past again disturb you, my
iweet child. Solicitude and pain you indeed once caused
ne, but this moment has redeemed it all. Continue thus
mdeviatingly to follow the blessed path you have chosen,
md our Ellen is and ever will be deserving of all the love
ivhich those to whom she is so dear can lavish upon her."
For a few minutes there was silence, for the solemnity with
p^hioh she spoke had touched a responding chord; but the
thoughts of the orphan arose to heaven, silently petitioning for
race to continue in that blessed path of which her aunt had
spoken, in thankfulness for having been permitted to conclude
tier painful task, and thus obtain the approbation of her more
than mother, the relative she so revered and loved.
" And this, then, was the long task which your numerous
avocations during the day prevented your completing, and
you therefore took the time from that allotted to recreation
and amusement ^this, which so strongly emboldened my little
Ellen, that even my coldness had no effect, except to make her
miserable. What do you not deserve for thus deceiving me 1
I do not think I know any punishment sufficiently severe."
Mrs. Hamilton had recalled all her playfulness, for she
wished to banish every trace of sadness and emotion from the
countenance of her niece. Ellen raised her head to answer her
in her own playful tone, when they were both startled by the
declining light of day being suddenly obscured, as if by the
shadow of a figure standing by the open window near them.
It was, however, so dark, that the outlines of the mtiwdex ^^x^
alone visible, and they woxdd have been unxecoginaft^ \s^ ^i^l^
Mve hy the eye of affection.
260 THE MOTHE&'S BEOOMPENSB. I
EUen sprung suddenly to her feet " Edward !" bun* M down
gladly from her lips, and in another second a fine, vm) kfind si
youth had darted through the open casement, and the long- I lb. Ha]
parted brother and sister were in each other's arms, ^oj * m m^^
minute only Ellen was pressed in his embrace, and then Usd at
releasing her, he turned towards his aunt, and even as i fcjiius t
devoted mother, a fond and dutiful son, they met, for m hha fS^
had they been in the long years of separation. Freqnentij iKtinuni
had that high-spirited boy been tempted to error and w Whad c
sin, but as a talisman had her letters been. He thongW P^^
the years that were passed, on their last interview, ^^ P^^^
every word had graven itself upon his heart, on the devctedn^ lutoc
of his orphan sister, the misery he had once occawoned; M )r^ ,
thought on these things and stood firm, the tempter M FJ*^
Ho stood before them erect in youthful beauty, no inw^i* \LgojS.
stain bade him turn from those fond looks or shrink from wi P^
entwining arms of his young sister. And, oh, how blessed i& r^^
it thus to meet ! to feel that vanished years have not estranged V^
us, distance hath not diminished love, that we are to eaen |
other even as we parted ; to feel again the fond kiss, to lieai y^ ^
once more the accents of a voice which to us has been ioT 1-^
years so still a voice that brings with it the gush of memory 1 1^
Past days flit before us ; feelings, thoughts, hopes, we deemed I ^-
were dead, all rise i^in, summoned by that secret witchery, \^
the well-remembered though long silent voice. Let years, j::^
long, lingering, saddening years drag on their chain, let yonili I
Jiave given place to manhood, manhood to age, still will it be v*
^e same ^the voice we once have loved, and deemed to us for V^
^ver still oh, time, and grief, and blighted hopes vdll be for- 1 j
^gro^^^y u^d youth, in its undimmed and joyous beauty, itfl U
^low of generous feelings, its bright anticipations, all, all again I
ours. L
* Mother; yes, now indeed may I call you mother!" 1
otlaimed Edward, when the agitation of this sudden meeting I
^^J. subsided, and he found himself seated on a sofa between I
-'^ aunt and sister, clasping the hand of the former and
1^ ivB^^MK his arm caressingly round the latter. " Now indeed
r ^^^\^ V 1 ittdw^ ia ^e joy it is to behold you both again ; now
^^'^V I ^^'^'^ iotih. unshrinkingly to meet my uncle's glance,
,a2uUtor shame, or fear has cast its mist upon my heart
g was your gift," he drew a small Bible from his bosom.
^ikd it first, because it had been yours, because it waa
to y^U| Wi4 ULii QWBi^ Q^ si^ Wi\\fcx tlvovL^hts, and I
THE MOTHER'^ RECOMPENSE. 26 a
^ bowed down before the God you worshipped, and implored His
^ *id. to find strength, and he heard me."
^* Mrs. Hamilton pressed his hand, but spoke not, and after
^ * brief silence, Edward, changing his tone and his subject,
'"p ^?^^6d at once, with all his natural liveliness, into a hurried
g^! ^^^ of his voyage to England. An unusually quick passage
Pv ^^^ ^ini and all the youngsters the opportunity they desired,
fs V ^'^^^^^^^S *^ *^^^ various homes quite unexpectedly. The
^^ j^^^ ^^ ^^y arrived off Plymouth the previous night, or
^^ d*^ morning, for it was two o'clock ; by noon the ship was
^* ^^^^^^led, the crew dismissed, leave of absence being granted
^^ ^ ^^ '^^^ ^^^ *^ ^^* *^ ^^ ^^ ^^^ laughingly declar-
^ n ^^ fancied being the captain's favorite very annoying, as his
li: : P^^sence and assistance were requested at a time when his
: ^ ^art was at Oakwood ; however, he was released at last,
ij^ ^focnred a horse, and galloped away. His disasters were not,
^ however, over ; his horse fell lame, as if, Edward said, he felt
. ^ seaman was not a fit master for him. He was necessitated
1^ to leave the poor animal to the care of a cottager, and proceed
t^ on foot, avoiding the village for fear of being recognized before
^. he desired ; he exercised his memory by going through the
^ lanes, and reached Oakwood by a private entrance. Aston-
^ ished at seeing the rooms, by the windows of which he passed,
deserted, he began to fear the family were aU in London ; but
the well-known sound of his aunt's voice drew him to the
library, just as he was seeking the main entrance to have his
doubts solved. He stood for a few minutes gazing on the two
beings who, more vividly than any others, had haunted his
dreams by night and visions by day ; he had wished to meet
them first, and alone, and his wish was granted.
Wrapped in her happy feelings, it was her brother's arm
around her, her brother's voice she heard, Ellen listened to
him in trembling eagerness, scarcely venturing to breathe, lest
that dear voice should be still, lest the hand she clasped should
fade away, and she should wake and find it but a dream of
bliss Edward could not really have returned ; and Mrs. Ha-
milton felt emotion so powerfully swelling within, as she gazed
once more on the brave preserver of her husband, the child of
her sister, her very image, that it was with difficulty she could
ask those many questions which affection and interest prompted.
Edward had scarcely, however, finished his tale, before the
Bound of many and eager voices, the joyous laugji, Avd otVvftT
signs of youthful hilarity, announced the xetuixi oi ^'b ^^1
262 THE mother's recompense.
from their excursion. Nor was it long before Emmeline*s voice,
as usual, sounded in loud laughing accents for her mother,
without whose sympathy no pleasure was complete.
" Do not disturb yourselves yet, my dear children," Mra
Hamilton said, as she rose, knowing well how many, many
things the long-separated orphans must have mutually to tell,
and penetrating with that ready sympathy the oflfepring of
true kindness their wish for a short time to remain alone to-
gether. ^' You shall not be summoned to join us till tea is
quite ready, and if you wish it, Edward," she added, with a
smile, ^^you shall have the pleasure of startling your uncle and
cousins as agreeably as you did us. I will control my desire
to proclaim the happy tidings of your safe return."
She left the brother and sister together ; sending Robert
with a lamp, that they might have the gratification of seeing
each other, which the increasing darkness had as yet entirely
prevented ; and a gratification to both it was indeed. Edward
had left his sister comparatively well, but with the traces of her
severe illness still remaining vividly impressed upon her fea-
tures ; but now he saw her radiant in health, in happiness, and
beauty so brilliant, he could hardly recognize that fair and
graceful girl for the ailing, drooping child she had once been.
Nor was the contrast less striking between the Ellen of the
present meeting and the Ellen of the last ; then wretchedness,
misery, inward fever, consumed her outward frame, and left its
scorching brand upon her brow. Remorseful anguish had
bowed her down ; and now he had returned when her heart was
free and light as the mountain breeze, her self-inspired pen*
ance was completed ; and nothing now existed to make her
shrink from the delight of devoting hours to her brother.
" Tell James to g(t over to the Rectory, with my compli-
ments to Mr. Howard, and if he be not particularly engaged,
I beg he will join us this evening," said Mrs. Hamilton, a short
time after she had left the library, addressing Martyn, then
crossing the halL
" Have you any particular wish for our worthy rector this
evening, Emmeline ?" demanded Mr. Hamilton, gazing, as he
spoke, with admiration and surprise on the countenance of his
wife, whose expressive features vainly strove to conceal inte^
nal happiness.
"A most earnest desire," she replied, smiling somewhat
archly.
^^ indeed, I am curioua"
THE mother's recompense. 268
^ I am sorry, dear Arthur, for I am no advocate for curi-
osity, and cannot indulge it.'*
'^ Ah, papa, there is a gentle hint for you, and a broader one
for me," exclaimed Emmeline, laughing ; while conjectures as
to what Mrs. Hamilton's business with the rector could possi-
bly be, employed the time merrily Uill the whole party were
assembled.
'^ You may depend, Emmeline, it is to arrange all the ne-
cessary minutiae for your marriage," said Lord St. Eval, who
had been persuaded to remain at Oakwood that night. '^Your
mother has selected a husband for you ; and, fearing your op-
position, has sent for Mr. Howard that all may be said and done
at once."
^ I hope, then, that I am the man," exclaimed Lord Louis,
laughing; ''there is no one else whom she can very well have
at heart, not that I see," he added, looking mischievously
round him, while some strange and painful emotions suddenly
checked Emmeline's flow of spirits, and utterly prevented her
replying.
A flush of crimson dyed her cheek and brow ; nay, her fair
neck partook its hue, and she suddenly turned towards her
mother, with a glance that seemed of entreaty.
" Why, Emmeline, my dear child, you surely cannot believe
there is the least particle of truth in my mischievous son's
assertion," said the Marchioness of Malvern, pitying, though
she wondered at her very evident distress.
" And is marriage so very disagreeable to you even in
thought ?" demanded Lord St. Eval, still provokingly.
" The very idea is dreadful ; I love my liberty too well,"
answered Emmeline, hastily rallying her energies with an ef-
fort, and she ran on in her usual careless style ; but her eye
glanced on the tall figure of young Myrvin, as he stood with
Herbert at a distant window, and words and liveliness again
for a moment failed. His arms were folded on his bosom,
and his grey eye rested on her with an expression almost of
despair, for the careless words of Lord Louis had reached his
heart ^'' No one else she can have."
Lord Louis had forgotten him, or intentionally reminded
him that he was indeed as a cipher in that noble circle ; that
he might not, dared not aspire to that fair hand. He gazed
on her, and she met his look ; and if that earnest, almost
agonized glance betrayed to her young and ga\Me^ XiO^otCL
that she was beloved, it waa not the only secret B\ie t^i'aX* Ti\^\
dhsoovered.
264 THE mother's eecompense.
Mr. Hamilton was too earnestly engaged in conversation
with Sir George Wilmot to notice the painful confusion of hii
child ; and Mrs. Hamilton was thinking too de^lj and hap-
pily on Ellen's conduct and Edward's return, to bestow the
attention that it merited, and consequently it passed without
remark.
' Mother, I am sorry to be the first to inform you of such
a domestic misfortune," said Percy, soon after entering the
room, apparently much amused, ''but Bobert has suddenly
lost his wits ; either something extraordinary has happened,
or is about to happen, or the poor fellow has become bewitched.
You smile, mother ; on my honor, I think it no smiling m&t
ter."
" Never mind, Percy ; your favorite attendant will, I have
no doubt, recover his senses before the night is over. I am
not in the least anxious," replied his mother, smiling.
" Percy, your mother has clothed herself to-night in im
penetrable mystery, so do not hope to discover any thing
through her," said Lord St. Eval, laughing, and the young
men continued gayly conversing with Lady Gertrude a^d Car-
oline, till the entrance of Mr. Howard and the announcement
of tea or supper ; of both of which, after a day spent in the
country as this had been, the evening meal partook.
"Ellen ^where is Ellen?" said several voices, as they
seated themselves round the hospitable board, and observed
her place was vacant ; and Sir George Wilmot eagerly joined
the inquiry.
" She will join us shortly. Sir George," replied Mrs. Ham-
ilton, and, turning to a servant near her, desired him to let
Miss Fortescue know tea was ready.
" I will go, madam. Stand back, James, let me pass," ex*
claimed Bobert, hastily, and he bounded out of the apartment
with a most extraordinary failing of his wonted respect
" There, proof positive ; did I not tell you the lad was mad,"
said Percy, and, as if in confirmation of his words, almost
directly after a loud and joyful shout sounded from the ser
vants' hall.
Mr. Hamilton looked up inquiringly, and in doing so, his
eye caught an object that caused him to start from his seat
with an exclamation of surprise and pleasure ; while Percy,
leaping over chairs and tables that stood in his way, unheed-
ing Lord Louis's inquiry, whether Bobert had infected him,
shook and shook again the hand of the long-absent relative,
HiE mother's recompense. 265
ta ^Itom both he and Herbert could only recognize the pre
8ei-er of their father. Herbert and his sisters simultaneously
left their seats and crowded round him. Warmly, affection-
ately, Edward greeted them one and all, and rapidly answered
the innumerable questions of Percy ; defended his sister from
all share in his concealment, of which Herbert and Emmeline
laughingly accused her. Tne flush of almost painful bashful-
ness still lingered on his cheek, as he marked the eyes of all
fixed upon him, strangers as well as friends ; but as he turned
in the direction of his aunt, and his eye fell on the venerable
figure of his revered preceptor, who stood aside, enjoying the
little scene he beheld, as the remembrance of the blessed
words, the soothing comfort that impressive voice had spoken
in his hour of greatest need, the lessons of his childhood, his
dawning youth, rushed on his mind, control, hesitation, re-
serve, were all at an end ; he broke from the surrounding and
eager group, even from the detaining arm of his sister, sprung
towards him, and clasping both Mr. Howard's hands, his eyes
glistened and his voice quivered as he exclaimed
" Mr. Howard, too ! one of my first, my best, and kindest
&iends. Ellen told me not of this unexpected pleasure ; this
is joy, indeed."
* A joy to me, too, my dear boy, equally unexpected ; we
must thank Mrs. Hamilton for this early meeting. I knew
Dot the pleasure she had prepared for me," replied Mr.
Howard, returning the pressure of Edward's hand with equal
w^armth.
" Nor did any one, my good sir. Never will I say again a
lady cannot keep a secret," said the Marquis of Malvern, jest-
ingly. " Mr. Hamilton, as you do not seem inclined to honor
me, without asking, I must entreat a formal introduction to
that gallant nephew of yours, whose name is not unknown to
naval fame, though as yet but one of her junior officers."
" I really beg your pardon, my dear Lord ; Edward's sud-
den appearance has startled me out of all etiquette. To one
and all, then, of my good friends here, allow me to introduce
to their indulgent notice this said Edward Fortesque, midship-
man and gallant officer on board His Majesty's good ship
Prince William ; and, in order that all reserve may be at an
end between us, I propose a bumper to the health and pros-
perity of the wanderer returned."
" Most cgtcellent, my dear father ; one that L V\X\. ^^^wA
with all my heart," exclaimed Percy, eagerly. '^"Bot \5aX ^"o^-
12
266 THE mother's becohtense.
phibions animal looks marrellously like a fish out of water .[
amongst us all ; and here we admit no strangers. Edward, jg^^
there is a vacant seat reserved for you by my mother's side, ^\^
who looks much as if she would choose you for her knight thtf
evening ; and, therefore, though your place in future b
amongst the young ladies, to whom by and by I mean to intro-
duce you by name and character, we will permit you to sit
there to-night. Ellen, my little coz, where are you^ You
must be content with looking at your brother, not sitting by
him. I cannot allow such breaches of etiquette ; that is (^nite
impossible.''
" I am perfectly satisfied where I am, Percy," replied W
cousin, laughing, as she obeyed the Marchioness of Malvern's |^p
request, and seated herself beside her. Every eye was turned
on Ellen with an admiration, which, had not her thoughts been
engrossed with her brother, would have been actually painful
to one of her quick feelings. Lady Malvern longed to hear
from her young favorite, in words, the internal delight which
was so evident in every feature, and, by her kindly sympathy,
succeeded in her wishes. The young sailor's health was cele-
brated with enthusiasm; and Edward, gracefully, though
briefly, returned his thanks, while the kindness of all around
him, the easy friendliness of those who were strangers, and the
joy of feeling himself once more in the midst of those he
loved, soon placed him perfectly at ease.
Ellen looked eagerly round her circle of friends, to mark
the impression made by Edward, and even her fond affection
was fully satisfied. Sir George Wilmot had not spoken, but
his eye kindled with animation as in the gallant young sailor
he recalled his own youthful days, while some other sad re-
membrances kept him silent, and checked his usual hilarity-
Lord Malvern appeared almost as interested as Mr. Hamilton.
Lady Gertrude's kind glance met hers, and told, by its silent
eloquence, how well she sympathized in Ellen's feelings ; and
Lord St. Eval, too, his smile spoke volumes, though his natural
reserve prevented his addressing Edward, while the young and
lively members of the party seemed to find abundant amuse-
ment in the anecdotes and adventures he narrated. Arthur
Myrvin gazed earnestly at him, and for a time banished his
own distressing thoughts in the endeavor to trace in the fine
manly youth before him some likeness to the handsome, yet
violent and mischievous boy he had first and la^ seen in tb^
rillage of LlangwiUan.
K
THE mother's recompense. 267
^ I nave heard so much of Edward, from m j friond Ellen
here, that I am most anxious to cultivate his acquaintance, and
^ust Castle Malvern will often be graced by the presence of
sucli a gallant young sailor," was the Marchioness of Malvern's
^ind address, after they had adjourned to the drawing-room,
^s, leaning on the arm of Ellen, she advanced to the young
^an, who, from Percy's lively introduction, was playing the
^greeable to Lady Florence and Lady Emily Lyle, while Lord
-^oais, who found something in Edward's countenance that
pi'omised a kindred feeling for fun and frolic, was demanding
Sluestion after question, which Edward was answering in a
^tanoer calculated to excite the continued merriment of his
Companions, till a sign from his aunt called him to her side.
" So I must entreat Admiral Sir George Wilmot to deign
to notice my nephew, it will not be given unasked," she said,
Approaching the aged officer, who was sitting a little apart,
shading his eyes with his hand, as if in deep thought. '' Sir
George, I shall impeach you of high treason against me, the
liege lady of this fortress, that on a night when all is joy, you,
irho are generally the gayest, should be sad. What excuse
can you urge in your defence ?"
"Is Edward unworthy of the high privilege of being a
sailor. Sir George ?" whispered Ellen, archly, " or is your
wrath against me, for not joining your expedition this morn-
ing, to be extended to him ? will you not look on him as a
brother seaman ?"
" Nay, Ellen, I must toil through long years of servitude,
I must reap very many laurels, ere . I can deserve that title,"
said Edward. " The name of Sir George Wilmot is too well
known on the broad seas for me to hope for more than a word
of encouragement from him, or to enable me to look on him
with any other feelings than those of the deepest reverence
and respect."
"Ay, ay, young man, you wish to surprise the old hulk to
surrender ; gayly rigged and manned as you are, you think, by
a show of homage to me, to surprise me into paying it to you,"
said the old man, rousing himself from his abstraction, and
laughing as he spoke. " Do not deny it, youngster, but I for-
give you; for I have been an old fool, Mrs. Hamilton. I
plead guilty, and throw mvself on your mercy. You, Mistress
Ellen, you deserve nothmg from me, after rejecting every
courtly speech I could think of this morning, to "^eTaA,^^ ^wsw
to crowd sail and steer out under my guidance, \na\^^^ Cii t^
208 THE mother's recompense.
maining safe in harbor. Jokes apart, if you, young sir, will
feel pleasure in the friendship of an old time-worn servant of
his Majesty as I am, I offer you my hand with all the warmth
and sincerity of our noble profession. For your uncle's sake
as well as your own, my best wishes and my best offices shall
be exercised in tacking on lieutenant to your name."
" And you will do nothing, then, for my sake^ Sir George,
nor for my aunt's, whose dignity your sadness has offended?"
said Ellen, smiling, as did Mrs. Hamilton.
" Your aunt would forgive my sadness, my dear child, did
she know its cause. I was wrong to encourage it, but I could
not look on these bright features," he laid his hand, which
trembled, on Edward's arm, ^^ without seeing again past times,
peopled with those who have passed away. Mrs. Hamilton, 1
thought again the merry favorite of my old friend, your father, \
stood before me, the gay, the thoughtless, lovely Eleanor ; she
was like him, in the bloom of youth and freshness, when 1
last beheld her ; and I thought, as mine eye glanced on this
well-known uniform, there was another still of whom he re-
minded me, the adopted son of my affections, the darling of
my childless years, Charles, my gallant warm-hearted Charles!
Nearly six years was he with me, when his courage earned him
a lieutenant's berth ; he changed his quarters and his com-
mander, and I saw him no more. Such was he ; such oh, I
thought Eleanor and Charles again were before me, and I
longed for the friend of my early years, to recognize in his
grandson the features of his Eleanor, the voice, the laugh, and
figure of his Charles. Forgive me, my dear children, I have
frightened away your mirth, and made myself gloomy."
There was silence as he ceased, and Sir George was the
first to break it, by addressing Edward with animation, ques-
tioning him as to all his nopes and anticipations with regard to
his promotion, which, as his six years of service were now
passed, he allowad to occupy his mind, and in such conversa-
tion all traces of gloom quickly vanished ; and Ellen, interest-
ed^ in their conference, lingered near them in recovered
spirits, till the bell summoned all those who chose to join in
the evening prayer. All attended, except young Myrvin, who
had departed. Herbert felt anxious on his friend's account
for many reasons, which we must postpone explaining till a
f ature page ; suffice it now to say that the young man's conduet
not seeming to be such as his profession demanded, a degree
of Boareely perceptible, but ketauV^-iftW. ^^Ti&^ ^%& ^\%^U^ei
THE mother's recompense. 269
towards him, both by Mr. Hamilton and Mr. Howard. Herbert
had this night remarked that his cheek was pale, his eyo
almost haggard, and his words and manner often confused,
and he had endeavored to elicit the cause of his inward dis-
turbance, but unsuccessfully ; the young man, although verj
evidently unhappy, appeared to snrink from his confidence,
and Herbert, though grieved, desisted from his friendly office.
That night Mr. Hamilton resigned his place at the reading-
desk to the worthy minister, who, both in public and private
worship, knew so well the duties of his sacred office. He
read the chapters of the evening, with a brief but explanatory
commentary on each, and after the usual prayers, broke forth
into a strain of earnest thanksgiving for the safe return of him
who, since he had last addressed his God, surrounded by his
family, had been exposed to the temptations and dangers of
the sea, and mercifully preserved through them all, and per-
mitted to return in joy and peace. To all, save to the or-
phans and Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton, his words applied but to
the terrors of the deep, but they well knew where the thoughts
of their minister had wandered; they knew that fervent
thanksgiving was offered up for his preservation from those
sins which had been his on his last return ; they knew he
blessed his Maker for the promise of virtue he beheld; His
grace had enabled him to overcome temptation, and return to
the home of his boyhood comparatively unstained.
Edward contrasted his present feelings with those which
he had experienced the first ni^ht of his last r,etum,and Ellen
thought on that Vitter anguish, the public shame which had
been hers in that very hall, that very night three years before,
and the young hearts of both the orphans were filled with
warm and deep thanksgiving. The thoughts of all were com-
posed and tranquillized when Mr. Howard ceased, and in the
little time that intervened between the conclusion of the ser-
vice and the family separating to their rooms, no light and fri-
volous converse disturbed the solemn but not sad impression
on the minds of each.
"I cannot part from you for the night, my dear cousin,"
said Edward, somewhat archly, though in a low voice, as he
approached the spot where Caroline and St. Eval stood, "with-
out offering you my warmest congratulations on your future
prospects, and without requesting an introduction from you to
him, in whom I am to welcome a new relative. 1 \i^^ \i%^
wishing to do so all the evening, but when 1 'W&a A ^etXrj \
missed yon."
270 TOE mother's EEC0BIPEN8E.
"Eyidentlj pleased, Caroline looked np into St. Eyal's face^
but before she could speak, the young Earl had warmly pressed
Edward's hand, and answered with sincerity and kindness
equal to his own. The whole party very soon afterwards
dispersed.
Were it ours to follow our young and still, in appearance,
childlike friend Emmeline Hamilton to her room that night, we
should see that the smiles which had beamed around her lip
had passed away, the flush on her cheek was no longer there,
and one or two bright drops might have been observed slowly
falling on her pale cheek, as she sat in deep musing, ere she
retired to her couch. She had dismissed Fanny, alleging that
she did not require her aid, and her long silky hair, loosed
from its confinement, hung carelessly in golden waves around
her. Tears fell on her hand ; she started, and flung back her
tresses, looked fearfully around her, and passed her hand
across her eyes, as if to check them but ineffectually; another
and another fell ; she leaned her crossed arms upon the pil-
low, and her head drooped on them, and she wept, wept as she
had never wept before, and yet she knew not wherefore ; she
was sad, how deeply sad, but that young and guileless spirit
knew not why. Child she was still in looks, in playfulness, in
glee ; a child she still believed herself, but she was no child
that age of buoyancy had fled, and Emmeline was, indeed, a
woman, a thinking, feeling, ay, and loving woman.
It might have been nearly a week after Edward's return,
when, on entering the library one morning, Mrs. Hamilton ob-
served her husband, Mr. Howard, and Edward, in earnest con*
ference, the latter appearing somewhat agitated. She would
have retreated, imagining her presence mistimed, but Edward,
the instant he perceived her, sprung forward, and seizing both
her hands, exclaimed, in a voice of entreaty
" Dearest aunt, will not you use your influence with my
uncle, ahd prevail on him to take the sum I have saved at dif-
ferent times, from my prize-money and other things, to replace
that which ^which was lost three years ago ? To obtain suffi-
cient, I have denied myself all unnecessary indulgence ; it has
checked my natural extravagance ; prevented me, when some-
times I have been strongly tempted to play, or join my mess-
mates in questionable amusements. In saving that, I have cured
myself of many faults ; it has taught me economy and con-
trol, for, by the time the whole amount was saved my wishes and
evil ineiinations were conc^ueied. 1 \oqV qxi \^ w a. debt which
THE mother's eecohfense. 27 i
[ had bonnd myself to pay. I anticipated the pleasure of
belling my dear sister, she might banish the past entirely from
her mind, for I would not write a word of my intentions, lest
I should fail in them ere I returned. And now my uncle re-
fuses to grant my request ; Mr. Howard will not second me ,'
and and I see how it is," he continued, with a return of for-
mer violence in his manner, as he paced the room, and a flush
burned on his cheek, " my uncle will not consent to look on it
as a debt ; he will not permit me, even as far as this will do it,
to redeem my sister."
" You are quite mistaken, my dear boy," replied Mr. Ha-
milton, mildly. " Your sister's own conduct has sufficiently
proved to me her repentance and amendment ; her gentle vir-
tues and faultless conduct have quite redeemed the past, and
so has yours. I refuse to take your well-earned savings, merely
because they really are not necessary."
" But if it will give me pleasure, if it will satisfy me.
Dearest aunt, plead fo" me ; you know not the relief it will
be," again entreated Edward, as he paused, in his hasty walk,
and looked beseechingly in his aunt's face.
" Nay, dear Edward, do not deinand impossibilities," she
replied, smiling, " I cannot plead for you. That money with
which you appear so very eager to part, must return to your
own purse ; your sister's debt is already paid."
" Paid !" repeated Mr. Hamilton and Mr. Howard, in as-
tonishment, while Edward stood as if bewildered. " How, and
by whom?"
" By Ellen herself* implied Mrs. Hamilton ; and address-
ing her husband, she added, " I should have told you before,
but we have both been too much engaged the last two days to
allow any time for private conversation ; and my Ellen had en-
treated that only you should know her secret ; but she would,
I know, have made an exception in Mr. Howard's favor had I
demanded it, for his excellent lessons have in all probability
assisted in making her the character she is ; and as for her
brother why, in charity, he shall know this strange tale," she
added, smiling ; and briefly, but with affecting accuracy, she
related all that had passed between her and Ellen on the even-
ing of Edward's return. Mr. Hamilton and Mr. Howard list-
ened in astonishment, for they knew not the quiet steadiness,
the unwavering firmness of Ellen's private character ; they
guessed not the deep remorse which had been her own, nor
for how long it had guided and purified her actioma. "^^^^x^
272 THE mother's recompense.
had concealed his face in his hands, his arms resting upon tb
table, for he felt in this tale of persevering effort and self-
denial, in comparison with Ellen's, as if his had sunk to no-
thing ; the bright lustre of his sister's character baa dimmed
even to obscurity his own.
" And have you questioned Ellis ? do you know in what
manner she contrived so secretly to render her assistance?"
demanded Mr. Hamilton, with much interest.
" I have," replied his wife. " I did so that same night ; for
even Edward's unexpected return could not banish his sister
from my mind. She told me, that at first she did all she
could to turn Ellen from her purpose ; but when she found
her resolution was unalterably fixed by some means to earn suf-
ficient to repay the cause of so much distress, she entered
warmly into her plan ; and, with the active assistance of Ro-
bert, procured her work from the baby-linen warehouses at Ply-
mouth. She first began with the plainest work, but that suc-
ceeded so well, finer was given to her. In London she worked
embroidery, purchasing the materials from her own pocket-
money, and consequently largely increasing her hoard. Spite
of her ill health, the first winter we spent in London, she perse-
veringly continued her irksome task, rising even in the coldest
weather at six, the provident care of Ellis causing her fire to
be lighted almost the earliest in the house. Robert was the
messenger employed to and fro, but no one knew her name or
rank ; for, devoted as we well know he is to Ellen, he took the
trouble of changing his livery for plain clothes, whenever Ellis
sent him on his mission. Her secret has, indeed, been well
preserved both from us and those who employed her. Many,
very many silent tears Ellis believes have fallen over my poor
Ellen's tedious task ; many a struggle to adhere to her resolu-
tion, and not throw it aside in despair ; and frequently, she
told me, after a long, solitary evening, she has thrown her
arms around Ellis's neck, and wept from exhaustion, and the
misery of hope deferred, for at first it did appear an endless
labor ; but she persevered unshrinkingly, combating her
wishes to accompany me wherever Emmeline visited.
" And it was this, then, that caused her determination to
remain at home till next year," observed Mr. Hamilton;
" poor child, our harshness was no sweetener of her task."
" It was not, indeed ; the night of Emmeline's introduction,
Ellis says, she wept as if her heart would break, as if she could
not keep her secret any longer \ but she struggled with her
,}
THE MOTHER'S RECOMPExnSE. 273
self, and conqucnrcd ; although many times, daring my estrange*
ment, she has longed to confess all, but the fear that I should
forbid her continuing her task restrained her."
" I am very glad she persevered in her secret," said Mr.
Howard, warmly ; " it is this quiet steady perseverance in a
painful duty that has pleased me far more than even the action
itself, guided as that was by every proper feeling. Extra-
ordinary sacrifices of our own formation are not, in general, as
acceptable to Him for whose sake they are ostentatiously made,
as the quiet steady discharge of our destined duties ^ihe one
is apt to beget pride, the other true humility; but this un-
shaken resolution in one so young, had its origin from true
repentance, and aided as it has been by the active fulfilment of
every duty, strengthened as it has, no doubt, been by prayer,
I cannot but trust her heavenly Master will look down with an
eye of mercy on His young servant. Look up, Edward ; you,
too, have done your duty. Why should your sister's conduct
cause this sudden depression, my young friend ?"
'' Because," exclaimed he, with an earnestness almost start-
ling, and as he looked up, his eyes glistened with tears, ^' because
all my efforts sink to nothing beside hers. I deemed myself
becoming worthy ; that the conquests over inclination I made
would obliterate the past ; but what are my sacrifices compared
to hers 1 Weak, frail, sensitive creature as she is, thus secretly,
laboriously to earn that sum which, because it required one
or two petty sacrifices of inclination, I deemed that I had
so nobly gained. What have been my efforts compared to
hers?"
" Almost as great to you, my dear boy, as hers were to her,"
said Mr. Hamilton, kindly; "you, too, have done well. Your
past errors have already, in my mind, and in that of Mr.
Howard and your aunt's, been obliterated by the pleasure youi
conduct has bestowed. She has not had the temptations to ex
travagant pleasure which have been yours ; to save this sum
you must have resigned much gratification. You have acted
thus excellently, in part, to regain the good opinion of your
friends, and the kind wish of restoring perfect peace to your
sister : in the first, you have fully succeeded ; in the second,
when your sister knows what has been the secret purpose of
your life for three long years, hor affections will amply repay
you. You are deserving of each other, my dear Edward ; and
this moment I do not scruple to say, I am proud to feel myself
80 nearly related to those who, young as t\iey \)0^;^i %t^0^w^
12*
274 THE MOTHE&^S RECOMPENSE.
BO nobly and perseveringly performed their duty both to God
and man."
Toung Fortescae raised his uncle's hand, wrung it between
both his own, and impetuously darted from the room.
'' That boy would teach me never to despair again, my good
friend," said Mr. Hamilton, addressing the worthy clergyman.
' When last he left me I had learned to hope and yet to fear,
for I dreaded his exposure to his former temptations; and
now ^glad, indeed, am I to acknowledge myself vanquished,
and to own you were ever in the right."
Mr. Howard smiled.
^ And now does my husband regret his having adopted my
Ulster's orphan as his own?" demanded Mrs. Hamilton, en-
twining her arm in her husband's, and looking caressingly in
his face.
" No, my dearest wife ; once, indeed, when I beheld yon
in fancy about to sink beneath the accumulation of misery and
anxiety both Edward and Ellen's conduct occasioned, I did in
secret murmur that the will of my heavenly Father had con-
signed to us the care of such misguided ones; I fear I looked
on them as the disturbers of family peace and harmony, when
it was the will of my God. I felt indignant and provoked
with them, when I should have bowed submissively to Him.
I have been blessed in them when I deserved it not. You
ever trusted, my Emmeline, though far greater distress was
your lot than mine. You never repented of that kindness
which bade your heart bleed for their orphan state, and urged
you to take them to your gentle bosom, and soothe them as
your own. I know that at this moment you have your reward."
Mrs. Hamilton was prevented from replying by the en-
trance of Edward, who eagerly inquired for his sister, alleging
he had searched every room in the house and could not find
her.
" She has gone with Herbert to the village, to take the
fruits of her own work, some baby linen, to the poor woman
in whose fate I am so interested," replied Mrs. Hamilton, and
turning to her husband, added ^''Now we really are alone,
my dear Arthur, will you give a little of your time to inform
me in what manner I can best lay out, for this unfortunate
being's advantage, the sum my Ellen has placed in my hands?
Do not lo^k at me, Edward, as If to implore me to take
yours also, for I mean to be very positive, and say at once I
will not "
THE mother's recompense. 279
" Gome with me, my young friend, and we will go and meet
Herbert and Ellen," Mr. Howard said, smiling; "a walk is
the best remedy for nerves fevered as yours are at present,
and I should be glad of your company." And Edward, with
eager pleasure, banishing air traces of former agitation, de-
parted, arm in arm with a companion whom he still so revered
and loved, recalling with him reminiscences of his boyhood,
and detailing with animation many incidents of his late trip.
This walk, quiet as it was, was productive, both to Mr. Howard
and his pupil, of extreme pleasure ; the former, while he re-
tained aU the gravity and dignity of his holy profession,
knew well how to sympathize with youth. Increased duties
in the ministry had caused him to resign the school which he
had kept when we first knew him, to the extreme regret of
both master and pupils. Mr. Howard regarded young peo-
ple as the tender lambs of his fold, whom it was his especial
charge to l^ain up in the paths of grace, and guard from all
the dangerous and hidden pitfalls of sin ; their parents might
neglect, or, ignorant themselves, pursue a mistaken method,
but he was the shepherd placed over the flock, and while un-
tiringly, zealously, he endeavored to lead the older mem}ers
of his congregation to the only rock of salvation, the younger
were the object of his especial care. To them all was bright,
the world in its dangerous, because more pleasurable, laby-
rinths was before them. He saw, he knew their perfect ignor-
ance, and he trembled, while he prayed so to lead them, that
the lessons of their minister might check them in the career of
imprudence or of sin.
" Weir: I ons of the fathers of Rome, I should say, bene-
dicitej my children," he said, playfully, as Herbert and Ellen,
apparently in serious yet happy conversation approached and
joined them, "but as I am merely a simple minister of a sim-
ple faith, I greet you with the assurance you are blessed in
your charitable office."
" And how, my kind friend, could you discover such was
our employment?" replied Herbert, smiling. " Can my mother
have been betraying us?"
" Oh, she has been a sad traitress this morning, betraying
all kinds of secrets and misdemeanors," said Mr. Howard,
laughing, and casting on Ellen a glance of arch meaning, while
Edward could scarcely contain his impatience to seize his sis
ter's arm and bear her off with him.
*^ And we, ^oo. Aave been hearing many taXe^ oi ^wsl^"^^
276 THE mother's recompense.
Howard," she said. " We have heard very mai 7 blessings on
your name in the cottage we have left, although, alas ! eventa
have occurred there of a very painful nature."
"And why, alas, my dear child?" said Mr. Howard, affec-
tionately. "Do you deem it so sad a thing to die ?"
" It is wrong, I know, to regard it thus, Mr. Howard," re*
plied Ellen ; " but yet, to leave all those we love on earth, to
sever the tender chords of affection binding us unto this world,
must be, even to the strongest and most pious minds, a draught
of bitterness."
" Do not, my dear children," said Mr. Howard, " imagine I
deem it wrong to indulge in earthly affections. Far from it;
they are given us to sweeten life, to draw our hearts in thanks-
giving to Him who gave them, and thus indulged are pleasing
unto Him. And how did you find poor Nanny to-day?" he
added, after a brief pause.
" Suffering very much in body, but in a blessed state of
mind," replied Ellen, "which she greatly attrihuted to you;
for she told me, before my aunt discovered them and placed
them where they now are, before she saw you, death was a
trouble awful in anticipation. She had ever tried to do her
duty in life, to remember her Maker in her youth, and believed
that she had succeeded ; but when she knew that she must die,
all appeared changed ; the aspect of death was different when
seemingly at a distance, to that which it presented when near
at hand. She longed for some minister of the Lord to pray
for her, to comfort her in those moments when suffering pre-
vented serious thoughts, and it was affecting to hea. jier bless
that charity which had not only placed her soul ander your
guidance, but provided also so many bodily comforts."
" And you have been exercising the duties of the ministry
before you. have donned your gown, my dear Herbert," said
Mr. Howard, glancing approvingly on his young friend. " Glad
indeed shall I be to hail you as a young brother in my sacred
office ; for with you it will be indeed the service of the heart,
and not of interest or compulsion. Would that your friend
Arthur possessed one-half of your earnest zeal, or that you
could inspire him with the same love for his sacred calling
which animates you."
" I know not what to make of Arthur," said Herbert, some-
what sadly ; " he is strangely, unaccountably changed the last
few months. When he was first settled in his curacy, bis con-
duct was such as to excite the approbation of both my father
THE MOTHEIt*S RECOMPENSE. 277
and yourself ; and now, I greatly fear, that he is alienating
both."
" Do not condemn him harshly, without good proof, dear
Mr. Howard," said Ellen, earnestly. " I, too, have noticed that
he is changed, though I scarcely know in what manner ; but
for his father's sake and for mine, do not treat him coldly be-
fore my uncle at least. He has many faults, but surely some
good qualities." ^
*' I trust he has ; but I wish he would not so carefully con-
ceal them, and suffer his parishioners to have cause to relate
so many tales of neglect and levity in their curate," replied Mr.
Howard; "but we will not bring forward accusations when the
accused is not present to defend himself: and here we are at
the Rectory before I thought we were half way. Will you
come in, my young friends, and share an old man's homely
luncheon ?"
Gladly would they have done so, but Ellen had promised
to return to Oakwood in time for that meal, and was compelled
to refuse ; adding, that both her brother and cousin might, for
the Rectory was so near one of the entrances to the park, she
could easily return alone ; but such was not Mr. Howard's in-
tention. He knew how Edward longed for a few minutes' pri-
vate conversation with his sister, and playfully detaining Her-
bert, declaring he could not do without one at least, dismissed
the orphans on their, walk, bestowing his parting blessing on
Ellen with a warmth that surprised her at the time, but the
meaning of which was fully explained in the interesting con-
versation that passed between her and her brother ere they
reached the house, and as the expression of approbation in the
minister she lo?ed, filled her young mind with joy, while the
mutual confidence bestowed in that walk added another bright
link to the chain of affection which bound the souls of that
brother and sister so fondly together.
CHAPTER XIII.
It was the hour when all in general retired to rest, and the
inmates of Oakwood had dispersed for the purpose ; but this
night thoughts of a mingled and contending nature occupied
Mrs. Hamilton's mind, and prevented all wish for sleep. Her
guests had the last week increased, and the part of hQte%% li^d.
been kindly and pleasingly performed ; Wt \hi% TN\ioVft oi ^iJoa^
278 THE MOTHEH'S RECOliPENSE.
day she had longed to be alone, and gladly, gratefully she
hailed that hour which- enabled her to be so. Shading her
eyes with her hand, she gave to her thoughts the dominion
they demanded. Maternal ambition, maternal pride, in that
silent hour fell before the stronger, more absorbing power of
maternal love. But a few brief hours, and the child of her
anxious cares, of fervent petitions at the throne of grace, wonld
be no longer an inmate of her father's house, her place in that
happy home would be a void. On the morrow, ay, the mor-
row, for the intervening weeks had fled, her child would be
another's. True, but few miles would separate their homes ;
true, that he on whom that precious gift would be bestowed,
was in all respects the husband she would have selected for
her Caroline, the husband for whom the involuntary prayer had
arisen ; virtue and piety, manliness and sincerity were his;
besides these attributes, which to some mothers would ha?e
been far more brilliant, he was noble, even of exalted rank ;
but all, all these things were forgotten in the recollection, that
on the morrow she must bid farewell to her cherished treasure,
the link, the precious link of protection would be severed, and
for ever. Thoughts of the past mingled with the present, and
softened yet more that fond mother's feelings. Pain, bitter
pain, Caroline had sometimes cost her, but pleasure, exquisite
in its kind, had mingled with it. No longer would it be hers
to watch with trembling joy the dawning virtues which had
flourished beneath her eye ; a link would be broken between
them, a slender one indeed, but still broken though Mrs.
Hamilton reproached herself for indulging in such feelings of
sadness, when so many blessings promised to gild the lot of
her child. And yet, alas ! what mother devoted to her
children as she had been, as still was this noble and gentle
woman, could part from a beloved one, even for a brief space,
even for happiness, without one pang, selfish as it might be,
selfish as perhaps it was ? for anxiety for the future darkened
not the prospects of earthly bliss, her trust in the character of
St. Eval was too confiding ; it was only her fond heart which
for a time, would be so desolate. Her ear would linger in vain
for the voice it loved ; her eye seek in sorrow for the graceful
form, the beauteous features on which it had so loved to gaze.
New ties would supply to Caroline the place of all that she
had left ; deep springs of fond emotions, such as she had never
felt before, would open in her heart, and then would she still
love, would Rh *till look to tlti^t motk^x.^ aa in childhood and
THE mother's RECOlfPENSE. 279
in youth she had done? Yainly she straggled 'to subdue
these thoughts, and bring forward in their stead the visions of
happiness, which alone had visited her before. Thronging
and tumultuously they came, and tears stole slowly from those
mild eyes, which for herself so seldom wept ; while engrossed
in her own reflections, she heard not the soft and carefdl
opening of her door, she knew not that the beloved object of
those tears had entered her room, and was kneeling beside her.
" Mother !" murmured Caroline, in a voice tremulous and
weak with emotion equal to her own. Mrs. Hamilton st^arted
and her lip quivered with the effort she made to smile her
greeting. " Mother, my own mother, forgive my intrusion ; I
thought not to have found you thus. Oh, deem me not
failing in that deep reverence your goodness, your devoted-
ness, have taught me to feel for you ; if my love would bid me
ask you why you weep, may I not share your sorrow, mother ?"
" These are but selfish tears, my own ; selfish, (or they fall
only when I think that to-morrow bears my Caroline away,
and leaves her mother's heart for a time so lone and sad, that
it will not even think of the happiness I so fondly trust will be
hers, in becoming the bride of him she loves. Forgive me, my
own Caroline ; I had no right to weep and call for these dear
signs of sympathy at such a time."
Silently and tearfully Caroline clung to her mother, and
repeatedly pressed her hand to her lips.
"And why are you not at rest, my child ? you will have
but few brief hours for sleep, scarcely sufficient to recall the
truant rose to these pale cheeks, and the lustre to tiiis
suddenly dimmed eye, my Caroline ;" and the mother passed
her hand caressingly over her brow, and parted the luxuriant
hair that, loosened from the confining wreath of wild flowers
which had so lately adorned it, hung carelessly around her.
She looked long and wistfully on that young bright face.
" You ask me why I am not at rest ; oh, I could not, I felt
I could not part from you, without imploring your forgiveness
for all the past ; without feeling that it was indeed pardoned.
Never, never before has my conduct appeared in such true
colors ; dark, even to blackness, when contrasted with yours.
Your blessing is my own, it will be mine to-morrow ; but, oh,
it will not be hallowed to my heart, did I not confess that I
was that I am unworthy of all your fondness, mother, and
implore you to forgive the pain I have so often and so wantonly
inflicted upon you. Oh, you know not \iO^ tViXi^V^^ W^
280 THE MOTHE&'S RECOMPENSE.
reproaohfallj, my faults and errors rushed back to my mind^
as I sat and thought this was the last night that Caroline
Hamilton would sleep beneath this roof; that to-morrow we
parted, and I left you without once acknowledging I deserved
not half your goodness ; without one effort to express the de-
voted gratitude, the deep, the reverential love, with which my
heart is filled. Mother, dearest, dearest mother I oh, call me
but your blessing, your comfort, I never have been thus;
wilful and disobedient, I have poisoned many hours which
would otherwise have been sweet. Mother, my own mother,
say only you forgive me say that no lingering pang on my
account remains."
" Forgive you, my beloved ! oh, T'ong, long since have every
childish fault and youthful error been lorciven. Could resent-
ment harbor in my heart so Ipng? could memory linger on
moments of pain, when this last year not one fault, not one
failing of duty or of love has stained your conduct ? Even as
my other children have you been my blessing, my comfort;
the dearer, when I thought on the doubts and fears of the
past. Pain you may have once caused me ; but, oh, you know
not how blessedly one proof of affection, one hour of devotion
in a child can obliterate from a mother's heart the remem-
brance of months of pain. Think no more of what is past, my
own ; remember only that your mother's blessing, her fervent
prayers will hover round you wherever you may be; that,
should sickness and sorrow at any time be your portion, how-
ever distant we may be, your mother will come to soothe and
cheer, your mother's bosom will still be open to receive you."
Caroline answered not, for her tears fell fast upon the
hand she held ; tears, not of sorrow but of emotion, blessed in
their sadness. She bowed her head before Mrs. Hamilton,
and murmured
" Bless me, my mother !'*
"May the God of infinite love, the Father of unclouded
mercies, who hath been so unchangeably merciful to his ser-
vant, look down from His resplendent throne, and bless you,
my beloved! May he sanctify and bless that event, which
promises to our darkened eyes so much felicity ! May He
guide my child in His own paths, and hearken to her mother's
prayer !"
"We will not separate this night to pray each in solitude,
my child ; let us read, and address our heavenly Father to-
getheij OB we were wont to do, irhftii it was my task to riM
THE mother's recompense. 28
r^ur infant thonglits and simple prayers to Him who heard
md answered. I cannot part from you till these agitated feel-
ngs are more composed, and prayer will best enable them to
e so."
Willingly, gladly Caroline lingered, and their private devo-
iions, which ever attended their retiring to rest, were perform-
ed together. Their blessed influence was mutually felt. He
whom they so fervently addressed looked down upon His good
and faithful servants, and poured upon the mother^s soul and
on that of her child the calm and tranquillizing dew of His
blessing.
The morning dawned, and commonplace as is the expres-
sion, yet we must confess the day was lovely ; one of those
soft, delicious September days so well known to all who are
acquainted with the climate of Devonshire. Gayly the sun
Looked down from his field of stainless azure, and peeped
through the windows of the elegant little room which the taste
of her young bridemaids had decorated as Caroline's tiring-
room for the day, and his bright rays played on the rich jewels
scattered on the toilette, and decked them with renewed bril-
liance ; and at times his light would fall full upon the counte-
nance of the young bride, sometimes pensive, at others, radiant
in beaming smiles, as she replied to the kind words of Lady
Gertrude, or in answer to the playful conversation of her
younger bridemaids, who, full of life, and hope, and innocence,
hovered like fairy spirits round their Queen. The tears which
had fallen from the eyes of Emmeline on her sister's neck
that morning were dried, yet still there were some lingering
traces of sadness on her fair sweet face, which she struggled
rainly to conceal, but which were regarded as the sorrow of an
affectionate heart thus parting from the sister of its love.
And Lilla Grahame, too, was there, smiling with real and
beartfelt pleasure. She had observed the slight cloud on Em-
meline's brow, and with every affectionate art endeavored to
remove it.
The toilette of the bride was completed, save her jewels,
which Ellen had entreated might be her office to arrange,
and, smilingly. Lady Florence resigned her place by Caroline's
side.
" For Edward's sake and for mine, dearest Caroline, will
yon, decked as you are with jewels so far more precious, yet
will you wear this, and regard it indeed as the offftivti^ qI \fc.^
Bincerest sffeotioD for yourself, the warmeBt ^^Tarjeta icyc ^^xa
282 THE mother's recompense.
welfare, from those who for so many years have felt for you
as if you were indeed their sister ? poor as is the gift, will you
let Edward see it is not rejected 1" and Ellen, as with a flushed
cheek and quivering lip she spoke, placed on the arm of her
cousin a bracelet, composed of her own and her brother's hair,
and clasped with chaste yet massive gold. The braid was fine
and delicate, while the striking contrast of the jet black and
rich golden hair of which it was composed, combined with its
valuable clasp, rendered it not an unfit offering on such a day.
'' Is it to remind me of all my unkindness towards you,
Ellen, in days past, of my hour of pride ?" replied Caroline,
in a low voice, as she threw her arm caressingly around her
cousin, and fondly kissed her. " I will accept your gift, my
dear Ellen, and sometimes look upon it thus."
" Nay, do not say so, dearest Caroline, or I shall feel in- _
clined to take it even no^ from your arm, and never let you
see it more ; no, rather let it be a remembrance of those poor
orphans, whose lives you have not done the least to render
happy. Gratefully, affectionately, shall we ever think of you,
dear Caroline, and, oh, may this little offering bid you some-
times think thus, and thus only of us."
The carriages were rather later than expected, and Lady
Gertrude observing Caroline somewhat pale, though no other
sign denoted agitation, endeavored, by talking more sportiyely
than usually was her wont, to while away the time till the im-
portant moment arrived.
It came at length, and Caroline, with a faltering step, en
tered the carriage which conveyed her to the old and venera
ble church, accompanied by Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton and Lady
Gertrude, who had promised to remain near her. The fair
girls that held the rank of bridemaids followed, and three
other carriages contained the invited guests to the wedding.
Not a creature was visible to disturb by acclamations the bri-
dal part^ on their route, and take from the calm and holy
beauty oi the early morning ; but that the day was rememf
bered was clearly visible, for there W3re garlands of the
brightest, fairest flowers, which must, by their number and va-
riety, have been culled from many gardens of many villages,
festooning the hedges of the green lanes through which they
passed ; and many a gay pennon pendent from oak or stately
elm, fluttered in the breeze. All was so still and calm, thai
ere the carriage stopped at the church porch, Caroline had
conquered the inward tremVAm^ oi \i^T ftojne.^ and her heart
THE mother's recompense. 283
drilled not perhaps so anxiously as did botH her parents',
Rrhen, leaning on the arm of her proud and happy father, she
vralked steadily, even with dignity, up the church, where Mr.
Howard, young Myrvin, Lord St. Eval, his parents. Lord
Louis, Percy, Herbert, and Edward there stood, and a faint
but expressive smile played round her lips, in answer to St.
EvaPs eager yet silent greeting. He could not speak, his
feelings of happiness were too deep, too ecstatic for words, but
she had but to look on his expressive face, and all, all was
said.
There was a moment's solemn pause as they knelt beside
the altar, and then the voice of Mr. Howard sounded, and its
ever emphatic tones rung with even more than its usual so-
lemnity on the ears of all the assembled relatives and friends,
with thrilling power on the bride and bridegroom. Calmly
and clearly Cliroline responded ; her cheek was pale, but her
lip quivered not, and perhaps, in that impressive service, the
agitation of her mother was deeper than her own. She strug-
gled to retain her composure, she lifted up her soul in earnest
prayer, that the blessing of her God might indeed hallow the
ceremony on which she gazed; and ere her child arose, and led
forward by her young enraptured husband, approached for her
parent's blessing and embrace, she was enabled to give both
without any visible emotion, save that her daughter might
have felt the quick pulsations of her fond heart, as she pressed
her in her arms.
We will not linger on the joyous festivity which pervaded
the lordly halls of Oakwood on this eventful day.
The hour had come when Caroline, the young Countess of
St. Eval, bade farewell to her paternal home. The nearest
relatives of the bride and bridegroom had assembled with
them in a small apartment, at Caroline's request, for a few
minutes, till the carriage was announced, for though resolved
not to betray her feelings, she could not bear to part from
those she loved in public. She had changed her dress for a
simple yet elegant travelling costume, and was now listening
with respectful deference but glistening eyes to the fond words
of her mother, who, twining her arm around her, had drawn
her a little apart from the others, as if her farewell could not
be spoken aloud ; their attention was so arrested by a remark
of Lord Malvern, and his son's reply, that they turned towards
ihem.
" Do not again let me hear you say o\it Qret\.T\jAa \\khi
284 IHE mother's RECOlfPENSB.
looks animated or interested," the former said, addressing tbi
Marchioness, somewhat triumphantly. '' She is as happy^ pe^
haps, if possible, even happier than any of us to-day, and, like
a good girl, she shows it. Gertrude, love, is it your brother's
happiness reflected upon you 1"
"Let me answer for her, sir," replied St. Eval, eagerly.
^ You know not why she has so much reason to look, and, I
trust, to feel happy. She sees her own good work, and noble,
virtuous as she is, rejoices in it ; without her, this day would
never have dawned for me, Caroline would never have been
mine, and both^would have lived in solitary wretchedness.
Yes, dearest Gertrude," he continued, " I feel how much I
owe you, though I say but little. Happy would it be fw fa
every man, could he receive from his sister the comfort, the
blessing I have from mine, and for every woman, were her
counsels, like yours, guided by truth alone."
" The Earl and Countess of St. Eval left Oakwood about
two o'clock, for their estate in Cornwall, Castle Terryn, in an
elegant chariot and four superb grays, leaving a large party
of fashionable friends and relations to lament their early
departure." So spoke the fashionable chronicle in a para-
graph on this marriage in high life, which contained items and
descriptions longer and more graphic than we have any incli*
nation to transcribe.
A select party of the Marquis of Malvern's and Mr. Ham
ilton's friends remained to dinner, and, at the request of
Percy and Lord Louis, dancing for the younger guests con
eluded the evening. The day had dawned in joy, and no
clouds disturbed its close. Fatigued, and her thoughts still
clinging to her child, Mrs. Hamilton was glad to seek tb9
retirement of her own room. Her thoughts turned on her
Caroline, and so fondly did they linger there, that Emmeline's
strange diversity of wild spirits and sudden but overpowerbg
gloom did not occupy her mind as powerfully as they would
otherwise have done; she did not regard them, save as tbe
effects of excitement natural to such an eventful day ; sh
guessed not that of all her household, the heart of her Emme'
line was the heaviest, her spirits weighed down by a gloom so
desponding, so overwhelming, that sleep for many hours fled
from her eyes. She had powerfully exerted herself during the
day, and now in solitude, darkness, and silence, the reflux of
feeling was too violent for that young and, till lately, thought.
lessljr joyous heart to bear. Hex Ykftw^-s ^^^ "wi^ ^^llvd Qheeks
THE MOTHER^S KECOXPENSE. 285
attracted notice indeed the following morning, but they were
attributed to fatigue from the gay vigils of the preceding
night, and gladly did the poor girl herself encourage the
delusion, and obey her mother's playful command to lie down
for a few hours, as a punishment for indulging an overplus of
excitement.
Herbert's pleasure, too, the preceding day had been alloyed
by anxiety ; and perhaps his solicitude and his sister's sorrow
proceeded from one and the same cause, which our readers will
find at length, a few pages hence, when Arthur Myrvin becomes
a prominent object in our history.
Pleasure, in a variety of festive shapes, but innocent in all,
was for the next month the presiding genius of Oakwood and
its vicinity. Lord Malvern's family remained as guests at
Oakwood during that time, and some few college friends of
Percy and Herbert; but Mr. Hamilton's other friends
departed for their respective homes the week following the
marriage.
The young Earl and Countess of St. Eval meanwhile
resided at their beautiful retreat of Castle Terryn, which the
taste of the young Earl had rendered in every respect a resi-
dence suited to the rank and feelings of those who claimed it
as their own.
Nothing now prevented our young friend Ellen from
joining in the amusements that offered themselves, and she
enjoyed them even more than she had expected, for she was
accompanied by her brother, who had deservedly become a
universal favorite, and Mrs. Hamilton had the pleasure, at
length, of seeing not only health but happiness beaming
apparently unclouded on the countenance of her niece.
Mr. Grahame, for the sake of Lilla, who was becoming
dearer each day to both her parents, for her true character for
the first time stood clearly forth, struggled with his gloom,
and accompanied her wherever her wishes led ; and her
cheerful spirits, her unpretending' manners, and constant and
active affection, manifesting itself in a thousand different ways,
to amuse the couch of her now really ailing mother, did much
to palliate the disappointment and misery the conduct of his
elder daughter had occasioned.
Herbert's secret was still inviolably kept ; no one suspected
that he loved, much less that he was betrothed. Nearly two
years had passed of that long period whicTi m-vx!&\. ft\^'^^^ t5^
Herbert oould hope to make Mary his wife. 1\ve^ ^^^ ^^
286 THE mother's recohpense.
quickly, very quickly by, and so too might the remainder ; bnl
there was a dark, foreboding feeling pressing heavily upon
Herbert's heart, as he looked forward, that robbed anticipation
of its charm, and rendered him even more pensive than from
his boyhood had been his wont. To strangers, even to his
family, he was still the same ; to his God alone, he laid his
spirit bare.
Six weeks after the marriage of Caroline, Oakwood and its
neighborhood was as quiet as it had been when we knew it in
former years.
Lord Malvern's family stayed ten days at Castle Terrp,
by the pressing invitation of the young couple, and then re
turned to their estate in Dorsetshire, leaving Lady Gertrade,
however, for a few weeks' longer residence with her brother
and his wife. The young men returned to college. Lilla Gra-
hame remained at home till after the Christmas vacation,
when she was once more to reside with Mrs. Douglas for six
months or a year longer, according to the state of her mo-
ther's health, who no longer wished to quit Woodlands ; and
therefore her husband gladly consented to her remaining there
till Mrs. Hamilton paid her annual visit to London. Aboot
this time also, Ellen, accompanied by her brother, fulfilled her
promise of visiting her old friend, Mr. Myrvin, and delighted
him by making his pretty vicarage her residence till near the
middle of November. Edward, with whom the kind old man
was as much pleased as he had been with his sister, also re-
mained at Llangwillan during that time, with the exception
of three or four flying visits to Oakwood, and latterly to Cas-
tle Terryn, where Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton, with Emmeline,
were staying the few last weeks of his and hie sister's visit at
the vicarage. Their company was particularly soothing to
Mr. Myrvin at this period ; for the letters of his son were
causing him extreme solicitude, revealing intentions, to unde^
stand which we must for a short period retrace our steps, and
thus commence another chapter.
CHAPTER XIV.
Young Myrvin had been, at the period of Caroline's mar
riage, rather more than a year as Mr. Howard's curate. At
first, as we have seen, the example of Herbert had done mucb
towArda reconciling bim to &^TQimQVi^^\v\!Q^\i^Raa for manj
THE MOrnER's RECOMPENSE. 287
reasons opposed to his feelings. When in the company of his
friend, he had imparted to him his struggles with the pride
and ambition which still lurked within him, spite of all his en-
deavors and resolutions to conquer and banish them. While
Herbert was near him all was well ; his duty was regularly
performed, in a manner that satisfied his rector, and suffi-
ciently rewarded Mr. Hamilton for the interest he had taken
in his and his father's welfare ; but when Herbert left Oak-
wood, Arthur's distaste for his occupation returned with re-
newed strength, to which newly-dawned emotions added
weight. Most painfully had Arthur, when first intimate with
Mr. Hamilton, endeavored to guard himself from the danger
to his peace, which he felt existed in the society of beings so
amiable and attractive as were his daughters ; but his efforts
were vain, as our readers may have already discovered. There
was a nameless, an indescribable charm in the appearance and
manner of Emmeline which he could not resist. It was some
few months ere the whole extent of evil was discovered, not,
perhaps, entirely till Emmeline returned to London, and Oak-
wood was desolate, painfully desolate to the young man, who,
when lingering within its ancient walls, -forgot every thing
around him, save the bright and beautiful being who was to
him its charm. When, however, that fair form had departed
from his sight, he was awakened to the delusive nature of his
hopes, and with the knowledge, exquisite even in its despair,
that he loved Emmeline Hamilton, his profession became more
and more distasteful. Had he followed the paths of ambition,
as his inclination prompted, had he but had the means of seek-
ing some station whence he might at length have risen to emi-
nence, he cared not what the obstacles, his union with her
might not have been so difficult to overcome, or, at least, he
might not have met her ; and did he wish that such had been
the case ? no ; misery in its most agonizing shape stood before
him, and yet the cause of that misery was the one bright star
that appeared to gild his lot.
A poor curate of a country parish, with no resources but his
salary to increase his scanty meals, no power of rendering him-
self of conesquence in the eyes of the world ; and, alas ! the
fruit of many years' hard labor from father to son one-half of
which might have rendered him sufficiently independent to have
chosen his own profession ^was gone. Foor as he was, could
he ever look forward to possess the hand of Emmelm^'^ \i^ t^V\.
the utter imposBihiUtyj and bitterly he kne^ \ie\Qi^^^ \svi^ "v^
b
Re
i-
288 THB mother's REOOHPEIISE.
despair. These contending feelings direrted his thonglits a
may well he supposed, and caused him to be careless in the dis-
charge of his clerical duties, abrupt and strange in his manner P "
with Mr. Howard ; and unfortunately there was one in the tH- [^
lage who was ready to turn the simplest circumstance to the
young curate's dissulvantage.
It was not likely the sinful and licentious man who, by Mr.
Hamilton's active exertions, had not only been dispossessed of
the living of Llang?dllan. but very nearly of his gown also,
would permit these, what he termed injuries, to pass unavenged.
Against the elder Myrvin he felt his efforts would be unayail-
ing, nor did he feel inclined to try a second time, when he had
once been foiled ; but Arthur he believed a surer mark. A f^
farm of some consequence was to be let on Mr. Hamilton's es- ['^
tate ; it was very easy to settle in it a man lower in rank, hat
hard, unrelenting as himself, an unprincipled instrument of his
will. The business was done, and the new neighbor, prepos-
sessing in appearance and manners, speedily ingratiated him- |p
self with all, and even obtained, by a semblance of hard-work-
ing industry, and regular attendance at public worship, second- ^^
ed by auiet and unobtrusive conduct, the notice and regard of
his landlord, Mr. Hamilton.
This man had entered his farm about four or five montLs
after Arthur had been installed as Mr. Howard's curate, and
cautiously and yet successfully he executed the wily require-
ments of his employer. So guardedly did he work, that no one
could trace to him, who ever spoke as the friend of their cu-
rate, the prejudice which had slowly but surely penetrated the |^
mind of every man against him, and interpreted the simplest '^^
action in the worst light. There were some rumors afloat of ''^
misdemeanors during his college life ; it mattered not whether 1^
they were true or false, they were received and encouraged hj i i
the credulous. He was a Welshman too, full of evil qualities,
and clothed with invulnerable pride, which last idea was unfo^
tunately confirmed by Myrvin's distaste for his profession,
which prevented his entering into the joys and sorrows of his
parishioners, mingling familiarly and kindly with them as a
minister of God should do.
How or when this prejudice began, or what was its origin,
not one of the good folks of the village could have told, for they
rcallv did not know ; but still it existed, and Arthur knew it
He felt himself disliked, and instead of endeavoring to con-
oiliate good-will and remo'^e '^^Te^w.^vi^. V\^TDLVcANR^j^\ft.^P5V53^^
B mother's RECOliPENSB. 289
sitement, that he indulged in every bitter
se with whom he had to deal, and shrunk
erformance of his duty. Instances of care-
ten found, and became magnified in the re-
curate was not always at hand when his
ipally required ; he never left directions
bund^ Abuse crept into that parish, which
*edecessor had been one of the most orderly
domains abuses in the younger inhabit-
nen looked grave, and cited the neglect of
iause, though to what abuses young Myrvin
nee all would have found it difficult to tell
)uke them it was true ; he did not perhaps
it was said, and justly, he must have been
to do so.
iderstood not that pre-occupation of mind
render us blind to all things, save to the
of thought.
e made to and heard by the rector, who,
, visited his parish, made inquiries, her d
I curate that startled his charity, and final-
Arthur on his careless and neglectful con-
ve been better for Arthur had pride re-
luring that interview ; but, unfortunately,
ion at any thing resembling censure oven
returned with full force, and by his haughty
I to some of the charges brought against
d contempt of others, confirmed every evil
im which Mr. Howard had heard. Mildly
be future might atone for the past, and that
imber the sacred post he held. The unhap*
d him without reply ; but when the rector
pove to think soberly on the charges brought
ook within himself to know if he deserved
1 carelessness ^yes, he had given cause for
lations of much graver import he dismissed
at the very thought of such vices had never
it stained his mind, and as secure in his own
feeling, as he was aware of the prejudice
srmined as, alas ! how many in such cases
J general conduct, lest it should be said he
e truth of every report agaiiaEV. \imxi. '^'^^
jd of neglect in paroohia\ du^^^^^^xsa^^
290 THE mother's becompenss.
perhaps, if Lis troubled spirit had permijited him, have enAet
Yored to attend more closely to them ; but his pride prevented
him from striving to obtain the good-will of those who seemed
only alive to every circumstance tending to his disadvantage.
Would he endeavor to conciliate those whom he well knew dis-
liked him 1 no ; the very act of so doing would be brought
against him, and sternly he resolved that haughtiness and
pride should still characterize his deportment. What mat-
tered it what people thought or said, if it was untrue ? he cared
not ; the world was a wilderness to his excited and irritated
fancy, in which there bloomed but one sweet flower, too pure,
too beautiful, for him to touch. It was his doom he thought
to grovel on the earth, hers to shine like a star in the sphere
above him.
Not long after Mr. Howard's interview with his curate,
Mr. Hamilton's family and his guests arrived at Oakwood, and
ilerbert eagerly sought his friend. He was shocked at the
change he perceived in his appearance, which, though marked,
was yet quite indescribable ; that Arthur was unhappy, that
his profession was more than ever distasteful to him, he soon
discovered ; but the real cause of these feelings he tried in vain
to probe. He saw, with the deepest regret, that all his former
exhortations on the subject, his earnest entreaties that Arthur
would persevere till he brought a willing heart as an offering
\ko his Maker, all had been without effect ; but yet his kind
heart could not cast away his friend, opposite as were their
feelings on a subject which to Herbert was of vital importance.
It was strange that a character such as Herbert Hamilton
should have selected Arthur Myrvin for his chosen friend, yet
so it was. It might have been pity, sympathy, which had first
excited this friendship. The indignation he felt at the un*
justifiable treatment Arthur had received while a servitor at
college had excited an interest, which had at first completely
blinded him to his many faults ; and when they were discov-
ered, the ardent desire and hope that he might be of service in
removing them from the otherwise noble character of his friend,
still preserved, and, indeed, heightened his regard. Though
frequently disappointed during his absence, at the brevity and
sometimes even confused style of Arthur's letters, he M
buoyed himself up with the hope that his representations had
had their effect, and he should find him, on his return^ recon-
ciled and happy in the exercise of his duties. Again he urged,
with A kindness of maimeT t\isA q^\3&^^ Kt^\i\vx to wring his
THE mothek's recompense. 291
liand, and thcQ pace the room in iU-concealed agony, the ne*
cessity, now that he had indeed taken orders, of endeavoring
to do his Master's work on earth, of forcing his rebellious
spirit to submission. Arthur listened to him attentively, sadly ;
but vainly Herbert strove to instil in him a portion of that
heavenly love which was to him the mainspring of his life.
Arthur loved with an intensity, which utterly prevented his
looking up to heaven as the goal, to reach which all earthly
toil was welcome ; and still not even to Herbert did he breathe
one syllable of the fire that was inwardly consuming him.
Had he been any one but Herbert Hamilton, the unhappy
young man would have sought and found relief in his confi-
dence ; but not to the brother of the being he loved, oh, not
to him he could not, dared not.
" Herbert," he would say, in a voice hoarse with contending
feelings, ^^ did I dare betray the tortured heart, the true cause
of my misery, you would pity, even if you condemned me ; but
ask it not ask it not, it shall never pass my lips ; one thing
only I beseech you, and I do so from the regard you have ever
seemed to feel for me. However you may hear my character
traduced, my very conduct may confirm every evil report, yet
believe them not ; I may be miserable, imprudent, mad, but
never, never believe the name of Arthur Myrvin is stained
with vice or guilt. Herbert, promise me this, and come what
may, one friend at least is mine."
Herbert gazed on him with doubt, astonishment, and sor-
row, yet an irresistible impulse urged him to promise all he
asked, and Myrvin looked relieved; but painfully he felt,
though he noticed it not to his friend, that the manner of Mr.
Hamilton towards him was changed ; cordiality and kindness
had given place to coldness and reserve.
The whirl of a gay and happy London season had produced
no change in the outward appearance and demeanor of Emme-
line Hamilton. It had not been to her the ordeal it had been
to her sister. She came forth from the gay world the same
pure, innocent being as she had entered it. Admired she was
by all with whom she was associated, but her smile was not
sought for, her conversation not courted, as had been Caro-
line'S; therefore her temptations had not been so great, but
she was universally beloved.
Her mother sometimes wondered that Emmeline, keenly
susceptible as she was to every other emolVoTi, do^wiX^ ^^ii^ "^^
mMin so insensible to any thing resemblmg \aN^. '''* ^*^^ "^
292 THE mother's eecompense.
indeed still the same innocent and darling child/' she thonghl^
and rested in pleased and satisfied security. She little knew,
penetrating even as she was, that those young affections were
already unconsciously engaged, that one manly figure, one
melancholy yet expressive face utterly prevented the reception
of any other. Emmeline knew not herself the extent of influ-
ence that secret image had obtained; she guessed not the
whole truth until that night when her marriage had been jest-
ingly alluded to, and then it burst upon her, stunning her
young mind with a sense of scarcely defined, yet most painful
consciousness. Arthur Myrvin had looked to Emmeline's re-
turn to Oakwood with many mingled feelings ; she might be
perhaps, even as her sister, a betrothed bride ; he might have
to witness, perhaps to officiate at her nuptials ; he might see
her courted, receiving attentions from and bestowing smiles on
others, not casting one look or one thought on him, who for
her would have gladly died. The idea was agony, and it was
the sufferings occasioned by the anticipation of ideal misery,
that had produced the change in the face and form which Her-
bert had beheld and regretted.
They met, and as if fortune favored their secret but mu-
tual affection, alone, the first time since Emmeline bad
returned from London. Unaccustomed to control, and at that
time quite unconscious she had any thing to conceal, though
Wondering why every pulse should throb, and her cheek so
flush and pale, her agitation of manner, her expressed and
evidently felt sorrow for the traces of suffering she beheld,
sunk as balm on the sorrowing heart of the young man, and
his first three or four interviews with her were productive of a
happiness so exquisite, that it almost succeeded in banishing
his gloom ; but short indeed was that period of relief Speedily
he saw her, as he had expected, surrounded by gay young men
of wealth and station. He felt they looked down on him;
they thought no* of him ; as a rival he was unworthy, as inca-
pable of loving a being so exalted ; but in the midst of these
wretched thoughts, there arose one, that for a brief space was
so bright, so glad, so beautiful, that while it lasted every
object partook of its rays. He marked her, he looked, wiw
eyes rendered clear from jealousy, for some sign, it mattered
not how small, to say she preferred the society of others to his
own ; ready as he was to look on the darkest side of things,
he felt the hesitating glance, the timid tone with which she had
Utterly addressed him, couttary u* \\ '^^'& \.q ^^ \sAs^\iv^yQi
THE MOTHER^S RECOMPENSE. 293
^ayfolness wHich had formerly marked her interconrse with
Dim, was dearer, oh, how much dearer, than the gajety in
which she had indulged with others. This change in her man*
ner was unremarked hy her family.
The eye of love, however, looked on those slight signs in a
very different light Did she, could she love one so unworthy ?
The very idea seemed to make him feel as a new and better
man. He covered bis eyes with his hands, lest any outward
sign should break that blessed illusion, and then he started,
and returning recollection brought with it momentary despair.
Did she even love him ^were even her parents to consent,
his own, ^for his vivid and excited fancy for one minute im-
agined wh^t in more sober moments he knew was impossi-
bleyet, even were such difficulties removed, would he, could
he take that fair and fragile creature from a home of luxury
and every comfort, to poverty ? What had he to support a
wife ? How could they live, and what hope had he of increas-
ing in any way his fortune 7 Was he not exciting her affec-
tions to reduce them, like his own, to despair ? And could
she, beautiful and delicate as she was, could she bear the de-
privation of his lot? She would never marry without the
consent of her parents, and their approval would never be his,
and even if it were, he had nothing, not the slightest hope of
gaining any thing wherewith to support her ; and she, if indeed
she loved him, he should see her droop and sink before his
eyes, and that he could not bear ; his own misery might be
endured, but not hers. No ! He paced the small apartment
with reckless and disordered steps. His own doom was
fixed ; nothing could now prevent it ; but hers, it might not
be too late. He would withdraw from her sight, he would
leave her presence, and for ever ; break the spell that bound
him near her. Ere that hasty walk in his narrow room was
completed his resolution was fixed ; he would resign his
curacy, and depart from the dangerous fascinations hovering
round him.
Yet still he lingered. If he had been too presumptuous
in thinking thus of Emmeline if he were indeed nothing to
her, why should he inflict this anguish on himself? Why
need he tear himself from her? The night of Edward's
return, while in one sense it caused him misery, by the
random remark of Lord Louis, yet, by the agitation of Emme-
line, the pang was softened, though he was B\.Teti^\iCti^^ \\\.
Uis resoJra Four days afterwards, the very e^ftiivsi^ ^i ^^
294 THE mothee's becompense.
day when Mr. Howard had alluded to his neglect of duties
before Herbert and his cousins, he tendered his resignation,
coldly and proudly refusing any explanation, or assigning any
reason for so doing, except that he wished to obtain a situation
as tutor in any nobleman or gentleman's family about to
travel So greatly had the mind of Mr. Howard been preju-
diced against the unhappy young man, by the false represen-
tations of his parishioners, that he rather rejoiced at Myryin's
determination, having more than once feared, if his conduct
did not alter, he should be himself compelled to dismiss him
from the curacy. But while pleased at being spared a task so
adverse to his benevolent nature, he yet could not refrain from
regarding this strange and apparently sudden resolution u
a tacit avowal of many of those errors with which he was
charged.
Feeling thus, it will be no subject of surprise that Mr.
Howard accepted his curate's resignation ; but while he did
so, he could not refrain from giving the young man some kind
and good advice as to his future life, which Arthur, aware the
rector regarded him through the medium of prejudice,
received not in the same kind spirit as it was offered. He
listened silently, indeed, but with an air of pride which
checked all Mr. Howard's really kind intentions in his favor.
The rector, aware that Mr. Hamilton would be annoyed
and displeased at this circumstance, did not inform him of
Myrvin's intentions till some few weeks after Caroline's
marriage, not, indeed, till he felt compelled by the wish to
obtain his approval of a young clergyman who had been his
pupil, and was eager to secure any situation near Mr. Howard,
and to whom, therefore, the curacy Arthur had resigned would
be indeed a most welcome gift. Mr. Hamilton was even more
disturbed, when all was told him, than Mr. Howard had
expected. It seemed as if Arthur had forgotten every tie of
gratitude which Mr. Hamilton's services to his father, even
forgetting those to himself, certainly demanded. His deter-
mined resolution to assign no reason for his proceeding but
the one above mentioned, told against him, and Mr. Hamilton,
aware of the many evil reports flying about concerning the
young man, immediately imagined that he resigned the curacy
fearing discovery of misdemeanors which might end even
more seriously.
Herbert, too, was deeply pained that his friend had left
^inkf to learn such impoitan^i m\j&\i\^sii^^ 1xq\l the lips of
THE mother's recohfen&e. 295
another instead of imparting it himself. It explained all the
apparent contradictions of Arthur's conduct the last month,
but it surprised and grieved him ; yet the mystery caused
him both anxiety and sadness, for Mjrrvin was evidently
determined in no way to solve it. That he was unhappy in
no ordinary degree was to the eye of friendship very evident,
not only in the frequent wildness of his manner, but in the
haggard cheek and bloodshot eye ; and sympathy was thus
ever kept alive in one so keenly susceptible of the woes of
others as was Herbert Hamilton; sympathy, continually
excited, prevented all decrease of interest and regard. Percy
was irritated and annoyed ; Myrvin had disappointed him.
His conduct, in return for Mr. Hamilton's kindness, appeared
ungrateful as unaccountable, and this caused the more fiery
temper of the young heir of Oakwood to ignite and burst
forth in the presence of Arthur, whose meek forbearance, and,
he now began to fancy, silent suffering tamed him after a
brief period, and caused him, with his usual frankness and
quick transition of mood, to make him an apology for his
violence. He was touched by the young man's manner, but
they continued not on the same terms of friendly intimacy as
formerly.
Mrs. Hamilton's charitable nature, heightened also by
Herbert's unchanging regard, would not permit her to credit the
tales that were abroad concerning him. She regretted his de-
termination, for it appeared like wilfully casting away the
friendship and interest of those who were likely to do him
service. She guessed not the real motive of his resolve ; if she
had, she would have honored even as she now regarded him
with pity ; but almost for the first time the penetration of
Mrs. Hamilton was at fault. Emmeline's feelings, even as
those of Arthur, were successfully concealed; from her
brother Herbert, she had first heard of Myrvin's intentions.
She listened in silence, but her lip quivered and her cheek
grew pale ; and when she sought the solitude of her own room
tears relieved her, and enabled her to act up to her determina-
tion, cost what it might, to be the same playful, merry girl be-
fore her parents as was her wont, not that she meant in any
way to deceive them, but she had learned that she loved Ar-
thur Myrvin, and knew also that to become his wife, situated
as they were, was a thing impossible.
Had Emmeline really been the romantic gjil ao ^^xiftYall^
believed, she would now have done all in \iex -no^et V ^^^:t-
296 THE MOTHER'S RECOMPENSE.
come every difficulty, by regardiog poverty as the only criterion
of true love ; she would have fed her imagination with visions
of herself and Arthur, combating manfully against evil, so
they shared it together ; she would have robed poverty with
an imaginary halo, and welcomed it, rejoicing to become his
wife, but such were not her feelings. The careful band of ma-
ternal love had done its work, and though enthusiasm and ro-
mance were generally the characteristics most clearly visible,
yet there was a fund of good and sober sense within, that few
suspected, and of which even her parents knew not the extent,
and that plain sense effectually prevented her ever becoming
the victim of imagination.
Emmeline loved Arthur Myrvin, loved him with an inten-
sity, a fervor, which only those who possess a similar enthusias-
tic temperament can understand. She felt convinced she was
not indifferent to him ; but agony as it was to her young heart
to part from him, in all probability for ever, yet she honored
his resolution ; she knew, she felt its origin, and she rejoiced
that he went of his own accord, ere their secret feelings were
discovered.
Notwithstanding all her endeavors, her spirits flagged,
and at the conclusion of the Oakwood festivities she appear-
ed so pale and thin, that Mrs. Hamilton consulted Mr. Mait-
land. Emmeline had resisted, as much as she could without
failure of duty, all appeal to medical advice, and it was with
trembling she awaited his opinion; when, however, it was
given, she rejoiced that she had been consulted, for had her
parents entertained any suspicions of the real cause, it would
nave completely banished them. He said she was merely suf-
fering from the effects of a lengthened period of excitement,
that quiet and regularity of pursuits would in all probability
restore both health and spirits. A smile, faint and apparently
without meaning, played round her lips as her mother repeat-
ed what he had said, and playfully declared she should most
strictly adhere to his advice.
Arthur had shrunk from the task of acquainting his father
with his intentions, for he well knew they would give him
pain, and cause him extreme solicitude, and he postponed do-
ing so till his plans for the future were determined. He had
even requested Ellen and Edward, who were still his friends,
to say but little concerning him during their stay at Liang'
willan ; but if they revealed his intentions, he implored them
to use all their iiduence 'wit\i 1q\& iaX^x&T \ik^ ic^^cy[iQ\L^ him to
THE mother's eecohpensb. 297
this bitter disappointment of His cherished hopes. He had
determined not to return to Llangwillan ; he felt he could not
bear to see his parent with the consciousness that he had
acted contrary to his wishes ; he would not therefore do so till
he had succeeded in obtaining the situation he so earnestly
desired. But as the period when he should resign his curacy
now rapidly approached, he no longer refrained from writing
to Ids father, and Ellen proved her regard for both father and
son, by affectionately endeavoring to soothe Mr. Myrvin^s dis-
appointment and solicitude, which were, as his son expected, ex-
treme. She succeeded, at length, in persuading him, that could
he obtain the situation he so much desired, Arthur would be
more likely to advance than in retaining his present occupation.
The period of Arthur's departure came a few days before
Christmas. He went to bid Mr. Hamilton farewell the very
morning on which that gentleman intended riding over to
Exeter to meet Ellen and her brother, on their return from
Llangwillan. To Arthur this interview was indeed a painful
one. From the moment his resolution to depart had been
fixed, that moment the blessed truth had strangely and sud-
denly burst upon him that he was beloved ; a new spirit ap-
peared to dawn within, and midst the deep agony it was to
feel he was parting for ever from a being he so dearly loved,
there was a glow of approving conscience that nerved him to
its endurance. It was this which had enabled him to conquer
his irritation at Percy's violence, and the grief it was to feel
that Herbert too much doubted him. He esteemed, he loved,
was deeply grateful to Mr. Hamilton, and his evident displea-
sure was hard to bear ; yet even that he had borne, strength-
ened by secret yet honorable incentives. But that morning,
his heart throbbing with ill-concealed anguish, for the follow-
ing day he would be miles from Oakwood, never, never to be-
hold Emmeline again, his frame weakened, his blood fevered
from the long-continued mental struggle, the stern address of
Mr. Hamilton, stung him to the quick.
Mr. Hamilton was not one of those who could disguise his
sentiments. If interested at all in the fortunes of another, he
felt he must speak, however severe in some cases his words
might seem. As the chosen friend of his son the victim for
a time of oppression and injury ^young Myrvin had excited
his interest too powerfully for him entirely to abandon it
even now, and therefore he spoke plainly to him even as he
thought.
i5
1198 THE mother's recompense.
You are casting from you," he said, '^ a Mend who irai
both able and willing to assist you, apparently without the
slightest regret, even with indifference. As the chosen and
dear companion of my yalued son, your interests were mine,
and gladly would I have done all in my power to forward your
views, had your conduct been such as I expected and required,
but such it appears has been far from the case. Your unac-
countable resignation of a situation, which, though not one of
great emolument, was yet of value, unhappily confirms every
evil report I have heard. The same unsteady and wavering
spirit which urges you to travel, instead of permitting you to
remain contented in the quiet discharge of sacred duties, may
lead you yet more into error, and I warn you as a &iend, gov-
ern it in time. You may deem me intrusive in my remarks,
I speak but for your own good, young man ; and though your
forgetfulness of the sacred nature of your profession could not
fail to lessen my esteem and regard, yet for your father's sake
I would implore you to remember that your calling involves
duties of the most solemn nature, and renders you a much
more responsible being both in the sight of Gt)d and man."
Arthur answered him not. His cheek burned and his
heart throbbed, but it was the father of Emmeline, the bene-
factor of his fattier, who spoke, and he might have spoken more
and more severely, but he would have been unanswered ; even
to defend his own stainless integrity and innocence he could
not have spoken, the power of speech appeared to have en-
tirely deserted him. Never could he have been said to hope,
but the words he had heard proved to him that he had lost
the esteem and regard of Mr. Hamilton, and darkened his
despair. He fixed his large, dark gray eyes earnestly on Mr.
Hamilton's face, so earnestly, that for some time afterwards
that look was recalled with melancholy feelings ; he bent his
head silently yet respectfully, and quitted the room without
uttering a single word.
Struck by his haggard features, and the deeply mournful
tone of his voice, as he bade her farewell and thanked her for
all her kindness, Mrs. Hamilton, whose kindly nature had
never permitted her to share her husband's prejudices against
him, invited him, if his time permitted, to accompany her on
her walk to "Woodlands, where she had promised Lady Helen
and Lilla to spend the day during her husband's absence.
There was such extreme kindness in her manner, pervading
bUo her words, that Arthur Mt sootYi^d. ^\id iomforted, though
THE mothee's recompense. 209
lie found it difficult to converse with her on the indifferent sub-
jects she started, nor could he answer her concerning his
plans for the future, for with a burning cheek and faltering
voice he owned they were not yet determined. He gazed on
her expressive features, which responded to the interest she
expressed, and he longed to confess the whole truth, and im-
plore her pity, her forgiveness for having dared to love her
child ; but with a strong effort he restrained himself, and thej
parted, in kindness indeed, but nothing more.
" Emmeline is gone down to the school," said Mrs. Hamil-
ton, unasked, and thus betraying how entirely she was free
from all suspicions of the truth, " and she goes from hence to
see a poor woman in the outskirts of the "nllage. You must
not leave us without wishing her farewell, or she will think
you have not forgiven all the mischievous jokes she has played
off upon you so continually."
Arthur started, as he looked on her faoe. Again the wish
arose to tell her all, but it was instantly checked, and bowing
with the deepest reverence, as he pressed in his her offered
hand, liastily withdrew.
Should he indeed see Emmeline, and alone 7 Her mother's
voice had bid him seek her, but the same motives that bade
him resign his curacy, caused him now to feel the better
course would be to fly at once from the fascination of her pre-
sence, lest in a moment of excitement he should be tempted
to betray the secret of his love ; but while passion struggled
with duty, the flutter of her dress, as Emmeline suddenly
emerged from a green lane, and walked slowly, and, he thought,
sadly along, caught his eye, and decided the contest.
" I will be guarded ; not a word of love shall pass my lips.
I will only gaze on her sweet face, and listen to the kind tones
of her dear voice again before we part for ever," he thought,
and darting forwards, was speedily walking by her side. He
believed himself firm in his purpose, strong, unwavering in his
resolution ; but his heart had been wrung to its inmost core,
his spirit bent beneath its deep, wild agony, and at that mo-
ment temptation was too powerful ; he could not, oh, he could
not part from her, leave her to believe as others did. Could
ho bear that she, for whose smile he would have toiled day and
night, to be regarded with esteem, to obtain but one glance of
approbation, could he bear that she should think of him as the
unworthy being he was represented ? No ! he felt he could
not, and in one moment of unrestrained, ani ^a^wyaaX*^ i^^^*
300 THE mother's RC0MPEN8.
ing, his love was told, the treasured secret of his breaking
heart reyealed.
Emmeline heard, and eyery limb of her slight frame trem*
bled, almost conyulsively, with her powerful struggle for com-
posure, with the wish still to conceal from him ihe truth thai
he was to her even as she to him, dear even as life itself; but
the struggle was vain. The anguish which the sight of hif
deep wretchedness inflicted on that young and gentle bosoni)
which from childhood had ever bled for others' woes, was too
powerful, and, led on by an irresistible impulse, she acknow-
ledged his affections were returned ; for she felt did she not
speak it, the extreme agitation she could not hide would at
once betray the truth, but at the same instant she avowed her
unhappy love, she told him they must part and for ever. She
conjured him for her sake to adhere to his resolution and
leave the neighborhood of Oakwood ; she thanked him with
all the deep enthusiasm of her nature, for that regard for her
peace which she felt confident had from the first dictated his
resigning his curacy, and braving the cruel prejudices of all
around him, even those of her own father, rather than ^traj
his secret and her own ; rather than linger near her, to plaj
upon her feelings, and tempt her, in the intensity of her afec-
tion for him, to forget the duty, the gratitude, the Jove, she
owed her parents.
" Wherefore should I hide from you that the affection, the
esteem you profess and have proved for me are returned wiUi
equal force?" continued this noble-minded and right-feeling
girl, as they neared Mrs. Langford's cottage, where she felt
this interview must cease she could sustain it no longer.
" I would not, I could not thus wound the kind and gene*
reus heart of one, to whose care I feel I could intrust mj
earthly happiness ; but as it is^ situated as we both are, we
must submit to the decrees of Him, who, in infinite wisdom
and mercy would, by this bitter trial, evince our love for Him,
and try us in the ordeal of adversity and sorrow. He alone
can know the extent of that love we bear each other ; and He,
if we implore Him, can alone give us sufficient strength to
obtain the conquest of ourselves. "We part, Arthur and if
not for ever, at least till many years have past. Forget me,
Arthur ; you have by the honorable integrity of your conduct
wrung from me a secret I had deemed would have died with
me ; for I knew and felt, and so too must you, its utter, utter
hopelessness."
THE MOTHEa's EECOMPENbE. 301
Hei voice, for th6 first time, faltered ; audibly, but with a
strong effort, she rallied ; ^^ I do ziot ask from you an explana-
tion of the rumors to your discredit, which are flying about this
neighborhood, for not one of them do I believe ; you have some
eecret enemy, whose evil machinations will, I trust, one day
be dearly proved ; perhaps you have been neglectful, heedless,
and I may have been the cause. But let not this be, dear Ar-
thur ; let me not have the misery of feeling that an ill-fated
love for one thus separated from you, has rendered reckless
that character which is naturally so good, so bright, and noble.
Oh, for my sake, yield not to despair ; shake off this lethargy,
and prove to the whole world that they have wronged you,
that the fame of Arthur Myrvin is as stainless as his name."
Arthur moved not his eyes from her as she thus spoke,
every word she uttered increased the strong devotion he felt
towards her ; but as the purity, the nobleness of her character
was displayed even clearer than ever before him, he felt him-
self unworthy to possess her ; and yet that such a being loved
him, avowed her love, acknowledged that to him she could
intrust her earthly happiness without a single doubt, that
knowledge exalted him above himself, soothed that morbid sen-
sitiveness which had oppressed him, and, ere her sweet voice
had t^eased to urge him on to exertion, to trust in Him who
had ordained their mutual trial, he had inwardly resolved to
nerve himself to the task, and prove that she was not deceived
in him, that he would deserve her favorable opinion. He
gazed ot. her as if that look should imprint those fair and
childlike features on the tablet of his memory.
" I will obey you," he said at length, in a voice hoarse with
contending emotions. " We part, and when I return years
hence, it may be to see you the happy wife of one in all re-
spects more suited to you ; but then, even then, although
love for me may have passed away, remember it is you, whose
gentle voice has saved a fellow creature from the sinful reck-
lessness of despair ; you who have pointed out the path which,
I call heaven and earth to witness, I will leave no means un
tried till it is trodden. Had you refused to hear me, had you
scorned my affections, left me in displeasure for my presump-
tion, oh, Emmeline, I might indeed have become that which I
am believed ; but now you have inspired me with a new spirit
The recollection that you have not deemed me so utterly un
worthy, will never, never leave me ; it shall cling to me.^ wid. U
evil assail me, that fond thought shall oveTCOinft \,eiXK^\"^^v5v
302 THE mother's recompense.
The yain longings for a more stirring profession shall no more
torment me, it is enough you have not despised me ; and how
ever irksome may be my future duties, they shall be performed
with a steadiness and zeal which shall procure me esteem, if it
do no more, and reconcile my conscience to my justly offended
Maker. If, in future years, you chance to hear the name of
Arthur Myrvin spoken in terms of respect and love, you will
trace your own work ; and oh, Emmeline, may that thought,
that good deed, prove the blessing I would sow call down upon
your head."
He paused, in strong and overpowering emotion, and Em-
meline sought in vain for words to reply ; they had reached
the entrance tc Mrs. Langford's little garden, and now the
hour had come when they must part. " Farewell, dearest A^
thur, may God bless you, and give you peace ! Leave me
now," she added, after a moment's pause. But Arthur conld
only fix his eyes mournfully on her face, as though her last
look should never leave him ; then, suddenly, he raised her
hand to his quivering lip. One moment, through blinding
tears, he gazed on that dear being he loved so well ; yet anoth-
er moment, and he was gone.
Emmeline leaned heavily against the little gate, a sickness
as of death for a moment crept over her and paralyzed every
limb. With a strong effort she roused herself and entered
the cottage, feeling greatly relieved to find Mrs. Langford was
absent. She sunk on a low seat, and burying her face in her
hands, gave way for the first time to a violent burst of tears ;
yet she had done her duty, she had acted rightly, and that
thought enabled her to conquer the natural weakness which,
for a short time, completely overpowered her, and when Mrs.
Langford returned, no signs of agitation were evident, except
a more than ordinary paleness, which, in her present delicate
state of health, was easily attributable to fatigue.
Now, it so happened that Widow Langford possessed a
shrewdness and penetratioti of character, which we sometimes
find in persons of her clasa, but which was in her case so com-
bined, from long residence in Mr. Hamilton's family, with a
delicacy and refinement, that she generally kept her remarks
very much more secret than persons in ter sphere of life
usually do. It was fortunate for our poor Emmeline that it
was so, for the widow had chanced to be an unseen witness of
Arthur's impassioned farewell. She heard the concluding
woris of both wajfk^d the de8\Jvx\ii^ ^jaa^ q^ Arthur, the
THE mother's BE00MPEN8B. 3ll3
deadly paleness of her dear Miss Emmeline, and connecting
these facts with previons observations, she immediately im-
agined the truth ; and with that kindness to which we have
alluded, she retreated and lingered at a neighbor's till she
thought her young lady had had sufficient time to recover her
composure, instead of acting as most people would have done,
hastened up to her, under ^e idea she was about to faint, and
by intrusive solicitations, and yet more intrusive sympathy in
such a matter, betrayed that her secret had been discovered.
Mrs. Langford shrunk from acting thus, although this was
not the first time she had suspected the truth. She knew
JSmmeline's character well, and doted on her with all the af-
fection a very warm heart could bestow. Having been head
nurse in Mrs. Hamilton's family from Herbert's birth, she
loved them all as her nurslings, but Emmeline's very delicate
health when a baby, appeared to have rendered her the good
woman's especial favorite.
At the time of Caroline's marriage. Miss Emmeline's future
prospects were, of course, the theme of the servants' hall;
some of whom thought it not at all improbable, that as Miss
Hamilton had become a countess. Miss Emmeline might one
day be a marchioness, perhaps even a duchess. Now Widow
Langford thought differently, though she kept her own coun-
sel, and remained silent. Miss Emmeline, she fancied, would
be very much happier in a more humble sphere, and settled
down quietly near Oakwood, than were she to marry some
great lord, who would compel her to live amidst the wear and
tear of a gay and fashionable life. Arthur Myrvin chanced
to be a very great favorite of the widow's, and if he could but
get a richer living, and become rather more steady in his char-
acter, and if Miss Emmeline really loved him, as somehow she
fancied she did, why it would not only be a very pretty, but a
very happy match, she was quite sure.
The good widow was, however, very careful not in the least
to betray to her young lady that she had been a witness of
their parting ; for, after an expression of pleasure at seeing her
there, an exclamation of surprise and regret at her pale
cheeks, she at once branched off into a variety of indifferent
subjects concerning the village, topics in which she knew Em-
meline was interested, and concluded with
" And so our young curate is, indeed, going to start for
Exeter to-night, in the Totness mail I am. so vex^ 'Jixxl^
though I do not dare to say so to any oi mj \xii^^Tv\ai^^
304 IHE MOTHE&'S BEC0MFEN8E.
neighbors. I did not think he would go so soon, poor deal
Mr. Myrvin."
'' It is not too soon, nnrse, when every tongne has learned
to speak against him," replied Emmeline, calmly, though a
sudden flush rose to her cheek. ^' He must be glad to feel
Mr. Howard no longer requires his services."
^' But dear Miss Emmeline, you surely do not believe one
word of all the scandalous reports about him?" said the
widow, earnestly.
" I do not wish to do so, nor will I, without more convinc-
ing proofs," replied Emmeline, steadily. " My father, I fear,
is deeply prejudiced, and that, in one of his charitable and
kindly feelings, would tell against him."
'' My master has been imposed on by false tales, my dear
young lady ; do not let them do so on you," said the good wo-
man, with an eagerness which almost surprised her young
companion. " I am quite convinced he has some secret
enemy in the parish, I am pretty certain who it is ; and I do
not despair one day of exposing all his schemes, and proving
Mr. Myrvin is as well disposed and excellent a young man as
any in the parish. I know who the villain is in this case, and
my master shall know it too, one day." Emmeline struggled
to subdue the entreaty that was bursting from her lips, but
entirely she could not, and seizing the widow's hand, she ex
claimed, in a low agitated voice
" Do so ; oh, proclaim the falsehood, the cruelty of these
reports, and I I mean Arthur Mr. Myrvin will bless you.
It is so crucx, in such early youth, to have one's character de
famed, and he has only that on which to rest ; tell me, pro-
mise me you will not forget this determination."
" To the very best of my ability, Miss Emmeline, I pro-
mise you," replied Mrs. Langford, more and more confirmed
in her suspicions. " But do not excite yourself so much, dear
heart. Mr. Maitland said you were to be kept quite quiet,
you know, and you have fatigued yourself so much, you are
trembling like an aspen."
" My weakness must plead my excuse for my folly, dear
nurse," answered Emmeline, striving by a smile to control two
or three tears, which, spite of all resistance, would chase one
another down her pale cheek. " Do not mind me, I shall get
well very soon. And how long do you think it will be before
you succeed in your wish ?"
'^Not for some time, m^ dew 'SQtxjai'^ V^d^ \ .t ijrescnt I
THE mother's recompense. 30S
bave only my snspicions ; I mnst watch oantionsly, ere thej
can be confirmed. I assure you I am as anxious that poor
young man's character should he cleared as you can be."
A faint smile for a moment played round Emmeline's lips,
as 8he pressed the good woman's hand, and said she was satis-
fied. A little while longer she lingered, then rousing herself
with a strong effort, she visited, as she had intended, two or
three poor cottages, and forced herself to listen to and enter
with apparent interest on those subjects most interesting to
their inmates. In her solitary walk thence to Woodlands she
strenuously combated with herself, lest her thoughts should
adhere to their loved object, and lifting up her young enthusi-
astic soul in fervent faith and love to its Creator, she succeed-
ed at length in obtaining the composure she desired, and in
meeting her mother, at Woodlands, with a smile and assumed
playfulness, which did not fail, even at Mrs. Hamilton's gentle
reproof for her lengthened absence and over fatigue, to which
she attributed the paleness resting on her cheek, and which
even the return of Edward and Ellen to Oakwood, and the
many little pleasures incidental to a reunion, could not chase
away.
Three weeks passed quietly on ; Oakwood was once more
the seat of domestic enjoyment. The Earl and Countess St
Eval spent the week of Christmas with them, which greatly
heightened every pleasure, and Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton, in-
stead of seeking in vain for one dear face in the happy group
around them on the eve of Christmas and the New l ear, be-
held beside their peaceful hearth another son, beneath whose
fond and gentle influence the character of Caroline, already
chastened, was merging into beautiful maturity ; and often as
Mrs. Hamilton gazed on that child of care and sorrow, yet of
deep unfailing love, she felt, indeed, in her a mother's recom-
pense was already given.
Edward's leave of absence was extended to a longer period
than usual His ship had been dismantled, and now lay un-
tenanted with the other floating castles of the deep. Her offi-
cers and men had been dispersed, and other stations had not
yet been assigned to them. Nor did young Fortescue intend
joining a ship again as midshipman ; his buoyant hopes ^the
expectations of a busy fancy told him that perhaps the epau-
lette of a lieutenant would glitter on his shoulder. On his
first return home he had talked continually of bia ^^"WL\\i^\Ka\^
and his promotion, but as the time neared ioi \ivvbl \.q ^^^ws^^
8M THE MOTHEE^S EECOIIFENBK.
pany his nnule ,to London for the purpose, his Tolubility wu
checked.
Caroline and her husband returned to Castle Terryn, and,
scarcely four weeks after Myrvin's departure, Emmeline re-
ceived from the hands of Mrs. Langford an unexpected and
most agitating letter. It was from Arthur ; intense mental
suffering, in the eyes of her it addressed, breathed through
every line ; but that subject, that dear yet forbidden suhject,
their avowed and mutual love, was painfully avoided ; it had
evidently been a struggle to write thus calmly, impassionately,
and Emmeline blessed him for his care : it merely implored
her to use her influence with St. Eval to obtain his interference
with his father on his (Arthur's) behalf Lord Malvern h
had heard was seeking for a gentleman to accompany his son
Louis as tutor and companion to Germany ; there, for the two
following years, to improve his education, and enable him to
obtain a thorough knowledge of the language and literature
of the country. Arthur had applied for the situation, and re-
cognized by the Marquis as the young clergyman he had so
often seen at Oakwood, he received him with the utmost cor-
diality and kindness. On being questioned as to his reasons
for resigning his curacy, he frankly owned that so quiet a life
was irksome to him, and a desire to travel had occasioned the
wish to become tutor to any nobleman or gentleman's son about
to do so. He alluded himself to the reports to his prejudice,
avowed with sorrow that neglect of parochial duties was in-
deed a just accusation, but from every other, he solemnly as-
sured the Marquis, his conscience was free. Not one proof of
vice or even irregularity of conduct had been or could be
brought against him. He farther informed Emmeline, that not
only the Marquis but the Marchioness and the whole family
appeared much disposed in his favor, particularly Lord Louis,
who declared that if he might not have him for a tutor, he
would have no one else, and not go to Germany or to any
school at all. The Marquis had promised to give him a deci-
ded answer as soon as he had consulted Lord St. Eval on the
subject. He knew, Myrvin concluded, that her influence was
great with the Earl, and it was for that reason and that alone
he had ventured to address her.
Emmeline reflected long and deeply on this letter. Had
she listened to the powerful pleadings of her deep affection,
she would have shrunk from thus using her influence, however
Mmall, to send him from ^ug\a.i[i^, ^i\., CiwiX.\ ^V^ V^^^^tatel
THE mother's &E00HPER8E. 807
id she indeed forgotten herself to follow that only path of
ity she had pointed out to him? Brief indeed were her
mnents of indecision. She wrote instantly to St. Eval in
xthur's favor, but so guardedly and calmly worded her letter,
lat no suspicion of any kinder or more interested feeling than
lat of her peculiarly generous and warm-hearted nature could
we been suspect'Ca, either by St. Eval or her sister. She
ccused her boldness in writing thus unadvisedly and secretly,
f admitting that she could not bear that an unjust and
ifounded prejudice should so cruelly mar the prospects of so
)uiig, and, she believed, injured a fellow-creature. She was
ell aware that her father shared this prejudice, and therefore
le entreated St. Eval not to mention her share in the trans-
ition.
Lord St. Eval willingly complied with her wishes. She
id been, as we know, ever his favorite. He loved her perfect
rtlessness and playfulness, her very enthusiasm rendered her
a object of his regard ; besides which, on this point, his
pinion coincided with hers. He felt assured young Myrvin
^as unhappy on what account he knew not ^but he was con-
inoed he did not deserve the aspersions cast upon him ; and,
irectly after the receipt of Emmeline^s earnest letter, he came
mexpectedly to the parish, made inquiries, with the assistance
f Mrs. Langford, and returned to Castle Terryn, perfectly
atisfied that it would certainly be no disadvantage to his
)rother to be placed under the care and companionship of
^thur Myrvin. He lost no time in imparting this opinion to
lis father ; and Emmeline very quickly learned that the whole
iffair was arranged. Lord Louis was wild with joy that
Arthur Myrvin, whom he had liked at Oakwood, was to be
lis tutor, instead of some prim formidable dominie, and to this
news was superadded the intelligence that, the second week in
February, the Rev. Arthur Myrvin and his noble pupil
pitted England for Hanover, where they intended to make
some stay.
Emmeline heard, and the words, " will he not write me one
line in farewell ere he leaves England?" were murmured inter-
Dally, but were instantly suppressed, for she knew the very
wish was a departure from that line of stem control she had
laid down for herself and him ; and that letter, that dear, that
precious letter precious for it came from him, though not one
w^ord of love was breathed, bought not that to be destroyed ?
Had she any right now to cherish it, when the aid she sought
308 THE mother's recompense.
had been given, its object gained ? Did her parents know i^
possessed that letter, that it was dear to her, what would be
their verdict? And was she not deceiving them in thus
retaining, thus cherishing a remembrance of him she had
resolved to forget? Emmeline drew forth the precious letter;
she gazed on it long, wistfully, as if, in parting from it, the
pang of separation with the beloved writer was recalled. She
pressed her lips upon it, and then with stern resolution
dropped it into the fire that blazed upon the hearth; and
with cheek pallid and breath withheld, she marked the utter ht
annihilation of the first and last memento she possessed of -1
him she loved.
Mrs. Hamilton's anxiety on Emmeline's account did not
decrease. She still remained pale and thin, and her spirits
more uneven, and that energy which had formerly been such a
marked feature in her character appeared at times entirely to
desert her ; and Mr. Maitland, discovering that the extreme
quiet and regularity of life which he had formerly recom-
mended was not quite so beneficial as he had hoped, changed
in a degree his plan, and advised diversity of recreation and
amusements of rather more exertion than he had at first
permitted. Poor Emmeline struggled to banish thought, that
she might repay by cheerfulness the tenderness of her parents
and cousins, but she was new to sorrow ; her first was indeed
a bitter trial, the more so because even from her mother it
was as yet concealed. She succeeded for a time in her wishes,
so far as to gratify her mother by an appearance of her usual
enthusiastic pleasure in the anticipation of a grand ball, given
by Admiral Lord N^ , at Plymouth, which it was expected
the Duke and Duchess of Clarence would honor with their
presence. Ellen anxiously hoped her brother would return to
Oakwood in time to accompany them. He had passed his
examination with the best success, but on the advice of Sir
Edward Manly, they both lingered in town, in the hope
that being on the spot the young officer would not be forgotten
in the list of promotions. He might, Edward gaylj wrote,
chance to return to Oakwood a grade higher than he left it.
CHAPTER XV.
'* Ellen, I give you joy I" exclaimed Emmeline. enteriniC Mie
room where her mother and cousin were sitting one aftATDA^
THE moihee's eecomperse. 309
^nd speaking with some of her former cheerfulness. ' There
B a carriage coming down the avenue, and though I cannot
[oite distinguish it, I have second sight sufficient to fancy it
s papa's. Edward declared he would not tell us when he was
o]ning home, and therefore there is nothing at all improbable
n the idea that he will fire a broadside on us, as he calls it,
mexpectedly."
^ I would willingly stand fire to see him safe anchored off
.his coast," replied Ellen, smiling. " Lord N 's ball will
ose half its charms if he be not there."
" What ! with all your enthusiastic admiration of her JRoyal
Eighness, whom you will have the honor of seeing 1 For shame,
Ellen."
" My enthusiastic admiration ; rather yours, my dear Em-
neline. Mine is so quiet that it does not deserve the name
f enthusiasm," replied Ellen, laughing. " Nor could I have
magined you would have honored me so far as to give me an
kttribute in your eyes so precious."
" I am getting .old and learning wisdom," answered Emme-
ine, makiug an effort to continue her playfulness, " and there-
fore admire quietness more than formerly."
'^ And therefore you are sometimes so silent and sad, to
itone for the past," my Emmeline, remarked her mother,
somewhat sorrowfully.
^' Sad, nay, dearest mother, do me not injustice ; I cannot
be sad, when so many, many blessings are around me " replied
bhe affectionate girl. '^ Silent I may be sometimes, but that is
only because I do not feel quite so strong perhaps as I once
did, and it appears an exertion to rattle on as I used upon
trifling subjects.
" I shall not be contented, then, my own- Emmeline, till
that strength returns, and I hear you delighted, even as of old,
with little things again."
" And yet you have sometimes smiled at my romance, and
bade me think of self control, dearest mother. Must I be
saucy enough to call you changeable ?" answered Emmeline,
smiling, as she looked in her mother's face.
Mrs. Hamilton was prevented replying by Ellen's delighted
exclamation that it was her uncle's carriage, and Edward was
waving a white handkerchief, as if impatient to reach them, an
impatience which was speedily satisfied by his arrival, bound-
ing into the room, but suddenly pausing at the door to permit
his uncle and another gentleman's entrance, to which latter he
810 THfi mother's becompensb.
regpeotfally raued his cap, and then sprang forward to oIaB|
the extended hands of his cousin and sister.
^' Allow me to congratnlate you, madam," said Sir Edward
Manly, after returning with easy politeness the courteous greet-
ing of Mrs. Hamilton, " on the promotion of one of the bravest
officers and most noble-minded youths of the British navy,
and introduce all here present to Lieutenant Fortescue, of bis f
Majesty's frigate the Royal Neptune, whose unconquered aud
acknowledged dominion over the seas I lave not the very
slightest doubt he will be one of the most eager to preserve."
" Nor can I doubt it, Sir Edward," replied Mrs. Hamilton, ^
smiling, as she glanced on the flushing cheek of her gallant ^'''^
nephew, adding, as she held out her hand to him, " God bless ^^
you, my dear boy I I do indeed rejoice in your promotion, for f^
I believe it well deserved." *T
You are right, madam, it is well deserved," replied Sir )^
Edward, with an accent so marked on the last sentence that ^
the attention of all was arrested. " Hamilton, I have been
silent to you on the subject, for I wished tp speak it first be-
fore all those who are so deeply interested in this young man's
fate. ^'' The lad," he added, striking his hand frankly on Ed-
ward's shoulder, " the lad whose conscience shrunk from re-
ceiving public testimonials of his worth as a sailor, while his
private character was stained, while there was that upon it
which, if known, he believed would effectually prevent his pro-
motion ; who, at the risk of disappointment to his dearest
wishes, of disgrace, want of honor, possessed sufficient courage
to confess to his captain that his log-book, the first years of bis
seamanship, told a false tale the lad, I say, who can so nobly
command himself, is well worthy to govern others. He who
has known so well the evil of disobedience will be firm in the
discipline of his men, while he who is so stern to his own faults
will, I doubt not, be charitable to those of others. The sword
presented to him for his brave preservation of the crew of the
Syren will never be stained by dishonor, while he looks upon
it and remembers the past, and even as in those of my own
son, shall I henceforward rejoice in using my best endeavors
to promote the fortunes of Edward Fortescue."
The return of Edward, the honors he had received, the
perfect happiness beaming on his bright face, all caused Ellen
to look forward to the ball with greater pleasure than she had
ever regarded gayety of that sort before ; and Mrs. Hamilton
would sometimes playfully declare that she and Emmeline
I
i^i
r'
THE mother's recompense. 3iI
bad for a time exchanged characters, although Edward's
neyer-failing liveliness, his odd tales and joyons laugh, had
appeared partly to rouse the latter's usual spirits, and dissi-
pate slightly her mother's anxiety.
The festive night arrived, and anticipation itself was not
disappointed in the pleasure it bestowed. All the nobility of
the country, for miles round, had assembled in respect to the
royal guests who had honored the distinguished commander
with their august presence ; and Mrs. Hamilton's natural
feelings of pride were indeed gratified that night, as she
glanced on her Caroline, who now appeared in public for the
first time since her marriage, attired in simple elegance, yet
with a richness appropriate to her rank, attracting every eye,
even that of their Boyal Highnesses themselves, by the grace-
ful dignity of her tall and commanding figure, by the quiet
repose and polished ease which characterized her every move-
ment. If Lord St. Eval looked proud of his young wife,
there were few there who would have blamed him. The Lady
Florence Lyle was with her brother, enjoying with unfeigned
pleasure, as did Ellen, and to all appearance Emmeline, the
scene before them.
The brilliant uniforms of the army, and the handsome,
but less striking ones of the navy, imparted additional gayety
and splendor to the rooms, forming picturesque groups, when
contrasting with the chaste and elegant costumes of the fairer
sex. But on the fascinating scene we may not linger, nor
attempt to describe the happiness which the festivities occa-
sioned the entire party, nor on the gratification of Lieutenant
Fortescue, when Sir Edward Manly begged the honor of an
introduction for his young friend to his Koyal Highness the
Duke of Clarence, who, with his amiable consort, the Princess
Adelaide, had honored Lord N with their august presence.
Upon one incident alone we must be permitted to dwell, as
affording a great and unexpected pleasure to our friend Ellen.
Edward and Ellen were for some time perfectly uncon-
scious that they were objects of the most earnest, penetrating
scrutiny of a lady, leaning on the arm of a young and hand-
some man in regimentals, near them.
^' It must be them ; that likeness cannot be that of a
stranger," were the words, uttered in an earnest, persuading
tone, addressed by the young officer to the lady, who might be
his mother, which were the first to attract the attention of the
little group, though the speaker appeared quite unconscious
312 THE mother's recompense.
that he was overhearcL Let me speak to him, and at least
ask the question."
"No, no, Walter,*' the lady replied, in a low tone
" Changed as are our situations now, I could not wish, eyen
if it be them, to intrude upon their remembrance."
An exclamation of suppressed impatience escaped from the
lips of the young man, but instantly checking it, he said,
respectfully and tenderly
" Dearest mother, do not say so, if" (the name was lost.)
^^ grew up as she was a child, she would be glad to welcome
the friend of her father, the companion of her childhood."
" But it cannot be, Walter ; that beautiful girl is not like
my poor child, though her brother may strangely resemble
those we have known."
" Have you not often told me, mother, we never change so
much from childhood into youth 1 Ellen was always ill, now
she may be well, and that makes all the difference in the
world. I am much mistaken if those large, mournful eyes
can belong to any but "
He paused abruptly ; for convinced that they must be the
subject of conversation, and feeling they were listening to lan-
guage not meant for their ears, Edward and Ellen turned to-
wards the speakers, who to the former appeared perfect
strangers, not so to the latter. Feelings, thoughts of her
earliest infancy and childhood, came thronging over her as a
spell, as she gazed on the lady's countenance, which, by its
expression, denoted that sorrow had been her portion ; it was
changed, much changed from that which it had been ; but the
rush of memory on Ellen's young soul told her that face had
been seen before. A night of horror and subsequent suffer-
ing flashed before her eyes, in which that face had beamed in
fondness and in soothing kindness over her ; that voice had
spoken accents of love in times when even a mother's words
were harsh and cold.
" Forgive me, sir, but is not your name Fortescue ?" in-
quired the young man, somewhat hesitatingly, yet frankly, as
he met Edward's glance.
"You have the advantage of me, sir," he replied, with
equal frankness; "such is my name, but yours I cannot
guess."
" I beg your pardon, but am I speaking to the son of Col-
onel Fortescue, who fell in India during a skirmish against
the natives, nearly ten years ago ?"
" The same, sir."
THE mother's recompense. ^13
" Then, it is ^it is Mrs. Cameron ; I am not, I knew I
)ould not be mistaken " exclaimed Ellen, in an accent of
ielight, and bounding forward, she clasped the lady's eagerly
extended hand in both hers, and gazing in her face with eyes
glistening with starting tears. " And would you, could you
have passed me, without one word to say my friend, the wife
of my father's dearest friend, was so near to me 1 you who
in my childhood so often soothed and tended my sufferings,
dearest Mrs. Cameron ?" and tears of memory and of feeling
fell upon the hand she held, while young Cameron gazed on
her with an admiration which utterly prevented his replying .
coherently to the questions, the reminiscences of former years,
when they were playmates together in India, which Edward,
discovering by his sister's exclamation who he was, was now
pouring in his ear.
" I did not, could not think I should have been thus affec-
tionately, thus faithfully remembered, my dear Ellen, after a
lapse of so many years," replied Mrs. Cameron, visibly affect-
ed at her young companion's warmth. " I could not imagine
the memory of a young child, such as you were when we part-
ed, would have been so acute."
'* Then my niece must have been all these years mistaken,
and you too did not understand her, though she fancied you
did," said Mrs. Hamilton, with a smile, advancing to relieve
[Ellen's agitation, which the association of her long lamented
father with Mrs. Cameron rended almost painful. " I could
have told you, from the moment she was placed under my
care, that she never would forget those who had once been
kind to her. I have known you so long, from Ellen's report,
that glad am I indeed to make your acquaintance; you to
whom my lamented sister was so much indebted."
Gratified and soothed by this address, for the sight of
Ellen had awakened many sad associations, she too being now
a widow, Mrs. Cameron rallied her energies, and replied to
Mrs. Hamilton, in her naturally easy and friendly manner
Ellen looked on the black dress she wore, and turned inquir-
ingly to young Cameron, who answered hurriedly, for he guess-
ed her thoughts.
" Ask not of my father, he is beside Colonel Fortescue ;
he shared his laurels and his grave."
An expression of deep sympathy passed over EUen'i
countenance, rendering her features, to the eager glance of the
young man, yet more attractive.
U
814 THE mother's regompensb.
^You have, I see, mnoh to say and inquire, my den
Ellen," said her aunt, kindly, as she marked her flushed cheek
and eager eye. " Perhaps Mrs. Cameron will indulge you by
retiring with you into one of those quiet, little refreshment-
rooms, where you can talk as much as you please withont
remark."
" Can I ask my dear young friend to resign the pleasures
of the dance, and agreeable companionship of the friends 1
see thronging round her, to listen to an old woman's tale V
said Mrs. Cameron, smiling.
" I think you are answered," replied Mrs. Hamilton, play- [
fully, as Ellen passed her arm through that of Mrs. Cameroii,
and looked caressingly and persuadingly in her face.
Mrs. Cameron's tale was soon told. She had returned to
England, for India had become painful to her, from the many
bereavements which had there unhappily darkened her lot.
Captain Cameron had fallen in an engagement, two or three
years after Mrs. Fortescue's departure ; and out of seven ap-
parently healthy children, which had been hers when Ellen
knew her, only three now remained. It was after the death of
her eldest daughter, a promising girl of eighteen, her own
health having suffered so exceedingly from the shock, that her
son Walter, fearing for her life, effected an exchange, and be-
ing ordered to return with his regiment to England ^for he
now held his father's rank of captain he succeeded in per-
suading his mother to accompany him with his sisters. He
was quartered at Devonport, where it appeared they had been
residing the last eight months, visited, even courted, by most
of the military and naval officers who had known and respeot-
ed his father ; amongst whom was Lord N , who had per-
suaded Mrs. Cameron to so far honor his ball as there to intro-
duce her daughter Flora, using arguments she could not resist^
and consequently delighting her affectionate children by o&ee
more appearing in public.
" And this is Walter, the kind Walter, who used ever to
take my part, though he did scold me for always looking so
sad," exclaimed Ellen, after hearing her friend's tale, and an-
swering all her questions concerning herself, looking up as she
spoke on the young man, who had again joined them, and
blushing with timidity at her boldness in thus speaking to one
who had grown into a stranger.
The young man's heart throbbed as he heard himself ad-
ireBBed as Walter by the beautiful ^vxl be&lde him ; and he
THE MOTHEE's RECOMFENftE. 815
fonnd it difficult to summon sufficient courage to ask hei to
dance with him ; frankly, however, she consented.
Ellen found pleasure, also, in renewing acquaintance with
the timid Flora, whom she had left a playful child of seven,
and who was now merging into hright and heautiful girlhood ;
eager to return her kindly warmth, in the delight of finding
one of her own age among that glittering crowd of strangers.
But few more incidents of note occurred that night ; dan-
cing continued with unabated spirit, even after the departure
of the royal guests, and pleasure was the prevailing feeling to
the last. The notice of the Duke, and the benignant spirit of
the Duchess, her gentle and kindly manners, had penetrated
many a young and ardent soul, and fixed at once and unwaver-
ingly the stamp of future loyalty within.
Once introduced to Mrs. Cameron, and aware that she re-
sided so near them, Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton cultivated her
acquaintance ; speedily they became intimate. In Mrs. For-
tescue's broken and dying narrative, she had more than once
mentioned them as the friends of her husband, and having
been most kind to herself, Edward had alluded to Captain
Cameron's care of him, and parting advice, when about to em-
bark for England ; and Ellen had frequently spoken of Mrs.
Cameron's kindness to her when a child. All those who had
shown kindness to her sister were objects of attraction to Mrs,
Hamilton, and the widow speedily became so attached to her
and her amiable fajpily, that, on Walter being suddenly or-
dered out to Ireland (which commands, by the way, the young
man obeyed with very evident reluctance), she gladly consented
to rent a small picturesque cottage, between Woodlands and
Oakwood, an arrangement which added much to the young
people's enjoyment ; while the quiet repose of her present life,
the society of Mrs. Hamilton and her worthy husband, as also
that of Mr. Howard, restored the widow to happiness, which
had not been her portion since her husband's death ; and now,
for the first time, Mrs. Hamilton became acquainted with those
minute particulars which she had for the last nine years de-
sired to know, concerning the early childhood of those orphans
then committed to her care. That her sister had been partial,
it was very easy to discover ; but the extent of the evil, and
the many little trials Ellen's very infancy had to encounter,
were only subjects of conjecture, for she could not bear to lead
them to speak on any topic that might in the least have
reflected on the memory of their mother.
815 THE mother's recompense.
The intelligence therefore which she now obtained, ezplaifr
ed all that had been a matter of mystery and surprise in El
len*s character, and rendered clearer than ever to Mrs. Hamil-
ton the painful feelings which had in opening youth actuated
her niece's conduct ; and often, as she listened to Mrs. Came
ron's account of her infant sufferings and her mother's harsh-
ness and neglect, did Mrs. Hamilton wish such facts had from
the first been known to her ; much sorrow, she felt assured,
might have been spared to alL She would perchance have
been enabled to have so trained her and soothed her early
wounded sensibility, that all the wretchedness of her previoos
years might have been avoided ; but she would not long sdlow her
mind to dwell on such things. She looked on her niece as
dearer than ever, from the narrative she had beard, and she
was thankful to behold her thus in radiant health and beauty,
and, she hoped, in happiness, although at times there was stUl
a deeper shade of seriousness than she loved to see imprinted
on her brow, and dimming the lustre of her eye, but it caused
her no anxiety. Ellen's character had never been one of light-
hearted glee ; it would have been unnatural to see it now, and
Bhe believed that appearance of melancholy to be her natural
disposition, and so too, perhaps, the orphan regarded it herself.
A very few weeks after Lord N 's ball, Edward again de-
parted from Oakwood to join his ship. He parted gayly with
his friends, for he knew his voyage was to be but a short one;
and that now the first and most toilsome step to promotion
had been gained, he should have very many more opportuni-
ties of taking a run home and catching a glimpse, he said, joy-
ously, of the wnole crew who were so dear to him, on board
that tough old ship Oakwood ; and Ellen, too, could share his
gayety even the night previous to his departure, for this was
not like either their first or second parting. She had all to
hope and but little to fear ; for her trust was too firmly fixed
on Him who had guarded that beloved brother .through so
many previous dangers and temptations, to bid her waver now.
Even Mrs. Hamilton's anxious bosom trembled not as she
parted from the son of her affections, the preserver of her hu
band ; and though Oakwood felt dull and gloomy on the first
departure of the mischief-loving, mirthful sailor, it was not the
gloom of sorrow. February passed, and Mrs. Hamilton's soli-
citude with regard to Emmeline still continued. There were
times when, deceived by her daughter's manner, lively and
playful apparently as usual, jhe permitted herself to feel less
THE MOTHEE^S RECOMPENSE. 317
anxious ; but the pale cheek, the dulled eye, the air of lan-
guor, and sometimes, though not often, of depression wnich
pervaded every movement, very quickly recalled anxiety and
apprehension. Mr. Maitland could not understand her. If
for a moment he imagined it was mental suffering, her man-
ner was such the next time he saw her as entirely to baffle that
fancy, and convince him that the symptoms which caused Mrs.
Hamilton's alarm were, in reality, of no consequence. Deter-
mined to use every effort to deceive him, lest he should betray
to her parents the real cause of her sufferings, Emmeline gene-
rally rallied every effort and rattled on with him, as from a
child she had been accustomed, therefore it was no wonder the
worthy surgeon was deceived ; and often, very often, did the
poor girl wish she could deceive herself as easily. It was now
nearly three months since she and young Myrvin had so pain-
fully parted, and her feelings, instead of diminishing in their
intensity, appeared to become more powerful She had hoped,
by studiously employing herself, by never indulging in one
idle hour, to partially efface his remembrance, but the effort
was fruitless. The letters from Lady Florence and Lady
Emily Lyle became snJbjects of feverish interest, for in them
alone she heard unprejudiced accounts of Arthur, of whose
praises, they declared, the epistles of their brother Louis were
always full ; so much so, Lady Emily said, that she certainly
should fall in love with him, for the purpose of making a ro-
mantic story. Sadly did poor Emmeline feel there was but
little romance in her feelings ; cold, clinging despair had over-
come her. She longed for the comfort of her mother's sympa-
thy, but his character was not yet cleared. Mr. Hamilton
evidently mistrusted the praises so lavishly bestowed on the
young man by Lord Malvern's family ; and how could she de-
fend him, if accused of presumption towards herself? Pre-
sumption there had not been ; indeed, his conduct throughout
had. done him honor. She fancied her mother would be dis-
pleased, might imagine she had encouraged the feeling of ro-
mantic admiration till it became an ideal passion, and made
herself miserable. Perhaps an unknown, yet ever-lingering
hope existed within, spite of despair , perhaps aerial visions
would mingle in the darkness, and Emmeline shrunk, uncon-
sciously, from their utter annihilation by the stern prohibition
of her parents. Such was the constant tenor of her thoughts :
but one moment of excited feeling betrayed that which she haa
deemed would never pass her lips.
818 THE uothee's recompense.
But a very few days had elapsed since Edward's departure
from Oakwood, when, one afternoon, Mr. Hamilton entered
the usual sitting-room of the family, apparently much dis-
turbed. Mrs. Hamilton and Ellen were engaged in work, and
Emmeline sat at a small table in the embrasure of one of the
deep Gothic windows, silently yet busLy employed it seemed in
drawing. She knew her father had gone that morning to the^
village, and as usual felt uneasy and feverish, fearing, reason-
ably or unreasonably, that on his return she would hear some-
thing unpleasant concerning Arthur ; as she this day marked
the countenance of her father, her heart throbbed, and her
cheek, which had been flushed by the action of stooping, paled
even unto death.
" What mishap has chanced in the village, that you look so
grave, my dear love ?" demanded his wife, playfully.
"I am perplexed in what manner to act, and grieved,
deeply grieved, at the intelligence I have learned ; not only
that my prejudice is confirmed, but the knowledge I have
acquired concerning that unhappy young man places me in a
most awkward situation."
" You are not speaking very intelligibly, my dear husband,
and therefore I must guess what you mean ; I fear it is young
Myrvin of whom you speak," said Mrs. Hamilton, her playful-
ness gone.
** They surely have not been again bringing him forward
to his discredit?" observed Ellen, earnestly. " The poor young
man is far away ; why will they still endeavor to prejudice
you and Mr. Howard against him ?"
" I admire your charity, my dear girl, but, I am sorry to
Bay, in this case it is unworthily bestowed. There are fects
now come to light which, I fear, unpleasant as will be the task,
render i*; my duty to write to Lord Malvern. Arthur Myrvin
is no fit companion for his son."
" His poor, poor father !" murmured Ellen, dropping her
work, and looking sorrowfully, yet inquiringly, in her uncle's
face.
" But are they facts, Arthur ^are they proved ? for that
there is an unjust prejudice against him in the village, I am
pretty certain."
" They are so far proved, that, by applying them to him, a
mystery in the village is cleared up, and also his violent haste
to quit our neighborhood. You remember Mary Brookes?*
" That poor girl who died, it was said, of such a rapid de-
cline ? Perfectly well"
THE mother's recompense. 819
^' It was not a decline, my dear Emmeline ; would that it
bad been. She was beautiful, innocent, in conversation and
manner far above her station. There are many to say she
loved, and believed, in the fond trust of devotion, all that the
tempter said. She was worthy to be his wife, and she became
his victim. His visits to her old grandmother^s cottage I my-
self know were frequent. He deserted her, and that wild
agony broke the strings of life which remorse had already
loosened ; ten days after Myrvin quitted the village she died,
giving birth to an unhappy child of sin and sorrow. Her
grandmother, ever dull in observation and sense, has been
silent, apparently stupefied by the sudden death of her Mary,
and cherishes the poor helpless infant left her by her darling.
Suddenly she has appeared awakened to indignation, and a
desire of vengeance on the destroyer of her child, which I could
wish less violent. She implored me, with almost frantic wild-
aess, to obtain justice from the cruel villain accusing him by
aame, and bringing forward so many proofs, which the lethargy
of grief had before concealed, that I cannot doubt for one
moment who is the father of that poor babe the cruel, the
heartless destroyer of innocence and life."
" But is there no evidence but hers ? I wish there were,
for Dame Williams is so weak and dull, she may easily be im-
posed upon," observed Mrs. Hamilton, thoughtfully. " It is
indeed a tale of sorrow ; one that I could wish, if it indeed be
true, might not be published ; for; did it reach his father's
ears"
" It will break his heart, I know it will," interrupted
Ellen, with an uncontrolled burst of feeling " Oh, do not
condemn him without further proofs," she added, appealingly.
"Every inquiry I have made confirms the old dame's
story," replied Mr. Hamilton, sadly. "We know Myrvin's
life in college, before his change of rank, was one of reckless
gayety. All say he was more often at Dame Williams's cot-
tage than at any other. Had he been more attentive to his
duties, we might have believed he sought to soothe by religion
poor Mary's suffering, but we know such was not his wont.
Jefferies corroborates the old dame's tale, bringing forward
circumstances he had witnessed, too forcibly to doubt. And
does not his hasty resignation of a comfortable home, a prom-
ising living, evince his guilt more strongly than every other
proof? Why did he refuse to defend his conduct? Was it
not likely such a crime as this upon his conscience would
820 THE mother's R200HFENSB.
occasion that restlessness we all perceived, that extreme haste
to depart? he would not stay to see his victim die, or be '
charged with a child of sin. There was a mystery in his sud- |'
den departure, but there is none now; it is all too clear."
" It is false /" burst with startling, almost overwhelming
power from the lips of Emmeline, as she sprung with the
strength of agony from her seat, and stood with the sudden-
ness of a vision, before her parents, a bright hectic spot barn-
ing on either cheek, rendering her usually mild eyes painfully
brilliant. She had sat as if spell-bound, drinking Srx every
word. She knew the tale was false, but yet each word had
fallen like brands of heated iron on her already scorching
brain ; that they should dare to breathe such a tale against him,
whose fair fame she knew was unstained, link his pure name
with infamy ; and her father, too, believed it. She did not
scream, though there was that within which longed for such
relief She did not faint, though every limb had lost its power.
A moment's strength and energy alike returned, and she bound-
ed forward. " It is false !" she again exclaimed, and her pa-
rents started in alarm at her agonized tone ; '^ false as the falsft
villain that dared stain the fair fame of another with his own
base crime. Arthur Myrvin is not the father of that child;
Arthur Myrvin was not the destroyer of Mary Brookes. Gro
and ask Nurse Langford : she who hung over poor Mary's dy-
ing bed ; who received from her own cold lips the name of the
father of her child ; she who was alone near her when she died.
Ask her, and she will tell you the wretch, who has prejudiced
all minds against the good, the pure, the noble ; the villain,
the cruel despicable villain, who rested not till his base arts
had ruined the the ^virtuous; that Jefferies, the canting
hypocrite, the wretched miscreant, who has won all hearts be-
cause he speaks so fair, he, he alone is guilty. Put the ques-
tion to him ; let Nurse Langford ask him if the dying spoke
falsely, when she named him, and his guilt will be written on
his brow. Arthur Myrvin did visit that cottage ; Mary had
confessed a crime, she said not what, and implored his prayers;
he soothed her bodily and mental sufferings, he robbed death
of its terrors, and his only grief at leaving the village was,
that she would miss his aid, for that crime could not be con-
fessed to another ; and they dare to accuse him of sin, he who
is as good, as pure, as " For one second she paused, choked
by inward agony, but ere either her father or mother could
address her, she continued, in an even wilder tone, " Why
THE MOTHE&'S KECOMPENSB. 321
cM Arthur Myrvin leave this neighhorhood ? why did he go
hence so suddenly so painfully 1 because, because he loved
me because he knew that I returned his love, and he saw the
utter hopelessness that surrounded us, and he went forth to do
his duty ; he left me to forget him, to obtain peace in the for-
getfulness of one, I may never see again ^forgetfulness ! oh,
not till my brain ceases to throb will that be mine. He thought
to leave me with his love unspoken, but the words came, and
that very hour we parted. He loved me, he knew I could not
be his, and it was for this his living was resigned, for this he
departed ; and had he cause to blush for this 1 pure, honorable,
as was his love, too noble, too unselfish to urge aught that could
bid Emmeline forget her duty to her parents for love^ of him.;
bearing every calumny, even the prejudice, the harshness of my
father, rather than confess he loved me. He is innocent of
every charge that is brought against him all, all, save the
purest, the most honorable love for me ; and, oh, is that indeed,
indeed a crime ?"
She had struggled to the very last to speak calmly, but
now sobs, the more convulsive because the more suppressed,
rose choking in her throat, and rendered the last words almost
inaudible. She pressed both hands against her heart and then
her temples, as if to still their painful throbbings, and speak
yet more, but the effort was fruitless, and she darted wildly,
and fled as an arrow from the room.
Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton looked on each other in painful
and alarmed astonishment, and Ellen, deeply affected, rose
hastily, as if with the intention of following her agitated cousin,
but her aunt and uncle entreated her not, alleging Emmeline
would sooner recover alone, asking her at the same time if she
had known any thing relative to the confession they had just
heard. She answered truly in the negative. Emmeline had
scarcely ever spoken of young Myrvin in her hearing ; but as
the truth was now discovered, many little instances rose to the
recollection of both parents to confirm the avowal of their child,
and increase their now painfully awakened solicitude. Her
agitation the night of Edward^s return, when Lord St. Eval
laughingly threatened her with marriage, rose to the recollec-
tion of both parents ; her extreme excitement and subsequent
depression ; her visibly failing health since Arthur's depar-
ture, all, all, too sadly confirmed her words, and bitterly Mrs.
Hamilton reproached herself for never having suspected the
truth before, for permitting the young man to be thus inti
14*
^
'r^
-w
lie
17 1
822 THE mother's recomfense.
mate at her house, heedless of what might ensue, forgbtfal tbil
Emmeline was indeed no longer a child, that her temperament
was one peculiarly liable to be thns strongly excited. j^
For a few minutes Mr. Hamilton felt pride and anger i;^
struggling fiercely in his bosom against Arthur, for haying in
dared to lore one so far aboye him as his child, but very
quickly his natural kindliness and charity resumed their
sway. Gould he wonder at that love for one so fond, so
gentle, so clinging, as his Emmeline? Would he not hays
deemed Arthur cold and strange, had her charms indeed ^,
passed him unnoticed and unfelt? he remembered the for- [^/.^
bearance, the extreme temper the unhappy young man had ^^^
ever displayed toward him, and suddenly and unconscionsly |k
he felt, he must have done him wrong ; he had been preja- t -
diced, misguided. If Nurse Langford's tale was right, and i
Jefferies had dared to accuse another of the crime he had him- ^^
self committed, might he not in the like manner have prejn- '^
diced the whole neighborhood against Arthur by false reports? ^
But while from the words of his child every kindly feeling ^^
rose up in the young man's favor, Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton
did not feel the less painfully that Emmeline had indeed
spoken rightly ; hopelessness was her lot. It seemed to both
impossible that they could ever consent to behold her the
wife of Myrvin, even if his character were cleared of the
stigmas which hsid been cast upon it Could they consent to
expose their fragile child, nursed as she had been, in the lap
of luxuiy and comfort, to all the evils and annoyances of poY-
erty? They had naturally accustomed themselves to antici-
pate Emmeline's marrying happily in their own sphere, and
they could not thus suddenly consent to the annihilation
of hopes, which had been fondly cherished in the mind of
each.
Some little time they remained in conversation, and then
Mrs. Hamilton rose to seek the chamber of her suffering
child, taking with her indeed but little comfort, save her hus-
band's earnest assurance that he would leave no means untried
to discover Jefferies' true character, and if indeed Arthur had
been accused unjustly.
It was with a trembling hand Mrs. Hamilton softly opened
Emmeline's door, and with a heart bleeding at the anguish
she beheld, and which she felt too truly she could not mitigate,
fihe entered, and stood for several minutes by her side unno-
ticed and unseen.
THE MOTHBR^S RECOMPENSE. 323
There are some dispositions in which it is acutely painful
to witness sorrow. Those whom we have ever seen radiant in
health, in liveliness, in joy so full of buoyancy and hope,
they seem as if formed for sunshine alone, as if they could not
live in the darkening clouds of woe or care ; whose pleasures
have been pure and innocent as their own bright beauty;
who are as yet unknown to the whisperings of inwardly
working sin ; full of love and gentleness, and sympathy, ever
ready to weep for others, though for themselves tears are
unknown; creatures, whose warm enthusiastic feelings bind
them to every heart capable of generous emotions ; those in
whom we see life most beautified, most glad. Oh, it is so sad
to see them weep ; to feel that even on them sorrow hath cast
its blight, and paled the cheek, and dimmed the laughing eye,
the speaking smile, and the first grief in such as these is agony
indeed; it is the breaking asunder of every former joy.
They shrink from retrospection, for they cannot bear to feel
they are not now as then, and the future shares to them the
blackened shadows of the hopeless present. As susceptible
as they are to pleasure so are they to pain ; and raised far
above others in the enjoyment of the one, so is their grief
doubled in comparison with those of more happy, because more
even temperaments. So it was with Emmeline ; and her mother
felt all this as she stood beside her, watching with tearful
sympathy the first real grief of her darling child. Emmeline
had cast herself on her knees beside her couch; she had
buried her face in her hands, while the sobs that burst inces-
santly from her swelling bosom shook her frail figure convul-
sively , the blue veins in her throat had swelled as if in suffo-
cation, and her fair hair, loosened from its confinement by her
agitation, hung wildly around her.
Emmeline," Mrs. Hamilton said, gently and falteringly,
but her child heard her not, and she twined her arm around
her, and tried to draw her towards her.
" My own darling Emmeline, speak to me ; I cannot bear
to see you thus. Look up, love ; for my sake calm this excited
feeling."
" May I not even weep ? Would you deny me that poor
comfort?" burst almost passionately from the lips of Emme-
line, for every faculty was bewildered in that suddenly ex-
cited woe. She looked up ; her eyes were bloodshot and hag-
gard, her cheek flushed, and the veins drawn like cords across
her brow.
324 THE mother's eecomfensb.
Weep : would your mother forbid you that blessed coa'
fort and relief, my Emmeline. Could you indeed accuse me o(
such cruelty ?" replied Mrs. Hamilton, bending over her as
she spoke, and removing from those flushed temples the hair
which hung heavy with moisture upon them, and as she did
BO, Emmeline felt the tears of her mother fall thick and fast
on her own scorching brow. She started from her knees,
gazed wildly and doubtingly upon her, and tottering from
exhaustion, would have fallen, had not Mrs. Hamilton, with a
sudden movement, received her in her arms. For a moment
Emmeline struggled as if to break from her embrace, but then,
with a sudden transition of feeling, clasped her arms conyul-
sively about her mother's neck, and burst into a long and vio-
lent but relieving flood of tears.
" I meant never, never to have revealed my secret," she
exclaimed, in a voice almost inaudible, as her mother, seating
her on a couch near them, pressed her to her heart, and pe^
mitted some minutes to pass away in that silence of sympathy
which to the afflicted is so dear. ^^ And now that it has been
wrung from me, I know not what I do or say. Oh, if I have
spoken aught disrespectfully to you or papa just now, I meant
it not, indeed I did not ; but they dared to speak false tales,
and I could not sit calmly to hear them," she added, shuddering.
" There was nothing in your words, my own love, to give
us pain with regard to ourselves," said Mrs. Hamilton, in hei
most soothing tone, as again and again she pressed her quiver
ing lips to that flushed cheek, and tried to kiss away the now
streaming tears. " Do not let that thought add to your unea-
siness, my own darling."
" And can you forgive me, mother ?" and Emmeline buried
her fact? yet more closely in her mother's bosom.
" Forgive you, Emmeline ! is there indeed aught in your
acquaintance with Arthur Myrvin which demands my forgive*
ness ?" replied her mother, in a tone of anxiety and almost
alarm.
" Oh, no, no ! but you may believe I have encouraged these
weak emotions ; that I have wilfully thought on them till I
have made myself thus miserable ; that I have called for hia
love given him encouragement : indeed, indeed I have not I
have struggled hard to obtain forgetfulness to think of him
no more, to regain happiness, but it would not come. I feel 1
know I can never, never be again the joyous light-hearted gii*
that I was once ; all feels so changed."
THE mother's recompense. 325
'^ Do not say so, my own love ; this is but the language of
despondency, now too naturally your own : but permit it not
to gain too much ascendency, dearest. Where is my Emme-
line's firm, devoted faith in that merciful Father, who for so
many years has gilded her lot with such unchecked happiness.
Darker clouds are now indeed for a time around you, but His
blessing will remove them, love ; trust still in Him.*'
Emmeline's convulsive sobs were somewhat checked ; the
fond and gentle tones of sympathy had their e^ect on one to
whom affection never pleaded in vain.
'' And why have you so carefully concealed the cause of
the sufferings that were so clearly visible, my Emmeline ?"
continued her mother, tenderly. ^' Could that fear which you
once avowed in a letter to Mary, have mingled in your affec-
tion for me ? Could fear, indeed, have kept you silent 1 Can
your too vivid fancy have bid you imagine I should reproach
you, or refuse my sympathy in this sad trial ? Your perse-
verance in active employments, your strivings for cheerfulness,
all must, indeed, confirm your assertion, that you have not en-
couraged weakening emotions. I believe you, my own, and I
believe, too, my Emmeline did not give young Myrvin encour-
agement. Look up, love, and tell me that you do not fear
your mother that you do not deem her harsh."
'^ Harsh ? oh, no, no !" murmured the poor girl, still cling-
ing to her neck, as if she feared something would part them.
^ It is I who am capricious, fanciful, miserable ; oh, do not
heed my incoherent words. Mother, dearest mother, oh, let
me but feel that you still love me, and I will teach my heart
to be satisfied with that."
'' But if indeed I am not harsh, tell me all, my Emmeline
tell me when you were first aware you loved Arthur Myrvin,
all that has passed between you. I promise you I will not add
to your suffering on his account by reproaches. Confide in
the affection of your mother, and this trial will not be so hard
to bear."
Struggling to obtain composure and voice, Emmeline
obeyed, and faithfully repeated every circumstance connected
with her and Arthur, with which our readers are well ac-
quainted ; touching lightly, indeed, on their parting interview,
which Mrs. Hamilton easily perceived could not be recalled
even now, though some months had passed without a renewal
of the distress it caused. Her recital almost unconsciously
exalted the character of Arthur in the mind of Mrs. Hamilton,
826 THE mother's recompensb.
which was too generous and kind to remain untouched by coih
duct so honorable, forbearing, and praiseworthy.
" Do not weep any more for the cruel charges against him,
my love," she said, with soothing tenderness, as Emmelioe's
half-checked tears burst forth again as she spoke of the agony
she in secret endured, when in her presence his character was
traduced. " Your father will now leave no means untried to
discover whether indeed they are true or false. Insinuations
and reports have prejudiced his judgment more than is his
wont. He has gone now to Widow Langford, to hear her tale
against Jefferies, and if this last base charge he has brought
against Arthur be indeed proved against himself, it will be
easy to convict him of other calumnies ; for the truth of this
once made evident, it is clear that his base machinations have
been the secret engines of the prejudice against Myrvin, for
which no clear foundation has ever yet been discovered. Yon
will not doubt your father's earnestness in this proceeding, my
Emmeline, and you know him too well to believe that he
would for one moment refrain from acknowledging to Mr.
Myrvin the injustice he has done him, if indeed it prove im-
founded."
" And if his character be cleared from all stain ^if not a
whisper taint his name, and his true excellence be known to
all oh, may we not hope ? mother, mother, you will not be in-
exorable ; jot, will not^ oh, you will not condemn your child to
misery?" exclaimed Emmeline, in a tone of excitement,
strongly contrasting with the hopelessness which had breathed
in every word before ; and, bursting from her mother's detain-
ing hold, she suddenly knelt before her, and clasped her robe
in the wildness of her entreaty. " You will not refdse to
make us happy ; you will not withhold your consent, on which
alone depends the future happiness of your Emmeline. Yon,
who have been so good, so kind, so fond, oh, you will not sen-
tence me to woe. Mother, oh, speak to me. I care not how
many years I wait: say, only say, that if his character be
cleared of all they have dared to cast upon it, I shall one day
be his. Do not turn from me, mother. Oh, bid me not de-
spond ; and yet, and yet, because he is poor, oh, would you, can
you condemn me to despair ?"
" Emmeline, Emmeline, do not wring my hear|i by these
cruel words," replied Mrs. Hamilton, in a tone of such deep
distress, that Emmeline's imploring glance sunk before it, and
feeling there was mdeed no hope, her weakened frame shook
THE mother's REC01IPEN8E. 327
with the effort to restrain the bursting tears. ^ Do not ask me
to promise this ; do not give me the bitter pain of speaking
that which you feel at this moment will only add to your un-
happiness. You yourself, by the words you have repeated,
behold the utter impossibility of such a union. Why, why
then will you impose on me the painful task of repeating it ?
Could I consent to part with you to one who has not even a
settled home to give you, whose labors scarcely earn sufficient
to maintain himself? You know not all the evils of such a
union, my sweet girl. You are not fitted to cope with poverty
or care, to bear with that passionate irritability and restless-
ness wliich characterize young Myrvin, even when weightier
charges are removed. And could we feel ourselves justided
in exposing you to privations and sorrows, which our cooler
judgment may perceive, though naturally concealed from the
eye of affection ? Seldom, very seldom, are those marriages
happy in which such an extreme disparity exists, more partic-
ularly when, as in this case, the superiority is on the side of
the wife. I know this sounds like cold and worldly reasoning,
my Emmeline ; I know that this warm, fond heart revolts in
agony from every word, but do not, do not think me cruel,
love, and shrink from my embrace. How can I implore you,
for my sake, still to struggle with these sad feelings, to put
every effort into force to conquer this unhappy love? and yet
my duty bids me do so ; for, oh, I cannot part with you for
certain poverty and endless care. Speak to me, my own ; pro-
mise me that you will try and be contented with your father's
exertions to clear Arthur's character from all aspersions. You
will not ask for more ?"
There was a moment's pause. Mrs. Hamilton had be-
trayed in every word the real distress she suffered in thus
speaking, when the gentle pleading of her woman's heart would
have bade her soothe by any and every means her afflicted
child; Emmeline knew this, and even in that moment she
could not bear to feel her mother grieved, and she had been
the cause. Filial devotion, filial duty, for a few minutes strug-
gled painfully with the fervid passion which shook her inmost
soul ; but they conquered, and when she looked up, her tears
were checked, and only the deadly paleness of the cheek, the
quiveriog of the lip and eye, betrayed the deep emotion that
still prevailed within.
" Be not thus distressed for me, my dear, my too indulgent
mother"^ replied Emmeline, in a voice ih^t eXxw^^^^ \a \^
828 THE mother's ebcompense.
composed and firm, thougli bodily weakness defied her effork
^ I meant not to have grieved joo, and yet I have done sa
Oh, let not my foolish words give you pain, you whose lovi
would, I know, seek to spare me every suffering. My braift
feels confused and^buming now, and I know not what I say;
but it will pass away soon, and then I will try to be all yoa
can wisL You will not, I know you will not be so cruel as to
bid me wed another, and that knowledge is enough. Let but
his character be cleared, and I promise you I will use eveij
effort to be content. I knew that it was hopeless. Why, oh,
why did I bid your lips confirm it i" and again were those ach-
ing eyes and brow concealed on Mrs. Hamilton's shoulder,
while the despairing calmness of her voice sounded even more
acutely painful to her mother than the extreme suffering it
had expressed before.
" May God in His mercy bless you for this, my darling
girl i" escaped almost involuntarily from Mrs. Hamilton's lips,
as the sweet disposition of her child appeared to shine forth
brighter than ever in this complete surrender of her dearest
hopes to the will of her parents. " And oh, that He may
soothe and comfort you will mingle in your mother's prayers.
Tell me but one thing more, my own. Have you never heard
from this young man since you parted ?"
" He wrote to me, imploring me to use my influence with
St. Eval, to aid his obtaining the situation of tutor to Lord
Louis," answered Emmeline. " He did not allude to what had
passed between us ; his letter merely contained this entreaty,
as if he would thus prove to me that his intention to quit
England, and seek for calmness in the steady performance of
active duties, was not mere profession."
" Then your representations were the origin of Eugene's
interest in Arthur ?" said Mrs. Hamilton, inquiringly.
Emmeline answered in the aflirmative.
" And did you answer his letter V*
" No, mamma ; it was enough for me, and for him, too, his
wishes were granted. I would not indulge my secret wish to
do so. Neither you nor papa, nor indeed any of my fiEunily,
knew what had passed between us. Determined as I was to
struggle for the conquest of myself, I did not imagine in keep-
ing that secret I was acting undutifuUy ; but had I written to
him, or cherished, as my weak fondness bade me do, his his
why should I hide it his precious letter, my conscience would
have added its pangs to the sufferings already mine. While
THE mother's recompense. 329
that was free and light, I could still meet your look and smile,
and return your kiss, however I might feel my heart was
breaking ; but if I had so deceived you, so disregarded my
duty, as to enter into a correspondence with him, unknown to
you, oh, the comfort of your love would have flown from me
for efver."
^^And had my Emmeline indeed sufficient resolution to
destroy that letter ?" demanded Mrs. Hamilton, surprise ming-
ling with the admiration and esteem, which, though felt by a
mother for a child, might well be pardoned.
'' It was my duty, mother, and I did it," replied Emmeline,
with a simplicity that filled the eyes of her mother with tears.
*' Could I indeed forget those principles of integrity which,
from my earliest infancy, you have so carefully instilled?"
Mrs. Hamilton clasped her to her bosom, and imprinted
kisses of the fondest affection on her colorless and burning
forehead.
*'Well, indeed, are my cares repaid," she exclaimed.
* Oh, that my affection could soothe your sorrows as sweetly
as your gentle yet unwavering adherence to filial love and
duty have comforted me. Will you, for my sake, my own
love, continue these painful yet virtuous efforts at self-con-
quest, which you commenced merely from a sensed of duty?
Will you not glad your mother's heart, and let me have the
comfort of beholding you once more my own cheerful, happy
JBrnmeline ?"
"I will try," murmured Emmeline, struggling to smile;
lat oh, it was so unlike herself, so lustreless and faint, that
Mrs. Hamilton hastily turned away to hide emotion. The
dressing-bell at that instant sounded, and Emmeline looked
an entreaty to which her lips appeared unwilling to give
words. Her mother understood it.
" I will not ask you to join us at dinner, love. Do not
look so beseechingly, you will recover this agitation sooner
and better alone ; and so much confidence have you compel-
led me to feel in you," she added, trying to smile and speak
playfully, "that I wiU not ask you to make an exertion to
which you do not feel equal, even if you wish to be alone the
whole evening. I know my Emmeline's solitary moments will
not be spent in vain repinings."
" You taught me whom to seek for comfort and relief in
my childish sorrows, and I will not, I do not forget t\sa.^
lesson now, motberj" answered Emmeliixe, iahsiVX-^ ^^^^ ^'sl-
830 THE MOTHERS EECOBIPENSE.
pressively. " Let me be alone, indeed, a few honrs, and if I
^[
can but conquer this feeling of exhaustion, I will join yon at u
tea. I^ij^
ta
31
?r
j^
''ill-
Mrs. Hamilton silently embraced and left her, with a heart
swelling with fond emotion, as she thought on the gentle yet
decided character of her child, who from her infancy had
scarcely ever caused her pain, still less anxiety. Now indeed
solicitude was hers, for it was evident, alas i too evident, that
Emmeline's affections were unalterably engaged ; that thin
was not the mere fervor of the moment, a passion that would
pass away with the object, but one that Mrs. Hamilton felt
forebodingly would still continue to exist. Emmeline's was
not a disposition to throw off feelings such as these lightly
and easily. Often bad her mother inwardly trembled when
she thought of such a sentiment influencing her Emmeline,
and now the dreaded moment had come. How was she to act?
She could not consent to a union such as this would be. ^,-
Few mothers possessed less ambition than Mrs. Hamilton, few C.
were so indulgent, so devoted to her children, but to comply
with the poor girPs feverish wishes would be indeed but foUy.
Arthur had engaged himself to remain with Lord Louis Lyle
during the period of his residence in Germany, which was at
that time arranged to be three years. The mture to youDg
Myrvin must, she knew, be a blank ; years would in all proba-
bility elapse ere he could obtain an advantageous living and
means adequate to support a wife and family ; and would it
not be greater cruelty to bid Emmeline live on in lingering
and sickening hope, than at once to appeal to her reason, and
entreat her, by the affection she bore her parents, to achieye
this painful conquest of herself, as their consent could not be
given. They felt sad, indeed, thus to add to the suffering of
their afflicted child, yet it was the better way, for had they
promised to consent that, when he could support her, she
should be his own, it might indeed bring relief for the mo-
ment, but it would be but the commencement of a life of
misery ; her youth would fade away in that sickening anguish
of hope deferred, more bitter because more lingering than the
absolute infliction of brief though certain suffering. The
hearts of both parents grieved as they thought on all she had
endured, and for a brief period must still endure, but their
path of duty once made clear, they swerved not from it, how
ver it might pain themselves.
Mrs. Hamilton was ii^\.. "Ekmm^Ti^'^ ^^Utwy momenta
r
i-
THE mother's recompense. 831
were not spent in vain repinings : she struggled to compose
her thoughts, to cast the burden of her sorrows upon Him,
who in love and mercy had ordained them ; and she did so
with that pure, that simple, beautiful faith so peculiarly her
own, and a calm at length stole over her wearied spirit and
exhausted frame, soothing her, even to sleep, with the words
of prayer yet lingering on her lips. She awoke, after above
an hour's slumber, composed in mind, but still feverish in
body. Prayer had brought its blessed influence, but that
calm was more the quiescence proceeding from over-excite-
ment than natural feeling ; she felt it so, and dreaded the re-
turn of mental agony, as bodily sufferers await the periodical
paroxysms of pain. She resolved not to give way to the ex-
haustion she still felt. She rejoined the family at tea, pale
indeed, but perfectly composed, and even faintly smiling on
her father, who, hastily rising as she languidly and unexpected-
ly entered the room, carried her tenderly in his arms to a
couch, compelled her to lie down, and bending over her with
that soothing fondness which she so much loved, retained his
seat by her side all the evening, though participating and fre-
quently inducing her to join in the conversation on various
topics, which Mrs. Hamilton and Ellen seemed determined to
maintain. Once during that evening Emmeline had looked
up beseechingly in her father's face, and that touching, silent
eloquence told all she would have said, far more expressively
than works.
" Justice shall be done, my Emmeline," he replied, gently
drawing her to him, and speaking in a tone that was heard by
her alone. " I have been harsh, prejudiced, as cruelly unjust
as blindly imposed on by a comparative stranger ; but I
promise you, all shall be impartially considered. I have done
this unfortunate young man much wrong, for I should have re-
collected his father has many enemies, and this may be one of
them, seeking from revenge to injure him. I am grateful to
Arthur Myrvin for his forbearance towards myself, for his truly
noble conduct towards you right principles alone could have
dictated both. Mrs. Langford has confirmed all you said, and
informed me of many little circumstances which if, on a strict
examination, I find are founded on truth, Jefferies' character
and base designs will not be difficult to fathom. Myrvin's
character shall be cleared from suspicion, if it be in my power,
my dear girl ; rest as confident on my promise to tha.t ^^^^\.^%53^
X do AD youra, that, this accomplished, you vM o^sk W) nwwe-'!
T
as-
832 THE mother's recoupense.
Einmeline'a head rested on his shoulder ; he had markel
the relief, the gratitude her sweet face expressed during \m L
first words, hut as he oeased, her eyes were hid upon his bosom, f i^
and he could read no more. It was well for the steadiness of I
his determination that it was so, for the wretchedness impiinV
ed on every feature, every line of her countenance, at his coq-
eluding sentence, would have wrung his souL l
Though persuaded by her parents to retire early, Emme- \
line did not do so till the usual hour of separation after ^ .
prayers. To Ellen's silently-observing eye she appeared to -
shrink from being alone, and this thought haunted hei so . ^
incessantly, that, instead of composing herself to rest, she |.-/
softly traversed the short distance which separated their .
apartments, and entered her cousin's room. ^'^
Emmeline was alone, undressed, a large wrapping robe ' /^
flung carelessly over her night attire, but instead of reading, LI
which at that hour, and in that guise, she generally did, that .'
the word of God might be the last book on which she looked ;^
ere she sought her rest, she was leaning abstractedly over the ,^[
fire, seated on a low stool, her hands pressed on her temples, i
while the flickering flame cast a red and unnatural glare on , ~
those pale cheeks. Ellen advanced, but her cousin moved not
at her entrance, nor even when she knelt by her side, and
twined her arms around her.
" Will you not go to bed, dearest Emmeline ? it is so late,
and you have been so fearfully agitated to-day. Look up and
speak to me, my own dear cousin, or I shall fancy you are
hurt with me for permitting so many hours to pass without
coming near you, when I knew you were in suffering. Oh,
you know not how I longed to come, but my aunt said you
had entreated to be left alone. I stood for some minutes by
your door, but all was so still, I thought I should disturb
you did I enter. You do not accuse me of unkindness, Em-
meline ?"
Roused by her cousin's affectionate words and imploring
voice, Emmeline resisted not her embrace, but clung to her
in silence.
" You are ill, you are very ill, dearest, dearest Emmeline;
do not sit up thus ; for my sake, for your mother's sake, try
if sleep will not ease this aching head," exclaimed Ellen, muob
alarmed at the burning heat and quick throbbing of Emma*
line's forehead, as it rested on her shoulder.
" I cannot sleep, EWen, i^ ia xji-a^e^^ \.^i ^\x^\k^\ \\\ ^.1^4.
THE mother's recompense. 333
i if my eyes would never close again ; as if years had passed
^er my head since last night. I thought I could not be
ore miserable than I was when ^when we parted, and as I
ive been since ; but that was nothing ^nothing to this. I
ought I had not indulged in hope, for I knew that it was
in, but now, now I feel I must have done so, and it is its
iter, utter annihilation that bows me to the jarth. Oh, why
Q I 80 changed, I who was once so glad, so free, so full of
)pe and happiness, looking forward to days as bright as those
at fled ; and now what am I, and what is life ? a thing from
uich all happiness has flown, but clothed in darker shadows,
om its contrast with the past."
" Oh, do not say so, dearest," replied Ellen, affected almost
I tears, by the desparing tone in which these words were said.
The blessing, the comfort of your parents, your brothers, of
1 who know you, as you are, do not say your life will be
Lthout joy ; its most cherished flower, its most precious gem
ay have passed away, but others will spring up in time, to
[1 that yearning void. . You, whose presence ever brings
ith it such enjoyment to others, oh, you too will be blessed.
ou cannot long continue miserable, when you feel the power
ou have of making so many of your fellow-creatures happy.
'ou are ill, exhausted now, and therefore all around you looks
full of gloom and pain, yet when this shall have passed,
ou will not reject the comfort that remains. Have you not
n approving conscience to support you, the consciousness
lat you have proved your love and gratitude to the parents
ou so fondly love ? and think you He, who looks with an eye
f favor on the faintest effort of his creatures, made for His
ake, and in His spirit, will permit this strength to pass
naided ? No, dearest. He will assist and strengthen you ;
le cac taKe even from this bitter trial its sting."
" I know it, I feel it," murmured Emmeline, still clinging
o her cousin, as if she found comfort in her presence and her
rords. " I know well that this trial in itself is as nothing
ompared with those endured at this very hour by thousands
f my fellow-creatures, and knowing this makes me the more
nretched, for if I am thus repining and miserable, how dare 1
lope my prayers will be heard ?"
" Yet doubt it not, my own Emeline ; our Father in
leaven judge th not as man judgeth. Man might condemn
-his appearance of weakness in you now, but God mil tlQ^
br ho knows the individual strength of His CTet\.\jLT^^^cA.\:v
iz
!i
iL
834 THE mother's recompense.
love and mercy chasteneUi aocordinglj. He knoweih this isa jif;
severe trial for one, young and gentle as you are ; and with \ i^
your heart lifted up to Him, as I know it is, doubt not that |^
your prayers will be heard and this pang softened in His own ^^
time. I fear my words sound cold ; but oh, would that I
could comfort you, dearest," and tears stood trembling in El
len's eyes.
" And you do comfort me, Ellen ; oh, I do not feel so ntj
wretched with you near me as I do alone, though even joa
cannot guess this extent of suffering ; you know not what it
is to love, and yet to feel there is no hope ; no ^none," she re-
peated in a low murmuring tone, as if to convince herself that
tdiere was indeed none, as she had said ; and it was not strange
that thus engrossed, she marked not that a slight shuddei
passed through her cousin's frame at her last words ; that El-
len's cheek suddenly vied in its deadly paleness with her own,
that the tears dried up, as if frozen m those large, dark eyes,
which were fixed upon her with an expression she would, had j^
she seen it, have found difficult to understand ; that the pale tj
lip quivered for a few minutes, so as entirely to prevent her
speaking as she had intended.
" Go to bed, dearest Emmeline, indeed you must not sit up
longer," Ellen said at length, as she folded her arms fondly
round her and kissed her cheek. " When I was ill, you ever
wished to dictate to me," she continued, playfully, " and I was
always good and obedient ; will you not act up to your own
principle and obey me now ? think of your mother, dearest,
how anxious she will be if you are ill. I will not leave you
till you are asleep." .
" No, no, deal Ellen, I will not so abuse your kindness ; I
will go to bed. I have been wrong to sit up thus, when I pro-
mised mamma to do all I could to ^but, indeed, you must not
stay with me, Ellen. I feel so exhausted, I may perhaps sleep
sooner than I expect ; but even if I do not, you must not sit
up." _
" Never mind, my love, let me see you obedient, and I wiH
perhaps learn the same lesson," replied Ellen, playfully, though
her cheek retained its suddenly-acquired paleness. Emmeline
no longer resisted, and Ellen quickly had the relief of seeing
her in bed, and her eyes closed, as if in the hope of obtaining
sleep ; but after a few minutes they again opened, and seeing
Ellen watching her, she said
" You had better leave me, TSlleii, I sball not be able to sleep
N
IT
I
*teE hothbr's recompense. 835
if I think you are watching me, and losing your own night'0
rest. I am not ill, my dear cousin, I am only miserable, and
that will pass away perhaps for a short time again, as it did
this afternoon."
Ellen again kissed her and closed the curtains, obeying her
so far as to retire to her f com, but not to bed ; she was much
too uneasy to do so. Emmeline had been in very delicate
health for some months, and it appeared to her observant eyei
and mind, that now the cause for her exertion was removed,
by the discovery of her long-treasured secret, that health had
really given way, and she was actually ill in body as well as
mind. The burning heat of her forehead and hand, the quick
pulsation of her temples, had alarmed her as predicting fever ;
and Ellen, with that quiet resolution and prompt decision,
which now appeared to form such prominent traits in her char-
acter,' determined on returning to her cousin's room as soon as
she thought she had fallen asleep, and remain there during the
night ; that if she were restless, uneasy, or wakeful, she
might, by her presence, be some comfort, and if these feverish
symptoms continued, be in readiness to send for Mr. Maitland
at the first dawn of morning, without alarming her aunt.
" You are not formed for sorrow, my poor Emmeline," she
said internally, as she prepared herself for her night's visit by
assuming 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 ^s you believe me. I
know not what it is to love. / know not the pang of that ut-
ter 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 sym-
pathy, 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 oc^, woman's to bear ; and such must be mine, and
in silence, for even the sympathy of my dearest relative I dar^
not ask. Oh, wherefore do I feel it shame to lo'^^ otx^ ^o ^^^^
336 THE mother's KBOCMOPEaESXT
00 8iqerior, so holj ? because, because he does not love me,'
ssTe with a brotheiPs lore ; and I know he lores another."
The slight frame of the orphan shook beneath that inward
straggle ; there were times, in her honrs of solitnde, when
such thoughts would oome, spite tf every effort to expel them,
and there was only one way to obtam 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, remjuned absorbed in
prayer, ferrent and heartfelt, truly the ou^Kmrings of a o(m-
trite 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 ymoe as
she put her resolution into action, and returned to her oonsin.
Emmeline had awoke frtm her brief and troubled slumbers,
more restless and feverish than when she had first sought lier
couch ; and, suffering as she was frt)m that nervous and ux-
ious state peculiar to approaching fever, the poor girl no longer
resisted Ellen's evident determination, and clasping her himd
between her own, now burning with fever, continually thanked
her, in broken and feeble accents, for remaining with her, as-
suring her she did not feel so ill or as unhappy as she should
have done had she been alone. Anxious as she vras, Ellen
would not arouse her aunt, but at the first break of day she
softly entered the housekeeper's room, and succeeded in arons-
ing without alarming her, informed her of Emmeline's restless
state, and implored ner 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 aJert, 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 he^
self 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 favorite, 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. Emmelvne b ie^ex x^j^vdl^ ax^d painfully increased,
THE mother's RECOMFiaiSB. 887
ind for a week her parents hung over her couch almost da-
spairing 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 con-
sent and blessing to restore her to health ; and scarcely less
painful was it in her lucid hours to see her clasp her mother's
bands repeatedly, and murmur, in a voice almost inarticulate
from weakness
^' Do not be anxious or grieved for me, my own dear mam-
ma, 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 suffer-
ing, 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
nrhich 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 &eir 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 heavUy 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 con-
stant 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 strug-
gling for cheerfulness, and Mr. Maitland, to whom some neces-
sary 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 y^^^^
Myrvin's favor during her sickness, but on. ^leaxm^ "^x.^tSi^
f5
338 THE mother's reooupensb.
land's report, her parents both felt assured it was for tbA
information she pined, and therefore determined on instantly
giving her relief.
It was with the utmost tenderness and caution Mr. Hamil-
ton alluded to the subject, and seating himself by her couch,
playfully asked her if she would promise him to get weU tiie
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 yw'
lently prejudiced in Arthur's favor, as they had formerly beea
against him; provoked also with themselves for their blind
folly in receiving and encouraging the idle reports propagated
against him, not pne of which they now perceived were sufi'
ciently well founded to stand before an impartial statement
and accurate examination.
Had her parents doubted what had weighed on EmmeHne'B
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 ci^
cumstances 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 hy
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 pe^
ceive, his arts had worked on the old woman, Mary's grand-
mother, 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 villany 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
remorse or shame, hoping, by so doing, effectually to serve hii
employers, effect the diagtaa^ of Mytvin.^ and completely
THE mother's recompense. dB9
0ereen Mmself. 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 vil-
lage, 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 men-
tioned 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 *
falre. 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 misdemeanors with which he had been
charged.
Mr. Howard, who was present, seconded his words, ac
knowledging 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 ha.a
done him.
t40 THB MOTHE&'S tLBCOMPENSE.
Nothing is more sadden and oomplete than changes in
popular feeling. The shameful act of Jefferies, in casting on
the innocent the stigma of shame and crime which was hia
own, was quite enough for the honest and simple yillagers.
At once they condemned themselves (which perhaps they
might not have been quite so ready to do, had not Mr. Hamil-
ton and their rector shown them the example), and not only
defended and completely exculpated Myrvin, but in an in-
credibly short space of time, so many anecdotes of the young
man's performance of his duty were collected, that hsui 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 en-
during, 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 condnct
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 grati-
tude 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 asso
ciate so intimately with his daughters, not the fault of the suf-
ferer. 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 disposi-
tion 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 ;
yen while he knew the b.oi^ileiawiea^ Qf his love^he felt for the
THE mother's recompense. 34 f
anguish which his sytnpathj told him Arthur must endure.
After more deliberation and thought than he could have be*
lieved 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 as-
surances that Arthur's character should be cleared. Pain-
fully 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 Myrvtn, ^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 be-
comes his peremptory duty, however pride may rebel, to do all in
his power to atone for it by an honorable reparation, both in word
and deed, towards him he may have injured. Such, my young
friend, is at present our relative positions, and I am at a loss to
know how best to express my sense of your honorable conduct
and my own injustice, which occasioned a 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 con-
vinced 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 endeavor hencefor-
ward to regard those as your sincere friends whom you have
unhappily had too much reason to believe otherwise.
" For myself, my dear Myrvinj 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 difier-
ent positions we occupy in life, the wide distance which cir-
cumstances place between us, will, I feel sure, prevent all mis-
conception on your part as to my meaning, and prevent your
dravring from my friendly words conclusiona op^ov\.fc \iO -^^Xk'V
intend; therefore I do not hesitate to avo^ t^A.\ liQ"^ w^3 ^h-
342 THE mother's recompense.
teem, but from my heart I thank you, Myrvin, for your indnt
gence of those honorable feelings, that perfect integrity which
bade you resign your curacy and depart from Oakwood. I did
you wrong, great wrong ; words can ]^t faintly compensate in-
i'ury^ though words have been the weapon by which that injury
las been inflicted, yet I feel confident you will not retain dis.
pleasure, 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 Mal-
vern, I rejoice to find, is your stanch friend, and nothing shall
be wanting on my part to render that friendship as permanent
as advantageous. Mrs. Hamilton begs me to infc^rm 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 unwa-
vering 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 respect 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 Emm^
line as she ceased to read. She returned the paper to her
father in that same silence, and turning from his glanoe,
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 re-
moved."
" Oh, no, no," she replied, after a severe struggle for com-
posure ; " 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 arnas,
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
dotation ; pale she was indeed, and her eye had lost its bright-
ueas^ but that was too c\]LBioixkax^ uor^ \^ \^ ^^^m^tkQ effect
THE mother's reoohfensb. 843
of excited emotion, and no farther 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
sai/sfy 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 ap*
pearance of effort in the avoidance, but still it was not spoken ;
not even by Percy and Herbert, nor by Caroline cr her hus-
band. 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 favorite 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, express-
ing 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 ex-
cited spirit would sink back in despondency and gloom, in-
creased 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
Bqaal 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 favor ; and agony as it was, he ac-
knowledged she had acted wisely. There was too much devo-
tedness 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 ho recalled
their parting interview, and felt she had not wavered from the
path she had pointed out, his own energies, iiot,^vt\i.\a.\i^i5i5\%
that still liDgeriDg, still acute suffering, ^eie xoMa^^ -wSJJosa.
344 THE mother's reoompensb.
him, and he resolved he would obey her. She should see hei
appeal had not been made in yain ; she should never blush for
the man she had honored with her love ; he would endeavor 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 assidn-
ously to his pupil, allowing himself scarcely any time for soli-
tary thought, that not the keenest ob&erver would have sos*
pected 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 elastio
wings, and carried him beyond himself, had not that letter in
thie 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 Emme-
line, 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 opposi-
tion, 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 neighboring poor, were, if pos*
sible, more actively and perseveringly performed than they
b&d erer been before. l^o\ on^ oi\k&x iQits&&xlv^^xV^ employ
THE mother's RECOlfPENSE. 345
ments was thrown aside. The complete unselfishness of her
natnre 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 an-
guish, 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 pain-
fully 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 let-
ters 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 unsul-
lied by a cloud ; anticipation was so bright, it seemed a fore-
taste of that glorious heaven, the goal to which he and his
Marj' looked the home they sought together.
Percy had also obtained honorable distinction at Oxford ;
his active spirit would not have permitted him to remain quiet
in college so long, had he not determined to see his brother
ordained ere he commenced the grand tour, to which he looked
with much zest, as the completion to his education, and render
him, if he turned it to advantage, in all respects fitted to serve
his country nobly in her senate, the point to which he had
looked, from the first hour he was capable of thought, with an
ardor which increased as that long-desired time approached.
The disgraceful expulsion of Cecil Grahame from Cam-
bridge opened afresh that wound in his father's heart which
Annie had first infiicted, but which the conduct of Lilla had
succeeded in soothing sufficiently to bid her hope it would in
time be healed. The ill-directed young man Yia^ ^cj^^tA^x*^^
away the whole of bis mother's fortune, and "be\iu's^ m ^ \af
15*
346 THE mother's becohfenss.
ner that rendered expulsion inevitable. He chose to joia iha
army, and, with a painfully foreboding heart, his father pro-
cured him a commission in a regiment bound for Ireland,
hoping he would be exposed to fewer temptations there thsn
did he remain in England.
Lady Helen, as her health continued to decline, felt oon*
science becoming more and more upbraiding ; its voice would
not be stilled. She had known her duty as a mother; she
had seen it beautifully portrayed before her in Mrs. Hamilton,
but she had neglected its performance, and her chastisement
she felt had come. Annie's conduct she had borne, she had
forgiven her, scarcely appearing conscious of the danger her
daughter had escaped ; but Cecil was her darling, and his dis-
grace came upon her as a thunderbolt, drawing the veil from
her eyes, with startling and bewildering light. She had con-
cealed his childish faults, she had petted him in every whim,
encouraged him in every folly in his youth ; to hide his faults
from a severe but not too harsh a judge, she had lowered herself
in the eyes of her husband, and achieved no good. Cecil was
expelled, disgracefully expelled, and the wretched mother, as
she contrasted his college life with that of the young Hamil-
tons, felt she had been the cause ; she had led him on by the
flowery paths of indulgence to shame and ruin. He came not
near her ; he joined his regiment, and loft England, without
bidding her farewell, and she felt she should never see him
more. From that hour she sunk ; disease increased, and
though she still lingered, and months passed, and there was
no change for the worse, yet still both Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton
felt that death was written on her brow, that, however he
might loiter on his way, his destined victim would never again
feel the blessedness of health ; and all their efforts were now
directed in soothing the affliction of Grahame, and lead him to
console by tenderness the remaining period of his unhappy
wife's existence. They imparted not to him their fears, but
they rested not till their desire was obtained, and Lady Helen
could feel she was not only forgiven but still beloved, and
would be sincerely mourned, both by her husband and Lilla,
in whom she had allowed herself at one time to be deceived.
Having now brought the affairs of Oakwood, and all inti-
mately connected with it, to a point, from which no subject of
interest took place for above a year, at that period we resume
Pur narrative.
I
THE mother's BEC02a*fiNSE. 347
CHAPTER XVI.
It was a ^ne summer morning. The windows of a pretty little
sitting-room were thrown wide open, and the light breeze,
loaded with the perfume of a thousand flowers, played refresh-
ingly on the pale cheek of our young friend Emmeline, who,
reclining on a sofa, looked forth on beautiful nature with min-
gled sadness and delight. More than a year had elapsed since
we last beheld her, and she was changed, painfully changed.
She still retained her childish expression of countenance,
which ever made her appear younger than in reality she was,
but its ever-varying light, its beautiful glow, were gone ; yet
she complained not. The smile ever rested on hqr lips in the
presence of her parents ; her voice was ever joyous, and no
sigh, no repining word,' betrayed the breaking heart within.
She recognized with a full and grateful heart the blessings
still surroundiDg her, and struggled long and painfully to be
content ; but that fond yearning would not be stilled, that
deep love no effort could dispel. Still there were times when
those who had never known her in former years would have
pronounced her well, quite well in health: and Emmeline
would smile when such remarks reached her, and wonder if
her parents were so deceived. Sometimes she thought they
were, for the name of Arthur Myrvin was no longer suppressed
before her. She heard of him, of his devotion to his pupil, of
the undeviating integrity and steadiness which characterized
him, and promised fair to lead Lord Louis in the same bright
paths ; she had heard of Arthur's devoted care of his pupil
during a long and dangerous illness ; that he, under Divine
goodness, had been the instrument of saving the youth's life,
and restoring him to health ; and if she permitted no sign to
betray the deep, absorbing interest she felt, if her parents ima-
gined ho was forgotten, they knew not the throbbings of her
heart.
She was conversing this morning with Mrs. Cameron, who
had learned to love Emmeline dearly ; from being very often
at Oakwood, she and her daughters were looked on by all Mr.
Hamilton's children as part of the family.
" Is not Flora delighted at the idea of again seeing her
brother ?" Emmeline asked, in answer to Mrs. Cameron's in-
formation that Walter was returning with his TegLmftxv.t tA
England^ and in a very few weeks would \e ou^^ Tasst^ ^jl \?
348 THE mother's recompsnss.
mate of her home. She answered oheerfdllj in the affiimir
tive, and EmmeUne again inquired ^ Was Captain Cameron
at all acquainted with Cecil Grahame? Did he know the
cause of his haying been so disgracefully cashiered ?"
' Their regiments were quartered in such different parts
of Ireland," replied Mrs. Cameron, " that I belieye they only
met on one occasion, and then Walter was glad to wiliidraw
from the society of the dissolute young men by whom Lieu-
tenant Grahame was always surrounded. The cause of his
disgrace appears enveloped in mystery. Walter certainlj
alluded to it, but so yaguely, that I did not like to ask further
particulars. I dreaded the effect it would !aaye cq Mr. Gra*
name, but little imagined poor Lady Helen would haye sunk
beneath it."
" I belieye few know how she doted on that boy. It was
misguided, but still it was loye that caused her to ruin him as
she did in his childhood. From the hour he was expelled from
Cambridge, she neyer held up her head ; it was so cruelly un-
grateful of him to set off for Ireland without once seeking her;
and this last stroke was too much for her to bear. She still
hoped, despite her better judgment, that he would in the end
distinguish himself, and she could not meet the disappoint
ment."
" Did she long suryiye the intelligence ?"
"Scarcely four-and-twenty hours. Mr. Grahame, feeling
unable to command himself, requested mamma and Lilla to
impart to her the distressing information, which they did most
tenderly ; but their caution was entirely fruitless. Her con-
stant inquiry was relatiye to his present situation, and when
she heard tnat he had not been seen since he was cashiered
she sunk into a state of insensibility from which she neyer
recoyered."
" And Mr. Grahame ?"
" The shock rendered him almost distracted, for it was sc
sudden. Lady Helen had become so altered lately, that she
was deyotedly loyed both by her husband and child ; she had
been so long ailing, that both Lilla and her father fondly hoped
and belieyed she would be spared to them still some years longer,
though she might neyer entirely recoyer her health. Mr.
Grahame's feelings are stronger than most people imagine, but
his misfortunes haye bowed him down eyen more than I could
haye belieyed possible."
^' They appeared ao umle^ %si^ Vv^YSt^^^^ ^ io not won
THE MOTHSa's RECOMPENSE. 349
der at it," observed Mrs. Cameron. " I have seldom seen such
devotedness as Lady Helen reoeiyed from both her hnsband
and child ; she always welcomed their affectionate attentions
as if she felt herself undeserving of them. I was interested
in her, she bore her sufferings so meekly."
" And poor Lilla, how is she ?"
' She suffers much, but behaves admirably. Ellen says
her self-control is extraordinary, when we remember sue
was one of those beings who could never conceal a single feel-
ing. Her poor father seems to look to her now as his sole
blessing and support; she soothes his sorrow so quietly, so
tenderly, and ever tries to prevent his thoughts dwelling on
the stigma which Cecil's disgraceful conduct has cast upon his
name. I trust time will restore that calm tranmiillity which
he has enjoyed the last year, but I must own I fear it. If
this moody irritability continue, Lilla will have much to
bear, but she will do her duty, and that will bring its own
reward."
A faint and scarcely audible sigh escaped from Emmeline
as she spoke. Mrs. Cfameron, without noticing, asked when
she expected her brothers to return home from London.
" Herbert takes orders next week, and they return together
very soon afterwards. He is, as you will believe, delighted at
the near approach of an event which has been his guiding star
since his boyhood. I never saw him looking so well or so
happy, and Percy shares his joy, and we shall have him near
us, I am happy to say, for he will be the minister of our own
dear parish, which, by Mr. Howard's promotion, will be vacant
about the time he will require it. Mr. Howard says he thinks
he should have turned rebel, and refused the presentation of
a valuable living, with the title of archdeacon attached to his
name, if any one but Herbert were to succeed him here ; but as
he leaves his flock under his care, he will not refuse the blessings
offered him. He does not go very far from us ; if he had I
should have been so very sorry, that even my brother's suc-
ceeding him would not have satisfied me."
There was a short pause, which was broken by Emmeline
saying
" Speaking about Mr. Howard and Herbert has made me
forget Percy, dear fellow. You know how he has raved about
the grand tour he is going to make, all the curiosities he is to
see and bring home for me, even to the dome of ^^. "C^^&V^ ^^
the crater of Vesuvius, if I wish to see t\ieiii. ^^\ia&Va5&s^
S50 THE mothee's recompense.
my provoking remarks in good part, and sets off with Garolint
and her husband in July. My sister's health has been so deli*
cate the last three months, that she is advised to go to Geneva.
Her little boy grows such a darling, I shall miss him almost aa
much as his mother."
" Do you stay with them at Castle Terryn before they go?"
'^ I do not think I shall, for at present I seem to dislike the
idea of leaving home. They come to us, I believe, a few weeks
hence, in order that we may be all together, which we could not
very well be at St. Eval's."
" Has Lord St. Eval quite lost all anxiety on his brother's
account ? The physicians said they could never have brought
him through it, had it not been for Mr. Myrvin's prudent and
unceasing care."
" Yes ; every letter from Castle Malvern confirms the
report ; all anxiety has been over some weeks now j indeed,
before the Marquis reached Hanover, where he received
from his son's own lips an 'affecting and animated account of his
own imprudence, and Mr. Myrvin's heroic as well as prudent
conduct."
" Was there an accident, then 1 I thought it was from the
fever then raging in the town."
" Lord Louis had determined, against his tutor's consent,
to join a party of very gay young men, who wished to leave
Hanover for a time and make an excursion to the sea-shore.
Mr. Myrvin, who did not quite approve of some of the young
gentlemen who were to join the party, remonstrated, but in
vain. Lord Louis was obstinate, and Mr. Myrvin, finding all
his efforts fruitless, accompanied his pupil, very much to the
annoyance of the whole party, who determined to render his
sojourn with them so distasteful, that he would quickly with-
draw himself Lord Louis, led on by evil companions, turned
against his tutor, who, however, adhered to his duty unshrink-
ingly. A mailing match was resolved on, and, notwithstanding
the predictions of Mr. Myrvin, that a violent storm was coming
on and likely to burst over them before half their day's sport
was completed, they set off, taunting him with being afraid of
the water. They declared there was no room for him in their
boats, and pushed off without him. He followed them closely,
and fortunate was it that he did so. The storm burst with
fury ; the little vessels were most of them shattered to pieceii,
and many of the misguided and unfortunate young men fell
vietdma to their wilful foWy . ^om^^ ^\iQ ^^^t^ %q^^ ^^Immers,
THE mother's IIECOICPENSE. 351
escaped, but Lord Louis had struck his head against a projecting
rock, and, stunned and senseless, must have sunk, had not Mr.
filyrvin been mercifully permitted to bear him to the shore in
safety. He was extremely ill, but in a few weeks recovered
sufficiently to return to Hanover, unconscious, as was Mr. Myr-
vin, of the virulent fever then raging there. Already in deli-
cate health, he was almost instantly attacked by the disease, in
its most idarming and contagious form ; the servants fled in
t^ror from the house ; only one, his own valet, an Englishman,
remained near him. But Mr. Myrvin never left him ; day and
night he attended, soothed, and relieved him. His efforts
were, happily, rewarded : Lord Louis lived, and his preceptor
escaped all infection. The Marquis and his son have both
written of Mr. Myrvin in the most gratifying terms ; and the
Marchioness told mamma she could never in any way repay
the debt of gratitude she owed him."
Mrs. Cameron was much interested in Emmeline's narra-
tive, and asked if they were not soon to return to Eng-
land.
" They may have already arrived," replied Emmeline.
" Florence wrote me a fortnight ago she was counting the days
till their return. I sent a letter, apparently from her, this
morning to Woodlands for Ellen, as I am not quite sure
whether she will return home this evening or not, and perhaps
that contains the intelligence. His mother and sisters will be
overjoyed to have him once more with them, after the dangers
he has passed."
" Has Mr. Myrvin any family ?"
" Only his father, a truly good, kind old man, the rector of
Llangwillan."
"And are you not desirous to see this admirable young
man, this devoted preceptor, my dear Emmeline?" said
Mrs. Cameron, smiling. " Will he not be an excellent hero of
romance ?"
Emmeline answered, that as she already knew him, she
could not throw around him the halo of imagination ; she was
content to admire his character as it was, without decking him
in other charms. Their further conversation turned upon other
and indifferent subjects till Mrs. Cameron departed.
The death of Lady Helen and the misconduct of her son
had cast such deep gloom over Woodlands, that not only Em-
meline, but both Mr. and Mrs. Hamiltoii ieivx^^ ^t^^^sa
would never rouse bimaelf from the mocA^ ;5j^^\Iti^ m\.Q ^s^y^
352 THE mother's recompensb.
he had fallen. He felt disgrace had fallen on his name, a staia
never to be erased ; that all men would shun the father of one
80 publiolj dishonored. The extent of Cecil's conduct was
scarcely known even to his father ; but that he had used dis-
honest measures at the gambling table to discharge enormooB
debts ; that he had behaved insolently to his superior officers ;
that it required great interest to prevent a much harsher sen-
tence than had been his punishment ^these facts were known
all over England. The previously unsullied name of Grahame
was now synonymous with infamy ; and it was even supposed
Cecil would never show his face in England again. Mr. G-ra-
hame shrunk in misery from encountering the glance even
of his friends ; he felt as if he too shared the disgrace of his
son, he and his young, his beautiful Lilla ; she whom he had
anticipated, with so much pleasure, introducing among his
friends, she was doomed to share with him the solitude, which
he declared was the only fit abode of ignominy ; and even to
her his manner was wayward and uncertain at times almost
painfully fond, at others equally stern and harsh. Lilians char-
acter was changed ; she struggled to bear with him, unrepin-
ingly, dutifully, conscious that the eye of her Grod was upon
her, however her father might appear insensible to her affection.
Even the society of Mr. Howard and Mr. Hamilton was
irksome ; their efforts to rouse and cheer him were unavailing,
and they could only hope time would achieve that for which
friendship was inadequate.
Herbert's engagement with Mary Greville still remained
untold, but he- looked forward to discovering his long treasured
secret, when he beheld himself indeed an ordained minister of
God ; Percy perhaps was in his confidence, but neither his sis-
ters nor Ellen. Mary's letters were full of comfort to him;
such pure and beautiful affection breathed in every line, that
even the sadnesi which the few last unconsciously betrayed did
not alarm him. He accounted for it by her reluctance to quit
her beautiful retreat in the Swiss mountains for the confusion
and heat of Paris, where she now resided. A few months pre-
viously they had been visited in their retreat by her father ;
scarcely more surprised were they at his appearance than at
his manner, which was kinder and more indulgent than Mary
had ever remembered it. For a short time Mrs. Greville in-
dulged hopes, that their long separation had effected a change
in her husband, and that they should at length be happy to*
getber.
THE MOTHmi's RECOMPENSE. 3&a
He did not know much about Alfred, he said, except that
he was well, and travelling with some friends in different parts
of the Continent.
Mrs. Greyille tried to be satisfied, and her cheering hopes
did not desert her even when her husband expressed a wish
that she would reside with him at Paris. The wish rather
confirmed them, as it evinced that he was no longer indifferent
to her own and his child's society. With joyful alacrity she
consented, but in vain endeavored to banish from Mary's mind
the foreboding fears that appeared to have filled it, from the
hour it was settled they were to leave Monte Eosa. In vain
her mother affectionately represented how much nearer she
would be to Herbert ; nothing could remove, though she strove
to conquer, this seemingly uncalled-for and indefinable despon-
dency.
" I confess my weakness," she wrote to her betrothed, " but
I had so often pictured remaining at Monte Eosa till you came
for me, as you had promised, so often pictured to myself the
delight of showing you my favorite haunts, ere we left them
together for still dearer England, that I cannot b^ar to find
these visions dispelled without pain. I know you will tell me
I ought to be thankful for this great and happy cl^ange in my
father, and bear every privation for the chance of binding him
to us for ever. Do not reprove me, dear Herbert, but there is
that about my father that bids me tremble still, aqd whispers
the calm is not lasting ; in vain I strive against it but a voice
tells me, in thus leaving Monte Eosa, peace lingers in its beau-
tiful shades, and woe's dark shadow stands threatening before
me."
Herbert longed to go to her, and thus disperse all these
foreboding fears, but that pleasure the near approach of his
ordination prevented ; but fondly he looked forward with un-
alloyed hope in a few months to seek his Mary, apd at once
banish all indefinable sorrow by making her his own. Not a
doubt entered his mind of Mr. Greville's consent, when he
should in person demand it, and he was eager to dot so while
this strangely indulgent humor continued.
The first few months of her residence in Paris were fraught
with happiness for Mrs. Greville. Her husband's mani^r did
not change. They mingled in society, and the admiration
Mary's quiet beauty excited afforded the greatest pleasure to
her mother, and even appeared to inspire bet iat\\t -wvXJsv ^KstsA
pride. To the poor giri herself it was irkBOTft.k.Ti^^^*^^\
354 THE mother's recompense.
ont she tried to conyince herself these feelings were wrong, ml
checked them even in her letters to Herbert.
Ellen returned from Woodlands, where she had been stay-
ing with Lilla, whose affection for her continued unabated ; for
she found in her society and sympathy much comfort since her
mother's death. There was little change visible in Ellen.
Her health was established, her pensive beauty unimpaired.
Still was she the meek, unassuming, gentle girl she had long
been ; still to the eye of strangers somewhat cold and indifferent
Her inward self was becoming every year more strengthened ;
she had resolved to use every effort to suffer^ without the
slightest portion of bitterness impregnating her sentiments to-
wards her fellow-creatures, or the world in general Her lot
she knew was to bear ; her duty she^efe was to conceal,
Ellen, on her return home, gave her cousin the letter
which Emmeline had mentioned as having forwarded to her
that morning. It was fraught with interest, and the anxious
eye of Mrs. Hamilton moved not from her daughter's coun-
tenance as she read. Still was it so calm that even she was
puzzled ; and again the thought, ^' Is it for him " she is thus
drooping, fading like a flower before me? is it, indeed, the
struggle between love and duty which has made her tims?
crossed her mind, as it had often, very often done before, and
brought with it renewed perplexity.
Lady Florence had written in the highest spirits, announc-
ing the return of her father. Lord Louis, and his tutor ; that
her brother was looking quite well and strong, and was the
same dear, merry, mischievous boy as ever ; delighted to be in
England, abusing all the Germans, and professing and dis-
playing the most extreme fondness for Mr. Myrvin.
" He speaks of Mr. Myrvin in terms that brings tears to
my eyes, tears of which, my dear Ellen, I am not at all
ashamed. The only drawback to the life of a soldier, which my
brother has now positively resolved on, in spite of all our per
suasions, exists, he says, in the consequent separation from
Mr. Myrvin, and he almost wishes to go to Cambridge, to
chain him to his side ; but for Mr. Myrvin's sake, I am glad
this will not be. He is looking ill, very ill, quite different to
the Arthur Myrvin we knew at Oakwood ; a change has come
over him which I cannot describe, and even to myself can
scarcely define. He is much more polished in his mannefi
but it is tinged with such deep melancholy, or intense thought,
I really do not know yrbiok i^ \B) i)(^\i \k& v^"^^*^^ \&a2Ci^ ^eaii
THE mother's recompense. 355
older than when he left England. My father has at length
prevailed on him to resign all idea of again seeking the arduous
charge of tutor, but, with that honest pride which I so much
admire and esteem, he has refused all papa's offers of advance-
ment, only consenting to accept the living on Eugene's estate,
when Louis shall require his services no longer. I trust the
healthy air of Cornwall and the quiet of his parish will restore
him to health, for the care which preserved that of Louis has,
I fear, ruined his own. He goes to London to-morrow, to see
Herbert ; the society of your cousins cannot fail to do him
good. Louis joins the army in a few months, and then Mr.
Myrvin will take possession of his living ; but you will in all
probability see them before, as Lord and Lady St. Eval have
sent a pressing invitation for them to come down to Castle
Terryn, and as soon as Mr. Myrvin returns from London,
Louis intends doing so. I want to hear Herbert's opinion of
his friend, as my dismal fancies concerning him may, after all,
be only a woman's fancy, yet looking ill he decidedly is."
So wrte Lady Florence, and very soon Herbert and
Percy's letters home confirmed all she had said. Either the
air of Germany had not been congenial, or some other cause
had so changed his outward appearance and tinged his man-
ner, that Herbert could not look on him without pain ; but
the restless irritation, the haughty indifference which had been
his before he left Oakwood, no longer existed. There was a
quiet dignity about him that prevented all intrusive sympathy,
a mild, steady lustre in his dark-gray eye, which so clearly
said conscience was at peace, that Herbert instinctively felt
the bonds of friendship stronger than they had ever been be-
fore ; he was no longer anxious, for he felt assured the errors
of Arthur's former life were conquered, and he wrote to his
father concerning his friend with all his native eloquence.
Emmeline made no observation ; her young soul was
absorbed in an intense feeling of thanksgiving, that her pray-
ers had been heard. Strength had been granted him, and he
had done his duty ; he was esteemed, beloved ; his character
was pure and bright ; and if the gulf between them remained
impassable, should she murmur, when all for which she had
prayed had been vouchsafed her ? But a sterner call of obe-
dience appeared about to hover over her, from which her young
spirit shrunk back appalled.
Herbert's anxious wishes were accomp\ia\i^^\ VJaet^'^^^ \ia
longer Any barrier to bia earnest prayers to "b^Qoioft b ^srjt^^^qX
356 TBB mothek's kecokpensb.
of his Gt)d, and of service to his fellow-creatures. The sii
years in which he had labored unceasingly, untiringly, to pre*
pare himself for the life which from his boyhood he had chosen,
now appeared but as a passing dream, and as he knelt before
the venerable bishop, his feelings became almost overpowering.
Tears rose in his eyes, and he drooped his head upon his hands
to conceal them. He felt this was no common life on which he
entered, no mere profession, in which he would be at liberty to
think and act as he pleased. Herbert felt that he had vowed
himself to do the work of God ; that in it comprised the good
of his fellow-creatures, the stern conquest of his own rebellious
will ; that his actions, not his language only, should uphold the
glory of his Maker.
The return of Percy and Herbert brought pleasure to
Oakwood, and a week or two afterwards Lord and Lady Si
Eval, with their little boy, arrived, imparting additional happi-
ness. Emmeline was surprised at seeing them, for she thought
Lord Louis and his preceptor were expected at Castle Terryn.
Lord St. Eval often spoke of his brother, and alluded to Myr-
vin, and even hinted his thanks to Emmeline for her exertions
in the latter's favor, when the Marquis was hesitating whether
or not to intrust him with the charge of his son ; but on such
matters he never spoke openly, yet not so guardedly as to be-
tray to Emmeline he was acquainted with her secret.
Mr. Hamilton had many private conversations both with
the young Earl and his son Herbert, but what the subject was
which so engrossed him, only Mrs. Hamilton knew.
The return of Edward, too, from a short cruise, gave addi-
tional spirit to Oakwood. The young sailor had rapidly run
through the grades of lieutenant, and now stood the first on
the line ; his character both as a sailor and a man was con-
firmed. He was as deservedly respected by his messmates as
beloved by his family, and to Ellen he was indeed dear. The
most perfect confidence existed between this a&ectionate bro-
ther and sister, except on one point, and on that even to Edward
she could not speak ; but he had not one thought, one feeling
which he concealed from her, he sought no other friend.
Scarcely could Mrs. Cameron and her son Walter recognise in
this amiable young man the headstrong, fiery, overbearing lad
they had known in India.
The little party at Oakwood had all either walked or ridden
out, and Mrs. Hamilton alone remained at home. She stood
by the side of EmmeUiie) N\io \k{& ^^^^.^ "^AKy^&oSi!):^ ad
IBB MOTHER'S RECOMPEIfbB, 357
iweetlj ; a smile, bright and beautifal as of other days, played
round her lips. The mother reflected on the words of Mr.
Maitland, who had assured her, the remedy he proposed would
be suecessful. ^^ Make her happy, remove this weighty load
which weighs upon her heart, and she will live to be the bless-
ing she has ever been to all who love her."
Tears of mingled feeling rose to the eyes of Mrs. Hamilton
as she watched her child. Emmeline's lips moved. '^ Arthur,
dear Arthur," she murmured, a faint flush rising to her cheek,
and the smile heightened in its brilliancy ; a few minutes, and
her eyes unclosed ; a shade of disappointment passed over her
features, a faint sigh struggled to escape, but it was checked,
for she met her mother's fond glance, and smiled.
" Why are you not gone out, dearest mother, this lovely
evening ? Why stay with such a dull companion as I am ?
Percy and Edward could offer so many more attractions, and
I am sure it is not with their good-will you are here."
^' Would my Emmeline refuse me the sweet pleasure of
watching her, tending her 7 Believe me, dearest, without you
at my side, the park and this lovely evening would lose half
their attractions."
" Do not say so, my own mother, I am not ill, only lazy,
and that you were not wont to encourage ; my eyes would close,
spite of all my efforts. But why should you have the uninter-
esting task of watching my slumbers ?"
'^ Because, dearest, I will not abandon my office, till it is
claimed as the right of another. It will soon be, my Emme-
line ; but do not send me from your side till then."
" The light of another, dearest mother ? whose right will it
ever be but yours ? who can ever be to me the tender nurse
that you have been ? "
" One who will vow to love, protect, and cherish you ; one
who loves you, my own Emmeline, and longs to claim you as
his own, and restore, by his aflection, the health and spirits you
have lost ; one who has the consent and blessing of your father
and myself, and waits but for yours."
Emmeline started from her recumbent posture.
" Oh, send me not from you, mother, my own mother ! Do
not, oh, do not compel me to marry !" she exclaimed, in a tone
of agony. " The affection of a husband restore my health I
oh, no, no, no, it would break my heart at once, and you would
send me from you but to die. Mother, oh, let moi ^"a.-^ '^\JOsx
you. Do not let my father command my obe^ieu^^ \ Va. ^^r^
358 THE mother's RfiCOMFEHSE.
thing else I will obey but in this," She hid her face in Mrs
Hamilton's bosom, and wept bitterly.
^ We will command nothing that can make yon miserable,
my own " replied her mother, soothingly. " But you will lo?e
him, my Emmeline, you will love him as he loves yoa ; his
fond affection cannot fail to make you happy. You will learn
to know him ^to value his noble virtues, his honorable princi-
ples. As his wife, new pleasures, new duties, will be around
you. Health will return, and I shall see my Emmelinc onoe
more as she was ^my own happy child."
'' And has it indeed gone so far that both you and my father
have consented, and I must disobey and displease my parentS)
or be miserable for life ?"
^ My child," said Mr& Hamilton, so solemnly, that Emme-
line involuntarily checked her tears, ^ my child, you shall nerer
marry the husband we have chosen for you, unless you can love
and be happy with him ; sacredly and irrevocably I promise
this. You shall not sacrifice yourself for a doubtful duty. I^
when you have seen and known him, your wishes still are con-
trary to ours, we will not demand your obedience. If yov
still prefer your mother's home, never, never shall you go from
me. Be comforted, my Emmeline, do not weep thus. Will
you not trust me ? If you cannot love, you shall not marry."
^ But, my father~-oh, mamma, will he too promise me
this ?
" Yes, love ; doubt him not," and a smile so cheenng, so
happy, was round Mrs. Hamilton's lips as she spoke, that Em-
meline felt unconsciously relieved. " We only wish our Em-
meline's consent to an introduction to this estimable young
man, who has so long and so faithfully loved her, and if still
she is inexorable we must submit. Could I send you firom me
withouw your free consent ? Could I part from you except for
happiness ?"
Emmeline thr sw her arms about her mother's neck In
vain she struggled to ask who was the young man of whom her
mother spoke. Why should she inquire, when she felt that he
never, never could be any thing to her ? Bitterly, painfully she
struggled to dismiss the thought hastily from her mind, and
gladly hailed the entrance of the nurse with her little nephew |
as a relief Her mother joined her in caressing and playing
with him, and ere he was dismissed the scattered parties had
returned, and there was no opportunity for farther confidential
eonverae.
THE mother's RECOMPERBS. 359
It was a happy, merry party at Oakwood, but the presenoe
of Lilla Grahame was wanting to make it complete. Ellen was
constantly with her, for she would not permit the lively pro-
ceedings of home to interfere with the call of friendship ; and
in this task of kindness she was constantly joined by Edward,
who would frequently leave gayer amusements to offer Lilla
his company on her walk, and his intelligent conversation, his
many amusing anecdotes, frequently drew a smile from his
young listener, and, combined with Ellen's presence and more
quiet sympathy, raised her spirits, and encouraged her in her
painful task of bisaring with, if she could not soothe, her Other's
still irritable temperament. Woodlands was to be sold ; for
Mr. Grahame had resolved on burying himself and his child in
some retired cottage, where his very existence might be forgot-
ten. In vain Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton combated this resolu-
tion, and entreated him at least to settle near them ; gloomy,
almost morose, he still spoke of Wales as the only place where
he was not known, where his name might not be associated
with disgrace. Lilla was just of an age to feel the parting
with the kind friends of her childhood as a most painful trial,
but she determined to reconcile herself to her father's will,
whatever it might be.
Captain Cameron too was an agreeable addition to the soci-
ety of Oakwood ; high-spirited, and naturally joyous, Percy
liked him as a kindred spirit ; and reserved, though intelligent,
Herbert found many points of his character assimilate with
his. Mrs. Cameron's station in life had been somewhat raised
since her return to England. Sir Hector Cameron, her hus-
band's elder brother, childless and widowed, found his morose
and somewhat miserly disposition softened, and his wish to
know his brother's family became too powerful to be resisted.
He had seen Walter in Ireland, and admired the young man
ere he knew who he was ; a farther acquaintance, ere he dis-
covered himself as his uncle, heightened these good impres-
sions, and' Walter, to his utter astonishment, found himself
suddenly the heir to a rich baronetcy, and his mother and
sisters comfortably provided for. He rejoiced at his good for-
tune, but not at the baronetcy itself; not for the many plea-
sures which, as Sir Hector's heir, now stood temptingly before
him, but because he might now indeed encourage an affection,
which he had once believed was as hopeless as it was intense.
There is but one person whom we knew in a former ^^i.^
whose fate we have omitted to meniion*, it ma^ \^ ^^ '^i ^^
d60 THE mother's EECOHPEirSB.
80 here, ere wo proceed regularly with our narrative. The
high-minded, unselfish, truth-Toying Lady Gertrude Lyle had at
length, to the great joy of her parents, consented to reward
long years of silent devotion, by bestowing her hand on the
Marquis of Alford. They were married, and need we say that
they were happy ? Lady Gtertrude^s love to her husband ia-
creased with each passing year, and he, as time paased on,
missed nothing of that bright example of goodness, of piety,
and virtue, which had led him to deserve her love.
i Emmeline, dearest, put on your prettiest dress to-night,
and confine these flowing curls with some tasteful wreath,"
said Mr. Hamilton, playfully addressing his daughter, about a
week after the conversation with her mother. The dressing-
bell had sounded, and the various inmates of Oakwood were
obeying its summons as he spoke, and Caroline laughingly
asked her father how long he had taken such an interest in
dress. '^ Does your ladyship think I never do 1" he replied,
with mock gravity.
'^ Do you remember when my dear father's own hand ;
wreathed a sprig of scarlet geranium in my hair, some ten
years ago, when I was a vain and wilful girl ?" replied the
young Countess, without heeding his question, and looking up
with fond affection in his face. '' An, papa, no flower, even #
when formed of gems, ever gave me so much pleasure as ^hai^'
" Not even when placed within these glossy curls by St
Eval's hand ? Are you not jealous, Eugene ?"
" Not in the least, my dear sir," replied the Earl, laughing: j
^^ I have heard of that flower, and the good effects it produced" |
'* You have heard of it, have you ? I should have fancied
my Caroline had long ere this forgotten it."
Lady St. Eval smiled reproachfully as she quitted the
room, and Mr. Hamilton, turning to Emmeline, took her hand
fondly, and said, '' Why does my Emmeline look so grave ?
Does she not approve of her father taking an interest in her
dress 1 But it is not for me I wish you to look pretty to-night,
I will confess ; for another, Emmeline, one whom I expect yon
will, for my sake, do all in your power to please, and and
love. Do not start, my child, the task will not be very difr
cult." He kissed her cheek with a cheerful smile, and left
her, motionless and pale, every feature expressive of passive
endurance, her hands clasped tightly on her heart Emmeline
sat before her mirror, and permitted Fanny to arrange her
heautiful hair as she nvoxA^ '^ \ V^x \\ \skafctared not The
THE mother's eecompense. 361
words of ber fiither aloike rung in her ars. That night sealed
her fate. Fanny spoke, for she was alarmed at her young
lady's manner, but Emmeline answered as if she had heard her
not, and the business of the toilette passed in silence. Yet so
well had it been performed, so fair and lovely did that gentle
girl look, as she entered the drawing-room, that every eye was
fixed on her in admiration. The graceful folds of an India
muslin dress enveloped her slight form, and a wreath of lilies
of the valley, twined with the smallest pink rose-buds, confined
her luxuriant hair ; a scarcely perceptible blush was on her
cheeks, and her eyes, continually wandering round the room,
AS if in search for some unseen object, shone with unusual
brilliancy. Her father whispered, as he found himself near
&er
" I do not expect my friend will arrive till late, my little
iCmmy, but look as pretty then as you do now, and I shall be
iatisfied."
She was relieved, but intelligence met her ear, ere dinner
was concluded, that rendered it a fearful struggle to retain
her composure. Mrs. Cameron's family, Mr. Howard, and
one or two others, she knew were coming in the evening, but
that Lord St. Eval expected his brother Louis to arrive at
Oakwood, by eight or nine o'clock that same evening, was in-
deed information startling in the extreme. Would he not be
accompanied by his preceptor 1 Would she not see him, from
whom she had been so long parted 7 see him, to whom her
heart was given, and in his presence be introduced to the hus*
band of her parent's choice ?
Mrs. Hamilton watched her with extreme uneasiness, and
when dinner was over, whispered, as it seemed, an earnest en-
treaty in her husband's ear. He shook his head in sportivo
refusal j fihe still appeared anxious, but acquiesced. The hours
passed on. Emmeline for a few minutes had retired, for the
happiness, the gayety around her, pressed with overpowering
heaviness on her heart ; she had turned from it almost uncon-
sciously. " Why, oh, why did I not confess to mamma that I
could not wed another, because I still loved Arthur ? why was 1'
10 foolish as to fear to confess the truth, we should not then have
met? Why have I been so weak, to hide these miserable
feelings even from my mother ? how can I expect her sympa-
thy, when she knows them not ?"
So she thought, but it was now too late. TViei S.b^;A.wv'a.\M
caresses, the kind voice of her cousin EUeu ato\3L^^^i^'t\ ^^Ti?
16
S62 THE mother's recompense.
trolling herself, she took Ellen's arm, and together they en-
tered the drawing-room. She saw no strangers, all were fa-
miliar to her eye, and rallying her spirits, she entered into
conversation with St. Eval, who hastened up to her as she
entered. Ellen joined the ^.ancers.
" I wonder why we all seem so gay and happy to-night,"
said St. Eval. "Look at Captain Cameron and our pretfrf
demure cousin Ellen, Emmeline ; I never saw such devotion
in my life. Take my word for it, that will be a match one of
these days, and a very pretty one. Cameron is a good fellow,
and if ever any one were smitten, he is."
" But Ellen's admiration of his character is rather too opei
and freely expressed for him to hope his affection, if he do
love, is returned. No, Eugene, Captain Cameron may he at-
tracted, I grant you, but I do not fancy he will be Ellen's
choice."
" Do you know any whom you think will ?"
" What a question," she said, smiling, " to tempt me to
betray my cousin's secrets, if she had any, but candidly I must
admit that as yet I know none. It is a strange fancy, hat I
often think Ellen will be an old maid."
" Why, is she so precise, so prim, so opinionated, so crabbed?
For shame, Emmeline, even to hint such a thing."
" Nay, St. Eval, the shame is rather yours, for daring to
associate such terms with a single woman. To go through
life alone, without sympathy, without any call for natural af
fections, always appears at first sight rather melancholy than
otherwise ; but why should dislike and prejudice be added to
them I I cannot think that a woman's remaining unmarried
is any proof of her being unamiable."
"Indeed, I am not so unjust," said the Earl, smiling;
" when old maids conduct themselves properly, I esteem them
quite as much and more than some married women. But still
Ellen shall not be an old maid ; she is too pretty and too
good, and would bless any man who may be happy enough
to gain her affections and esteem. But you, Emmeline, you,
surely, will not be an old maid, though you are so warm in 1
their defence." '
" My lot is not in my own hands do not speak of that, j
Eugene," she said, with a quivering lip ; and hastily turning f
from his gaze, she added, " as you seem to know every body's
concerns in the room, what are Mrs. Cameron and Florenot
talking so intently aboull"
THE mother's eeoobcpense. 368
" On the old subject : my madcap brother Louis and his
sage tutor. By the by, Emmy, I have never asked what you
think of Myrvin's conduct in this affair ; did he not behave
admirably ?"
" He did but his duty," replied Emmeline, firmly. " He
acted but as every man of generous feelings would have done ;
it was his duty, for he had pledged himself to the care of his
pupil, and could he have left him in his sickness ? The dic-
tates of common humanity, the social duties of life would have
prevented him."
" What a pity Florence does not hear you ; such calm rea-
soning would destroy all the glow of romance which she has
thrown around these incidents. But indeed you do not give
Myrvin his due, every man does not perform his duty."
" Every man ought ^ and when he does not, he is wrong ; as
when he does, he is right."
" But this is central^ to your own principle, Emmeiine.
What has become of the enthusiasm which once bade you
condemn all such cold judgments, such scanty praise 1 Once
upon a time, you would have looked on such conduct very
differently."
Emmeline turned away, but St. Eval saw her eyes were
swimming in tears. He continued, sportively
" Be assured, I will tell Myrvin as soon as I see him."
" I beg you will not, my Lord," Emmeline said, struggling
to retain her calmness ; but failing, she added, entreatingly,
" dearest Eugene, if you have any regard for me, do not repeat
my words ; let them pass with the subject, it has engrossed us
quite enough."
St. Eval shook his head in playful reproof. They sat
apart from the dancers, and feeling neither her words nor any
subsequent agitation could be remarked, she placed her trem-
bling hand in St. Eval's, and said, almost inarticulately
" Eugene, tell me, does Arthur Mr. Myrvin, accompany
Lord Louis to-night ? Do not deceive me."
" He does," he replied instantly, " and what detains them I
cannot understand. But fear nothing, dearest Emmeline, I
know all ; you may trust me, fear nothing. And now your
promise ^the quadrille is formed, they only wait for us."
** I know all, fear nothing," Emmeline internally repeated,
her whole frame trembling with agitation, as kindly and en-
couragingly St. Eval led her to ther place asai^iiftd. \.\i^'av. ^J^a
forced herself to think only on the dance, on \\i^ wswiiwi^'axsc
364 THE mother's recompense.
ecdotes he was telling her, on the light laugh, the ready jesi
that were sparkling around her. Her natural grace in dancing
forsook her not, nor did she refuse her sister's request, when
the quadrille was finished, that she would take out her harp.
She seated herself at the instrument, and commenced.
Music had not lost its charm ; rapt in the exquisite air sht
was playing, it seemed to soothe her agitated feelings, and bid
her forget her usual timidity. All were silent, for the air was
so sweet, so plaintive, not a Toice could have disturbed it ; it
changed to a quicker, more animated strain, and at that instant
Emmeline beheld Edward and Ellen hastily rise to greet a
young man, who noiselessly yet eagerly came forward to meet
them : it was Lord Louis. Emmeline started ; a strong effort
alone enabled her to conmiand herself sufficiently to continae
playing, but her fingers now moved mechanically ; every pulse
throbbed so violently, and to her ear so loudly, that she no
longer heard the notes she played. All was a mist before her
eyes, and the animated plaudits that greeted her as she ceased,
rung in her ears as unmeaning, unintelligible sounds. Lord
Louis hastily advanced to lead her from the harp, and to tell
her how very glad he was to see her again, though c?7en his
usually careless eye lost its mirthful expression, as he marked
the alteration in his favorite companion. Emmeline tried to
smile and answer him in his own strain, but her smile was
sickly and faint, and her voice trembled audibly as she spoke.
She looked round, fearing yet longing to see another, but Lord
Louis wad alone. His preceptor was not near him, but Mr.
auvl Mrs. Hamilton, St. Eval and Herbert had also left the
room. Some little time passed in animated conversation, stiL
Myrvin did not appear.
" You are wanted in the library,^ dearest Emmeline," said
the young Countess St. Eval.
" Come with me, Emmeline ; foolish girl, * fear nothing,* "
said the Earl, joyously.
" Smile, gentle one," he whispered, as she turned her be
seeching glance towards him, " do not greet the husband your
parents have selected for you with a countenance such as this;
nay, fear nothing," he repeated, as her steps faltered, and every
limb trembled at his words. Again he smiled as he had onoe
before during that evening, and for the first time a gleam of
sudden light darted across the bewildered mind of the agitated
girl, but so dazzling were the rays, so overpowering the bril-
H&neyj from the contraat mt^i ^;\iei ^^^ ^^QrHi^\i\ibL had been
THE mother's recompense. 365
there before, that she oonld not believe it real ; sh^ deemed it
some wild freak of fancy, that sportive fancy which had so long
deserted her. St. Eval hurried on, supporting rather than
leading his companion. They reached the library, and Em-
meline's agitation increased almost to fainting; she leaned
more heavily on St. Eval's arm ; though her heart beat almost
audibly, and her cheek vied in its paleness with a marble
statue near her, not a word betrayed her emotion. There were
many lights within the library, a group was gathered round
the centre table, but to Emmeline all was indistinct, not one
amongst them could she recognize. Her father hastened
towards her, he took her trembling hand in his, and led her
gently forward.
"Look up, my beloved," he said tenderly; "we have sent
for you to - ratify the consent your mother and I have given
given on condition, that if yours be withheld, ours also is void.
But will the long years of silent love and uncomplaining suffering
for your sake, plead in vain to one so gentle as yourself? Look
up, my Emmeline, and tell me, if the fond affection, the tender
cares of him whom we have chosen, will not indeed prove the
best restorative we can bestow ?"
She did look up, and the quick gushing flow of blood dyed
her pallid cheek with crimson, and lit up her soft eyes with
their wonted lustre. There was one tall, manly form beside
her, gazing on her with such devoted love, that she saw not
how pale were those expressive features, what a deep impress
of long suffering was on that high and noble brow. She
heard naught but that deep rich voice pronounce her name^
and call hier " his own, own Emmeline," for she had sunk in
his extended arms, she had hidden her face upon his shouldei
and wept.
"Are we forgiven, Emmeline, dearest?" said Mrs. Hamil-
ton, fondly, after a long pause, which many mingled feelingp
had occasioned. Her child withdrew for a moment from the
arms of her betrothed, and flung herself upon her neck. " Your
fsither bound me by a promise not to leveal his secret, and 1
kept it well till this evening ; for did you not deserve som
punishment, my child, for believing even for a single moment
your parents would have rewarded your unwavering discharge
of a most painful duty, your unhesitating submission to our
will, by forcing you to bestow your hand upon another, when
your heart was already engaged? No, my own Emmfiliu^a^'Hi^
could not have heen bo cruel Take lier,m^ ^eax K^JOoKst^
*.
866 THE MOTHEE's &ECOMPEN&EB.
freely, fearlessly I consign her happiness to your charge, foi
indeed you have well deserved her."
We need not lift the veil from the brief int^ndew which
the consideration of Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton afforded to the
lovers, it is enough that they were happy, happy in the con^
Bciousness not of present joy alone, but of duty unshrinkingly
performed, of pain endured with unrepining fortitude ; nn^
toyed in its purity indeed was their happiness, for it was thi
recompense of virtue.
When the tidings of what had passed were made known,
there were few who did not feel as if some individual joy had
been imparted. The universal sympathy occasioned by the
happiness of a being so generally beloved as Emmeline shed
new animation over the Httle part^. And Ellen, the gentle,
affectionate Ellen, did not she rejoice ? She did, unfeignedly,
sincerely, but there was a pang of bitterness mingled with it
which she vainly struggled to subdue.
Can you consent to live iu the humble vicarage of my ea-
tate, Emmeline ?" whispered the young Earl in her ear, as she
relinquished the arm of Arthur, whom Edward, Percy, and
Ellen were eagerly surrounding. " You have often admired it.
Will it serve you for a home, think you ? if not, name what
alterations you will like, and they shall be done, even as if
Aladdin's wonderful genii had performed it."
" Dearest Engene," said Emmeline, * I feel it is to you,
to your generous pleadings in Arthur's favor, I greatly owe
this happiness. Will yoU not let me thank you for that, in-
stead of asking more ?"
" No, little fairy, I will do no such thing, for I only spoke
the truth, and that, Emmeline, ^ was but my dvty^ and demands
no thanks or praise whatever ; and as I have selected my friend
Myrvin to supply the place of my late vicar, who was promoted
last week to a better living, to see every thing prepared for his
comfort, and that of his wife, is also mine."
" Nay, spare me, dear St Eval; I will plead guilty of not
giving Arthur his due, if you will promise me not always to
torment me with duty, I was unjust and unkind."
No, dearest Emmy, you were neither unjust nor unkind ,
you only said one thing, and meant another, and as I know
why you did so, I forgive you."
Mrs. Cameron's ^mily and the other guests having de-
parted, and only Mr. Hamilton's own circle lingering in the
drawing-room, some BUT]^ii&eRc& Q^%iQTk&d to all except Mrs.
THE mother's eecohpensb. 367
Hamilton and Percy, by Mr. Hamilton suddenly la3ring his
hand gently on Herbert's shoulder, and saying earnestly,
thoagh somewhat playfully
^ One surprise and one cause for congratulation we might,
I think, deem sufficient for one evening, but I intend being
the happy messenger of another event, which may chance to
be even more surprising, and certainly not less joyfuL I beg
you will all offer Mrs. Hamilton and myself your warmest
congratulations, for the same day that gives us a new son will,
I trust, bestow on us another daughter. This quiet young
man intends taking unto himself a wife ; and as it may be
some little time ere we can bring her home from France, the
best thing we can do is to anticipate two marriages in one
day."
'^ Herbert, my true English bred and English feeling coasin,
marry a French woman ! by my good sword, you shall not,"
said Edward, laughing, when the universal surprise and joy
which this information had excited had somewhat subsided.
The eager question who was Herbert's choice, was asked by
Caroline and Emmeline together.
"Fear nothing. Master Lieutenant," St. Eval said, ere
Herbert could reply ; " my wits, though a landsman, are not
quite so blunt as yours, and I guess better than you do. Is it
possible no one here can tell T has my demure brother Her-
* -^rt's secret never been suspected I Caroline, what has become
of your penetration; and Emmeline, your romance? Ellen,
09 nnot you guess ?"
" Yes," she replied, instantly, though as she spoke a sud-
den crimson rose to her cheek, which, though unnoticed, had
been, while Mr. Hamilton spoke, pale as deatL
" May you, may you be nappy, dearest Herbert," she add-
ed, calmly, as she extended her hand to him; ^'few are so
fitted to make you so, few can so truly sympathize in your
feelings as Mary Greville."
" You are right, you are right, Ellen," said Lady Emily
Lyle, as Herbert warmly pressed his cousin's hand, and thank-
ed her in that low thrilling voice so peculiarly his own ; and
then, with a countenance radiant with animated joy, turned
towards the little group, and thanking them for the joy with
which his Mary's nauio was universally greeted, turned to
Edward and asked, with a smile, if Mary were not sufficiently
English to content him.
" Quite^ quite; I would even go over to'Biaixa^ iftx (Jaa ^i^k&
S58 THE MOTHE&'S RECOMFENSS.
of bringing her to England in my gallant Gem," replied thi
young sailor. " She is the best wife you could have chosen, Her-
bert, for, you were ever alongside, even in your boyish days ;
and it would have been a sin and shame for you to have mar-
ried any one else. Percy, why do you not follow such an ex
oellent example 1
I because a bachelor's life has not yet lost its charms
for me, Edward ! I like my own ease, my own pleasure best,
and wish to be free a short time longer,'* replied the young
man, stretching himself on a sofa, with a comic air of nonchor
lafice and affectation ; then starting up, he added, theatrically,
^ I am going to be a senator, a senator ; and how in the world
ean I think of matrimony but as a state of felicity unsuited to
such a hard-working fellow as I am, or rather mean to be 1"
" I commend you for the correction in your speech, Perc},"
said his mother, smiling. Msan to be and am are two very dif-
ferent things."
-' But in me may chance so to amalgamate as to become the
same. Mother, who would believe you could be so severe 1
But I forgive you ; one of these days you will regret your in-
justice : that smile says I wish I may. Well, we shall see.
And now, lords and ladies, to bed, to bed. I have swallowed
such large draughts of surprise to-night, I can bear no more.
A kind good nigh^ to all. Myrvin," he called out from the
hall, " if you are as early to-morrow as you were at Oxford, we
will be off to Trevilion and inspect your new vicarage before
breakfast, and back by night."
" Not to-morrow, Arthur," entreated Emmeline, in a low
voice, as he followed her from the room.
" Not to-morrow, dearest," he replied, t.enderly, as he drew
her to nis bosom, and bade God bless her.
The other members of the family also separated, Ellen one
of the last, for lady Emily at first detained her in some trifling
converse, and Mrs. Hamilton was telling her of something she
wished her niece to do for her the next morning. Ellen waa
standing in the shade as her aunt spoke ; all had left the
room except Edward and themselves, and humming a lively
air, the former was departing, when turning round to wish he?
sister good night, the light flashed full upon her face, and
there was something in its expression, in its almost unearthly
paleness, that made him suddenly start and cease his song.
^ Merciful heaven 1 Ellen, what is the matter 1 You look
like a ghost."
TEDB mother's RECOMPENSE. 369
" Do not be silly, Edward, there is nothing the matter. I
am quite well, only warm," she replied, struggling to smile ;
but her voice was so choked, her smile so unnatural, that not
only her brother but her aunt was alarmed.
" You are deceiving us, my dear girl, you arc not well.
Are you in pain, dearest 1" she said, hastening towards her.
" Ellen had borne up well when unnoticed ; but the voice
of kindness, the fond caress her aunt bestowed, completely
overpowered her, and, sinking on a chair, she burst into
tears.
" It is nothing, indeed it is nothing, my dear aunt," she
said, with a strong effort checking the bursting sob. " I have
felt the heat very oppressive all the evening ; it is only that
which makes me so foolish."
" I hope it is only the heat, my Ellen," replied Mrs. Ham
ilton, fondly, suspicion flashing across her mind, not indeed of
the truth, but something near akin to it. For a few minutes
Ellen leaned her head silently against her aunt, who continued
bending over her, then returning her affectionate kiss, shook
hands with her brother, assured him she was quite well, and
quietly left the room.
" Now, then, I know indeed my fate," Ellen murmured in-
ternally, as her aching head rested on a sleepless pillow, and
h3r clasped hands were pressed agamst her heart to stop its
suffocating throbs. " Why am I thus werwhelmed, as if I had
ever hoped, as if this were unexpected ? Have I not known
it, have I not felt that she would ever be his choice ? that I
was mad enough to love one, who from his bo^ood loved
another. Why has it fallen on me as a shock for which I was
utterly unprepared 7 What has become of my many resolu-
tions ? Why should the task be more difficiit now than it
has been 1 I feel as if life were irksome to me, as if all I
loved were turned to that bitterness of spirit against which I
have striven, as if I could dash from my poor cousin^s lips the
cup of unexpected happiness she has only this evening tasted.
Oh, merciful Father 1 forsake me not now ; let me not feel
thus ; only fill my heart with love and charity ; take from me
this bitterness and envy. It is Thou that dispenseth this
bitter cup. Father, I recognize Thy hand, and would indeed
resign myself to Thee. Oh, enable me to do so ; teach me to
love Thee alone, to do Thy work, to subdue myself, and in
thankfulness receive the many blessings still around m^ \ l^
me but see l/iem happy. Oh, my Eather, \e^ Xk^ 0!CL^vi^^\
16*
870 THE mother's EBCOUPEN8E.
blessings be his lot, and for me" ^it was a bitter struggle^
but ere the night had passed that young spirit had conquered,
had uttered fervently, trustingly, heartfuUy, ^^ for me, oh, my
Father, let Thy will be done." And Ellen joined the break-
fast-table the following niorning calm and cheerful; there
was no trace of internal suffering, no sign to betray even
to her aunt all that she endured. She entered cheerfully into
all Emmeline's happiness, accompanied her and Arthur, witii
Lord and Lady St. Eval, to Trevilion, and entered into every
suggested plan, as if indeed no other thoughts engrossed her.
Arthur and Emmeline found in her an active and affectionate
friend, and the respect and love with which she felt herself re-
garded seemed to soothe, while it urged her on to increased
exertion. Mrs. Hamilton watched her anxiously ; she had at
first fancied Arthur was the object of her niece's regard, but
this idea was not strengthened, and though she felt as-
sured such was not the real cause of Ellen's agitation that
eventful evening, she could not, and did not guess the
truth.
The revealing a long-treasured secret, the laying bare
feelings of the heart, which have so long been concealed, even
to our dearest friends, does not always produce happiness;
there is a blank within us, a yearning after something we
know not what, and the spirit loses for a time its elasticity.
It may be that the treasured secret has been so long en-
shrined in our innermost souls, we have felt it so long as only
our own, that when we betray it to others, it is as if we parted
from a friHtid ; it is no longer our own, we can no longer hold
sweet communion with it, for the voice of the world hath also
reached it, and though at first its revealing is joy, it is fol-
lowed by a sorrow. So Herbert f5lt, when the excitement of
congratulation, of the warm sympathy of his friends had given
place to solicitude and thought. Mary had been so long the
shrine of his secret, fondest thoughts, he had so long indulged
in delicious fancies, known to few others save himself, that
now they had been intruded on even by the voice of gratula-
tion, they would no longer throng around. It was strange
that on this night, when his choice had been so warmly ap-
proved of by all his friends, when words of such heartfelt
kindness had been lavished in his ear, that the same dull
foreboding of future evil, of suffering, of death, pressed heavily
on him, as in earlier years it had been so wont to do. He
struggled against it*, \ie ^vroxi^^ TiQ\ V^\%\l^ Us voice, but it
THE MOTHE&'S RECOMFENfflB. 37 i
would have sway. Defined it was not indeed, but fiom its
mystery more saddening. Herbert wrestled with himself in
fervent prayer; that night was to him almost as sleepless
as it was to his cousin Ellen, but the cause of her weary
watching was, alas! too well defined. The bright sun, the
joyous voices of his brother and cousin beneath his window,
roused Herbert from these thoughts, and ^re the day had
passed, he had partly recovered the usual tenor of his mind,
though its buoyancy was still subdued, and its secret tem-
perament somewhat sad, but to his fEunily he seemed as
usual.
CHAPTER XVII.
Some weeks passed, and Emeline's health was rapidly return-
ing ; her spirits were more like those of her girlhood, subdued
indeed by past suiFering, but only so far subdued as to render
her, if possible, still dearer to all those who loved her ; and
she, too, beheld with delight the color returning to her Arthur's
cheek, his step regaining its elasticity ; and there was a manly
dignity about him now which, when she first loved, she had not
seen, but which she felt rendered him still dearer, ifbr she could
look up to him for support, she could feel dependence on his
stronger and more decisive character.
Each week confirmed Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton in the wis
dom of their decision, by revealing more clearly Myrvin's cha-
racter. He was more devoted to the duties of his clerical
profession ; pride, haughtiness, that dislike to mingle with his
parish 'oners, had all departed, and as they observed how
waj-mly and delightedly their Emmeline entered into his many
plans for doi'ng good, for increasing the happiness of the vil-
lagers under his spiritual charge, they felt that her domestic
virtues, her gentle disposition, were far more suited to the wife
of a clergyman, than to that life of bustling gayety which might
perhaps, under other circumstances, have been her portion.
" Are there not responsibilities attached to a clergyman's
wife?" she once asked her mother. ^' I feel as if so much de-
pended upon me to render him respected and beloved, that I
sometimes fear I may fail in my duty, and, through ignorance,
not intentional, perhaps bring discredit on his name. Dearest
mother, how can I prevent this V^
" These fears are natural to one of your character.^ my
Emmeline^ but thej will quickly pass away. Xou^wiL^\s^
372 1HE mother's recohpenss.
more likely to fail in the duties of fEtshionable life, than ia
those which you will soon have to fulfil. Occupations which,
had you been more fashionably educated, must have been irk-
some, will to you remain the pleasures they have ever heen,
heightened and encouraged by the sympathy of your husband.
A wife, to be truly happy and virtuous, must entirely forg^
uif ; a truth which the partner of a country clergyman should .
ever remember, as his family is larger, more constant in their
calls upon her attention and sympathy, and sometimes her ex-
ertions are less productive of satisfaction and pleasure, than
those of many other stations in life. Her own demeanor
should be alike gentle, unassuming, persuasive, yet dignified,
so that her actions may assist and uphold her husband's doc-
trines more than her language. You have but to follow the
principles of Christianity and the dictates of your own heart,
my Emmeline, and your duty will be done, almost unconsciously
to yourself^'
The only drawback to Emmeline's happiness was, that Lord
and Lady St. Eval were obliged to leave England ere her ^la^
riage could be solemnized, the health of the latter prohibiting
further delay. They did not expect to be absent much more
than a twelvemonth, and the Earl, laughingly, told Emmeline,
if she would defer her wedding till then, he would promise to
be present ; to that, however, none of the parties concerned
seemed inclined to consent, and St. Eval owned he would much
rather, on his return, see her comfortably settled at the Vicar-
age, where preparations were rapidly advancing. Percy, how-
ever, promised to defer his intended tour till his favorite sister
should be Myrvin's bride, and Edward, on leaving to join his
ship, declared, if wind and tide were not very contrary, he, too,
would take a run down and dance at her wedding.
A short time after the departure of the Earl and Conn
tess, and Edward, Ellen received from the hand of her cousin
Herbert a letter, which for the moment caused her some emo-
tion. She felt his eyes were fixed upon her with a peculiar
expression, and shrinking from them, she was hastening to her
own room to answer the letter there, when Herbert called after
her,
" Do not run away from me, Nelly ; whatever be your an-
swer, I am to be the bearer."
Ketuming instantly, she asked, with cheek suddenly paled
and lip compressed, " Are you then aware of the contents of
this letter, Herbert 't wee ^ou Vsl Q^^-^Xa.Vsi C^xaeron's confi
TOE mother's RECOXPENSE. 373
^^ To both demands I am happy enongh to answer yefl|
Ellen," he replied, smiling archly. '' Captain Cameron has
made me his father confessor, and in return, I hare promised
to use all my influence in his favor, to tell you what his letter
may perhaps have but incoherently expressed : that he loves
you, Ellen, devotedly, faithfully ; that he feels life without you,
however brilliant in ftppearance, will be a blank. I promised
him I would play the lover well, and indeed, my dear cousin,
his affection and esteem for you do not admit a single doubt."
" I am sorry for it," said Ellen, calmly, " very sorry, as it is
not in ndy power to return those feelings, and consequently I
am compelled to give him pain. I am grateful, very grateful
for the high opinion, the kind feelings, his letter expresses to-
wards me. I shall never cease to respect and value him as a
friend, but more I cannot give."
" Nay, Ellen, take time to consider of his offer ; do not re-
fuse him at once thus decidedly. You say you respect him.
I know you admire his conduct, both as a son and brother,
and as a man. What objections are there so gre&t as to call
for this decided and instant refusal ?"
" Simply because, as a husband, I can never love him."
" Never is a long day, Ellen. You surely have not so
much romance in your composition as to refuse a young man
possessing every virtue which can make a woman happy, merely
because he does not excite any very violent passion 1 Do you
not know there are some dispositions which never love to the
full extent of the word, and yet are perhaps happier in the
marriage state than those who do ? Now you may be one of
these, Ellen."
" It may be so," she said, still calmly, though a deep flush
stained her cheek. Herbert had spoken playfully, but there
was that in his words which, to a heart seared as was hers, was
productive of intense suffering.
" It may be so, perhaps ; I shall never meet one to love,
as I believe a h\:isband ought to be loved, yet that would not
satisfy my conscience for accepting Walter. I trust I am not
romantic, Herbert, but I will say, that the vow to love, honor,
and obey, to think only of him, demands something more
than the mere cold esteem which some may deem sufficient for
happiness. Walter is an estimable young man, one who will
make any woman happy, and deeply indeed I regret that he
has chosen one who can only return his warm devoted affectlaw.
with the comparatively chilling sentlmeiit^ oi irvsiA^Y^ wA
874 THE mother's RECOICPENSE.
esteem. I would not do his kind heart so much wrong as to
accept him."
'^ But take time, Ellen, give him some hope. You can
urge no objections against him, and his family are dear to yoti
He has told me that from his childhood he loved you, that
Your remembrance never left him, and when again he met yon,
his fanciful visions became a beautiful find palpable reality;
give him, at least, some time for hope. It is impossible, with
a heart disengaged as yours, to associate intimately with him
and not love him."
" A heart disengaged as mine ! how know you that, He^
bert ?" said his cousin, with a smile, which would have de-
ceived the most penetrating eye. " Are you not presuming
too far in your inspection of my heart, seeking, in rather a
roundabout way, to obtain my entire confidence ?"
'' No, dearest Ellen, I speak and feel in this business, bat
as Edward would were he in my place ; your happiness is as
dear to me as it is to him. We have for very many years been
Co each other as a brother and sister, and, believe me, in urg-
ing your acceptance of this good young man, I seek but your
welfare alone."
" I believe you, my dear cousin," replied Ellen, frankly
holding out her hand, which Herbert warmly pressed. " But
indeed, in this instance, you are deceived. An union with
Walter Cameron would not form my happiness, worthy as he
is suitable as the world would deem such a match in all re-
spects ; and sorry as I am to inflict pain and disappointment
on the companion of my childhood, as also, I fear, on his kind
3iother, I cannot be his wife." .
"And if your affections be already engaged, far be it from
me to urge you farther ; but"
" I said not that they were, Herbert," interrupted Ellen,
Bteadily fixing, as she spoke, her large eyes unshrinkingly on
her cousin's face. Herbert felt fairly puzzled, he could not
read her heart ; he would have asked her confidence, he would
have promised to do all in his power to forward her happiness,
but there was something around her that, while it called forth
his almost unconscious respect, entirely checked all farther
question. He did not fancy that she loved another, and yet
why this determined rejection of a young man whom he knew
she esteemed?
" I am only grieving you by continuing the subject," he
B&id ; '' and therefore grant m^ ^o\a iOT^wxa.^ dearest Ellen,
THE mother's recompense. 375
nd your final answer to Cameron, and it shall be resumed no
more."
" I have nothing to forgive, Herbert," replied Ellen, some-
what mournfully.
She sat a few minutes longer, in saddened thought, gazing
on the open letter, and then quitted the room and sought her
own. She softly closed the door, secured it, and then sinking
on a low seat beside her couch, buried her pale face in her
hands, and for a few minutes remained overwhelmed by that
intensity of secret and tearless suffering. It was called forth
afresh by this interview with her cousin : to hear his lips plead
thus eloquently the cause of another ; to hear him say that
perhaps she was one of those who would never love to its full
extent. When her young heart felt bursting beneath the load
of deep affection pressing there, one sweet alone mingled in
that oup of bitterness, Herbert guessed not, suspected not the
truth. She had succeeded well in concealing the anguish called
forth by unrequited love, and she would struggle on.
" Never, never shall it be known that I have given this re-
bellious heart to one who seeks it not. No, no, that tale shall
live and die with me ; no one shall know how low I have Eillen.
Poor Walter ! he will think I cannot feel for his unreturned
affection, when I know too well its pang ; and why should I
not be happy with him, why live on in lingering wretchedness,
when, perhaps as a wife, new duties might rouse me from th\ti
lethargy? Away from Herbert I might forget be recon-
ciled ^ but swear to love Walter when I have no love to give
return his affection by indifference oh, no, no, I will not be
30 guilty."
Ellen again hid her eyes in her hands, and thought long
and painfully. Pride urged her to accept young Cameron, but
every better feeling revolted from it. She started from that
posture of despondency, and, with a bursting heart, answered
Walter's eloquent appeal. Kindness breathed in every line
she wrote regard for his welfare esteem for his character ;
but she calmly yet decidedly rejected his addresses. She was
grieved, she said, most deeply grieved that any thing in her
manner towards him had encouraged his hopes. She had acted
but as she felt, looking on the companion of her early child-
hood, the son of her father's and her own kind friena, as a
brother and a friend, in which light she hoped he would ever
permit her to regard him. Hope found no resting-i^laQft \w\yex
letter, but it breathed ench true and gentle &^m^^\k^ ^tA^^^cc^^-^
376 THE mother's BCOMFIiaE.
ness, that Walter oould not but feel soothed, even in the midil
of disappointment. Ellen paused ere she sealed her letter;
she could not bear to act, even in this matter, without confid*
ing in her aunt ; that Captain Cameron had proposed and beeo
rejected, she felt assured, report would soon convey to her ears.
Why not then seek her herself? The task of writing had
calmed her heart. Taking, therefore, Walter's letter and her
own, she repaired to her aunt's dressing-room, and fortunatelj
found her alone. Mrs. Hamilton looked earnestly at her as
she entered, but she made no observation till, in compliance
with Ellen's request, she perused the letters offered to her.
"Have you reflected suflficiently on your decision, lay
Ellen ?" she said, after thanking her for the confidence she
reposed in her. Have you thought well on the estimable cha-
racter of this young man 1 Far be it from me to urge or per
suade you in such an important matter as marriage, but yon
have not, I trust, answered this letter on the impulse of tke
moment?"
"No, aunt, I have not indeed. Herbert has been most
earnestly pleading Captain Cameron's cause, and I have
thought on all he has said, and the little I can bring forward
to combat it, but still I have refused him. because as a husband
I can never love him. I honor all his good qualities. I can-
not remember one fault or failing in his character, which might
render a wife unhappy. I grieve for his disappointment, but
I should not think I was doing either him or myself justice, to
accept him merely on these considerations. Herbert, I know,
considers me romantic, and perhaps unkind towards his friend;
but painful an such an idea is, I cannot act otherwise than I
have done. '
" Do not let that idea, then, continue to give you pain, mj
dear girl ; your manner towards Walter has never expressed
more than kindness and friendly regard. If I had seen any
thing like encouragement to him on your part, do you not think
I should have called you to account long ago ?" she added,
with a smile, as Ellen, much relieved, kissed her in silence.
^ Our young folks have, I know sometimes in sport, allied your
name with his, but I have generally checked them. Walter I
certainly did fancy admired you, but I did not imagine the
feeling so decided as it has proved. I will not blame your de-
cision, though perhaps it may not be a very wise one. Ma^
riage is too serious a thing to be entered upon lightly, snd if
you cannot love Walter aa u^x\iLi^Wi'^,\iVL^ ^wv^tq opite right
THE mother's recompense. 377
not to accept him. I am not so eager to part with my Ellen
as to advise her marrying, whether she likes it or not. I shall
soon have only you to cheer my old age, you know. Do not
look so pained and sad, love ; it is not thus young ladies in
general refuse an offer. Go and give your letter to Herbert,
tell him it has my unqualified approval, and then return to me.
I marked some beautiful passages in one of our favorite authors
the other day, and you shall read them to me. Now fun away,
and come back quickly."
Ellen obeyed gladly and gratefully, and was enabled play-
fully to return the smile with which Herbert received her let-
ter and his mother's message. Mrs. Hamilton felt more and
more convinced that her suspicions were correct, and that her
niece's affections were unhappily engaged. She thought again
and again who could be their object, and still she fancied it
was Arthur Myrvin. She scarcely knew why herself, except
from Ellen's agitation the night of his arrival at Oakwood, and
engagement with Emmeline. That Herbert was the object,
was to her so improbable, that the idea never crossed her mind.
They had lived so long as brother and sister, they had from
their earliest childhood so intimately associated with each
other, Ellen and Edward were to her so like her own children,
that not once did she imagine Ellen loved her cousin. She
watched her closely, and she was more and more convinced
that she had something to conceal. She was certain her de-
cided rejection of Walter proceeded from her affections being
already engaged, which had also blinded her to his attentions ;
and she was convinced also that Ellen loved in vain, and there-
fore, though she longed to console and soothe her, she resolved
not to speak to her on the subject, and wring from her a secret
which, when once betrayed, though revealed to her alone, might
be still more painful to endure. Mrs. Hamilton's manner was
so kind, so soothing, so calculated to support and strengthen,
that Ellen more than once wondered whether her aunt had
indeed discovered her secret ; but she could not speak of it.
She could not even to the being she loved best on earth, with
the exception of one, thus lay bare her aching heart. Often
and often sne longed to throw herself iti the arms of her aunt
and weep, but she controlled the impulse, and bore on in silence
and outward cheerfulness ; strengthened in her efforts by the
conviction that Herbert knew not, imagined not the truth.
Y oung Cameron was grieved and disappomt^d, iot \i\^ Vs^^
for BUe was indeed sincere) but he qovML uo^ isx\&V,^Qi\itViV
878 THE mother's recompense.
ter ; he saw there was no hope, her expressions of friendsliip
and kindness were soothing and gratifying, they prevented all
bitterness of feeling, and he determined to preserve the friend-
ship and brotherly regard which she so frankly proffered.
Mrs. Cameron was at first somewhat hurt at Ellen's decided
rejection of her son, but she could not long retain any emotion
of coolness towards her, she could not resist the affectionate
manner of Ellen, and all was soon as usual between them. A
visit with Percy to Castle Malvern, at Lord Louis's earnest
entreaty, to Walter was an agreeable change, though it had at
first been a struggle to rouse himself sufficiently. There the
character and conversation of Lady Florence Lyle, to his ex-
cited fancy, so much resembled Ellen's, that unconsciously he
felt soothed and happy. From Castle Malvern, he joined his
regiment with Lord Louis, who had received a commission in
the same troop, and by the time Captain Cameron returned to
Oakwood, he could associate with Ellen as a friend and a
brother. Above a year, it is true, elapsed before that time,
and in that period events had occurred at Oakwood, as unex-
pected as they were mournful ^but-we will not anticipate.
Soon after Lord and Lady St. EvaPs departure for Italy,
Mr. Grahame, despite the entreaties of his friends, even the
silent eloquence of Lilla's appealing eyes, put his resolution
into force, and retired to Wales. He had paid to the last
farthing all his misguided son's honorable and dishonorable
debts ; and this proceeding, as might be expected, left him so
reduced in fortune as to demand the greatest economy to lire
with any comfort. To such an evil Grrahame seemed insensi-
ble ; his only wish was to escape from the eye and tongue of
the world. A mistaken view with regard to his cnild also
urged him on. Why should he expose her to the attentions of
the young noblemen so constantly visiting at Mr. Hamilton's
house, when, he felt assured, however eagerly his alliance
would once have been courted, now not one would unite him-
self to the sister of a publicly disgraced and privately dishonored
man ? No, it was better for her to be far away ; and though
her mild submission to his wishes, notwithstanding the pain
he knew it was to part from her friends at Oakwood, rendered
her dearer to him than ever, still he wavered not in his resolu-
tion. The entreaties of Arthur Myrvin, Emmeline, and Ellen
did, however, succeed in persuading him to fix his place of re-
tirement at Llangwillan, so that all connection would not be so
completely broken betwecvn. Vk^m^ ^^^t^ W ^ ^^ek somo
THE MOTHEE's EEC01CPEII8E. 879
more distant part of the country. Llangwillan, Arthur urged,
was scarcely known to the world at large, but it was to them,
and they might hope sometimes to see them ; for he, Emme
line, and Ellen would often visit his father. Grahame con-
sented, to the great joy of his child, who felt more than himself
the force of Myrvin's arguments.
" Mr. Myrvin is such a dear, good, old man, you cannot
fail to love him, Lilla," Ellen said, soothingly, as the day of
parting neared. ^ You must ask him to show you the little
cottage where the first eight weeks of my residence in England
were passed, and make friends with the old widow and her
daughter for my sake ; you will find them willing enough to
talk about us and my poor mother, if you once speak on the
subject. And my mother's grave, dear Lilla, you will visit
that sometimes, will you not ? and not permit a weed to min-
gle with the flowers Arthur planted around it after we left, to
distinguish it, he said, from every other grave. It shall be
your charge, dearest Lilla, and Edward and I will thank you
for it ; he never goes to Llangwillan without passing an hour
of each day by that little humble mound."
" Edward, does he ever come to Llangwillan ?" Lilla sud-
denly asked, her tears checked, and every feature expressive
of such animated hope, that Ellen looked at her for a moment
in astonishment, and then smilingly answered in the affirma-
tive. Lilla clasped her hands in sudden joy, and then, as if
ashamed, hid her face, burning with blushes, on Ellen's hand.
Her companion stooped down to kiss her brow, and continued
talking of her brother for some time longer.
From that day Ellen observed Lilla regained her usual
animation, her eye sparkled, and her cheek often flushed, as
if from some secret thought ; her spirits only fell at the hour
of parting, and Ellen felt assured they would quickly rise
again, and the first packet she received from Llangwillan con*
firmed the supposition. Mrs. Hamilton was surprised, but
Ellen was not.
Preparations were now actively making for Herbert's visit
to France, thence to bring home his betrothed. His father
and Percy had both resolved on accompanying him, and Mrs.
Hamilton and Emmeline and Arthur anxiously anticipated the
return of their long-absent friends.
A longer time than usual had elapsed between Mary's let-
ters, and Herbert's anxiety was becoming moT^ xi^ xsvot^ W
tense. Two or three of his letters had lemBane^ \scaasw^x^V^
880 TBS mothee's recompense.
there were no tidings of either herself or her mother. Si
Eval had determined on not visiting Paris till his return from
Switzerland, as his solicitude to arrive at his journey's end,
and commence the prescribed remedies for Caroline would, he
was quite sure, destroy all his pleasure. In vain his wife
laughed at his hurry and his fears ; mueh as he wished to see
Mary, he was determined, and Caroline no farther opposed
him. Through them, then, Herbert could receive no tidings;
he had not heard since that event, which he believed would
have been as much joy to Mary as to himself ^his ordination.
He struggled with his own anxiety that the intervening ob-
stacles to his journey should not deprive him of serenity and
trust, but the inward fever was ravaging within. Only on
short week, and then he departed ; ere, however, that time
came he received a letter, and with a sickening feeling of in*
definable dread recognized the handwriting of his Mary. He
left the breakfast parlor to peruse it alone, and it was long be-
fore he returned to his family. They felt anxious, they knew
not why ; even Arthur and Emmeline were silent, and the
ever-restless Percy remained leaning over a newspaper, as if
determined not to move till his brother returned. A similar
feeling appeared to detain his father, who did not seek the li-
brary as usual. Ellen appeared earnestly engaged in some
communications from Lady Florence Lyle, and Mrs. Hamilton
was perusing a letter from Caroline, which the same post had
brought.
With a sudden spring Percy started from his seat, ex-
claiming, in a tone that betrayed unconsciously much internal
anxietv
" What in the world is Herbert about ? He cannot have
gone out without bringing us some intelligence. Kobert, has
Mr. Herbert gone out ?" he called loudly to the servant, who
was passing the open window.
" No, sir," was the reply ; " he is still in his room."
" Then there will I seek him," he added, impetuously ; but
he was prevented by the entrance of Herbert himself, and
Percy started from him in astonishment and alarm.
There was not a particle of color on his cheek or lips ; his
eyes burned as with fever, and his lips quivered as in some
unutterable anguish.
" Eead)" he said, in a voice so hoarse and unnaturd, it
/startled even more than his appearance, and he placed the
letter in hia father's Tiand. ^ IBtAJast^ x^^^va.^ \^^ "^^^bv ll-'
THE MOTHER'S RECOXPENSB. 381
I cannot. It is over 1" he eontinued, sinking on a stool at his
mother's feet, and laying his aching head on her lap. ^ My
beautiful dream is oyer, and what is the waking ? wretched-
ness, unutterable wretchedness ! My God, my God, Thy hand
is heavy upon me, yet I would submit." He clasped his
mother's hands convulsively in his, he drooped his head upon
them, and his slight frame shook beneath the agony, which for
hours he had been struggling to subdue. Mrs. Hamilton
clasped him to her bosom ; she endeavored to speak words of
hope and comfort
Silence deep and solemn fell over that little party ; it was
so fearful to see Herbert thus the gentle, the self-controlled,
the exalted Herbert thus bowed down even to the earth ; he,
whose mind ever seemed raised above this world ; he, who to
his family was ever a being of a brighter, holier sphere. If
he bent thus beneath the pressure of earthly sorrow, what
must that sorrow be ? His family knew the depth of feeling
existing in his breast, which the world around them never
could suspect, and they looked on him and trembled. Myrvin
raised him from the arms of his mother, and bore him to the
nearest couch, and Mrs. Hamilton wiped from his damp brow
the starting dew. Tears of alarm and sympathy were stream-
ing from the eyes of Emmeline, and Myrvin resigned his post
to Percy, to comfort her. But Ellen wept not ; pale as Her-
bert, her features expressed suffering almost as keen as his,
and yet she dared not do as her heart desired, fly to his side
and speak the words that love dictated. What was her voice
to him? 5^^ had no power to soothe.
Deep and varied emotions passed rapidly over Mr. Hamil-
ton's countenance as he read the letter which had caused this
misery. Percy could trace upon his features pity, sorrow,
S3orn, indignation, almost loathing, follow one another rapidly
and powerfully, and even more violently did those emotions
agitate him when the truth was known.
" It was an old tale, and often told, but that took not from
its bitterness," Mary wrote, from a bed of suffering such as she
had never before endured ; for weeks she had been insensible
to thought or action, but she had resolved no one but herself
should inform her Herbert of all that had transpired, no hand
but her own should trace her despairing words. They had
lived, as we know, calmly at Paris, so peaceably, that Mrs.
Greville had indulged in brighter hopes for \.Vve ivjL\.\^ (}aX!k
had ever before engroaaed her. Mr. GieViYL B^etkX. tkv^^ ^
882 THE kothee's recompense.
his time from home, acoompanying, however, his wife and
daughter to their evening amusements, and &.wajs remained
present when they received company in retiiin. They iived
in a style of more lavish expenditure than Mis. Greville at all
approved of Her husband, however, only laughed good-
humoredly whenever she ventuied to remonstrate, and told
her not to trouble herself or Mary about such things ; they had
enough, and he would take care that sufficiency should not
fail. A dim foreboding crossed Mrs. Greville's mind at these
words ; but her husband's manner, though careless, preventing
all further expostulation, she was compelled to suppress, if she
could not conquer, her anxiety. At length, the storm that
Mary had long felt was brooding in this unnatural calm, burst
over her, and opened Mrs. Greville's eyes at once.
Among their most constant but least welcome visitors wa
a Monsieur Dupont, a man of polished manners certainly, the
superficial polish of the Frenchman, but of no other attraction,
and even in that there was something about him to Mary par-
ticularly repulsive. He had seen some threescore years ; his
countenance, in general inexpressive, at times betrayed that
strong and evil passions were working at his heart. He was
said to be very rich, though some reports had gone about that
his fortune had all been amassed by gambling in no very honor
able manner. With this man M*\ Greville was continually
associated ; they were seldom seen apart, and being thus the
favorite of the master, he was constantly at the house. To
Mrs. Greville as to Mary he was an object of indefinable yet
strong aversion, and willingly would they have always denied
themselves, and thus escaped his odious presence. Once they
had done so, but the storm of fury that burst from Mr. Gre-
ville intimidated both ; they felt some little concession on their
parts was demanded to preserve peace, and Monsieur Dupont
continued his visits.
To this man, publicly known as unprincipled, selfish, m-
capable of one exdted or generous feelifiig, Greville had sworn
to give his gentle and unoffending child ; this man he sternly
commanded Mary to receive as her husband, and prepare he^
self for her marriage within a month.
As if a thunderbolt had fallen, Mary and her mother lis-
tened to these terrible words, and scarcely had tiie latter suffi-
cient courage to inform her unpitying husband of their child's
engagement with Herbert Hamilton. For Mary's sake she
struggled and spoke, Wt \iet i^^T^-^i^t^TLQ^m^wiX* l^^u^datioa
THE mothse's beoompensb. 3bJ
A horrid imprecation on Mr. Hamilton and his family burst
instantly from the lips of the now infuriated Greville ; he had
chosen for many years to fancy himself deeply injured by that
gentleman, and, with an oath too fearful to be written, he so-
lemnly swore that Mary should never be the wife of Herbert :
he would father see her dead. Louder and louder grew his
passion, but Mrs. Greville heard him not. Mary had dropped
as if lifeless at his feet. She had sprung up as if to arrest the
imprecation on her father's lips, but when his dreadful oath
reached her ears, her senses happily forsook her, and it was
long, very long before she woke to consciousness and thought.
Mrs. Greville hung in agony over the couch of her unhappy
child ; scarcely could she pray or wish for her recovery, for she
knew there was no hope. Her husband had let fall hints of
being so deeply pledged to Dupont, that his liberty or perhaps
his life depended on his union with Mary, and could she wish
her child to live to be the wife of such a man, yet could she
see her die 7 What pen can describe the anguish of that fond
mother, as for weeks she watched and tended her senseless
child, or the contending feelings that wrung her heart when
Mary awoke again to consciousness and misery, and asked her
in a voice almost inarticulate from weakness, what had hap-
pened ^why she was thus ? Truth gradually broke upon her
mind, and Mary too soon remembered all. The physician said
she was recovering, that she would quickly be enabled to leave
her bed and go about as usual. Greville swore he would no
longer be prevented seeing her, and Mary made no opposition
to his entrance. Calmly and passively she heard all he had to
gay; what he told her then she did not repeat in writing to
Herbert. She merely said that she had implored him to wait
till her health was a little more restored ; not to force her to
become the wife of Dupont, till she could stand loithout sup-
port beside the altar, and he had consented.
" Be comforted, then, my beloved Herbert," she wrote, as
she concluded this brief tale of suffering. " They buoy me up
with hopes that in a very few months I shall be as well as ever
I was. I smile, for I know the blight has fallen, and I shall
never stand beside an earthly altar ; all I pray is, that death
may not linger till my father's patience be exhausted, and he
Tent on my poor mother all the reproaches which my lingering
illness will, I know, call forth. Oh, my beloved Herbert, there
are moments when I think the bitterness of deA.\i \^ ^^^s^'^^.^
when I am so calm, ao happy, I feel as if 1 liad ?^Tet^"^ T^'S5.0ft&^
384 THE mother's eecompbnse.
the confines of my blissful, my eternal home ; but this is not
always granted me. There are times when I can think only
on the happiness I had once hoped to share with you, when
heaven itself seemed dimmed by the blessedness I had antici-
pated on earth. Herbert, I shall never be another's wife, and
it will nodiance. Her pallid cheek was Siintly flushed ; her whole
countenance and tone expressed the enthusiasm, the holiness
which had characterized her whole life. Mrs. Greville clasped
her faded form convulsively to her aching bosom, and, drooping
her head, wept long and freely.
"Father, I have sinned," she murmured; " oh, have
mercy."
An hour passed, and neither Mary nor her mother moved
from that posture of affliction, yet of prayer. They heard not
the sound of many voices below, nor a rapid footstep on the
stairs. The opening of the door aroused them, but Mary
looked not up ; she clung closer to her mother, for she feared
to gaze again on Dupont. A wild exclamation of joy, of
thanksgiving, bursting from Mrs. Greville's lips startled her ;
for a moment she trembled, yet she could not be mistaken, that
THE MOTHER*S RECOMPENSE. 389
tone was joy. Slowly she looked on the intruder. Wildly
she sprung up she clasped her hands together.
" My God, I thank thee, we are saved !" broke from her
parched lips, and she sunk senseless at Mr. Hamilton's feet.
Emissaries of wickedness were not wanting to convey the
intelligence very quickly to Dupont's ear, that Mrs. and Miss
Greville had departed from the Rue Royale, under the pro-
tection of an English gentleman, who had stationed two of
his servants at their house to protect Mr. Greville's body from
insult, and,given him information of all that took place during
his absence.* Furiously enraged, Dupont hastened to know
the truth of these reports, and a scene of fierce altercation
took place between him and Mr. Hamilton. The calm, steady
firmness of his unexpected opponent daunted Dupont as
much as his cool, sarcastic bitterness galled him to the quick.
The character of the man was known ; he was convinced he
dared not bring down shame on the memory of Greville with-
out inculpating himself, without irretrievably injuring his own
character, and however he might use threat as his weapon to
compel Mary's submission, Mr. Hamilton was perfectly easy on
that head. Dupont's cowardly nature very soon evinced itself
A few words from Mr. Hamilton convinced him that his true
character had been penetrated, and dreading exposure, he
changed his ground and his tone, acknowledged he had been
too violent, but that his admiration for Miss Greville had been
the sole cause ; expressed deep sorrow for Mr. Greville's me-
lancholy end ; disavowed all intention of preventing the in-
terment of the body, and finally consented to liquidate all
debts^ save those which the sale of the house and furniture
might suffice to discharge.
Scarcely could Mr. Hamilton command his indignation
during this interview, or listen to Dupont's professions, ex-
cuses, defences, and concessions, without losing temper. He
would not consent to be under any obligation ; if M. Dupont
eould 'prove that more was owing than that which he had con-
sented to receive, it should be paid directly, but he should in
stitute inquiries as to the legality of his claims, and carefully
examine all the papers of the deceased.
" It was not at all necessary," Dupont replied. " The sum
he demanded was due for debts of honor, which he had a slip
of paper in Greville's own handwriting to prove."
Mr. Hamilton made no further reply, and they parted with
nothing decided on either side, Dupont only repeating his ex-
890 THE mother's recompense.
treme distress at hayiiig caused Miss Greville so much xmn^
cessary pain ; that had he known she was engaged to another,
he would never have persisted in his suit, and deeply regretted
he had been so deceived.
Mr. Hamilton heard him with an unchanging countenance,
and gravely and formally bowed him out of the house. He
then placed his seal on the lock of a small cabinet, which Mr&
Greville's own faithful English servant informed him con-
tained all his master's private papers, dismissed the French
domestics, and charging the Englishmen to be careful in their
watch that no strangers should be admitted, he hastened to
impart to his anxiously-expecting sons all the important busi-
ness he had transacted.
Early the following morning Mr. Hamilton received intel-
ligence which very much annoyed and startled him. Notwith-
standing the vigilant watch of the three Englishmen stationed
at Mr. Greville's house, the cabinet, which contained all his
private papers, was gone. The men declared again and again,
no one could have entered the house without their knowledge,
or remove such a thing as that without some noise. Mr. Ha-
milton went instantly with them to the house ; how it had
been taken he could not discover, but it was so small that Mr.
Hamilton felt it could easily have been removed ; and he had
no doubt that Dupont had bribed one of the dismissed ser-
vants, who was well acquainted with every secret of the house,
to purloin it for him, and Dupont he instantly determined on
charging with the atrocious theft. Dupont, however, had de-
camped, he was nowhere to be found ; but he had desired an
agent to receive from Mr. Hamilton's hands the payment of
the debt he still claimed, and from this man it was endea-
vored by many questions to discover some traces of his em-
ployer, but all in vain. M. Dupont had left. Paris, he said,
the previous evening.
Mr. Hamilton was not satisfied, and, consequently, seeking
an able solicitor, put the affair into his hands, and desired thai
he would use every means in his power to obtain the restora
tion of the papers. That Dupont had it in his power farther
to injure the widow and child of the deceased he did not be-
lieve ; he rather thought that his extreme desire to obtam
them proceeded from a consciousness that they betrayed some
of his own evil deeds, yet he could not feel easy till they were
either regained, or he knew that they were destroyed. Mra
GfreviUe earnestlywisVied t^ievt T^QiQ?er3.jiQit ^^^l^^-ax^d they
THE mother's RECOlfPENSB. 391
might, through the similarity of names, bring some evil on heir
son, towards whom her fond heart yet painfully yearned,
though years had passed since she had seen, and many weary
months since she had heard of him. Her fears on this head
rendered botj^ Mr. Hamilton and Percy still more active in
their proceedings, and both determined on remaining at Paris
even after Herbert and Mrs. Greville, with Mary, had left for
England.
And what did Herbert feel as he Icoked on the fearful
change in her he loved 7 Not yet did he think that she must
die ; that beaming eye, that radiant cheek, that soft, sweet
smile oh, could such things tell of death to him who loved 1
He held her to his heart, and only knew that he was blessed.
And Mary, she was happy ; the past seemed as a dim and
troubled vision ; the smile of him she loved was ever near her,
his low sweet voice was sounding in her ear. A calm had
stolen over her, a holy, soothing calm. She did not speak her
thoughts to Herbert, for she saw that he still hoped on ; they
were together, and the present was enough. But silently she
prayed that his mind might be so prepared, so chastened, that
when his eyes were opened, the truth might not be so terrible
to bear.
CHAPTER XVIII.
It was indeed a day of happiness that beheld the arrival of
Mrs. Greville and Mary Oakwood, unalloyed to them, but
not so, alas. ! to those who received them. Mrs. Hamilton
pressed the faded form of Mary to her heart, she kissed her
repeatedly, but it was long before she could speak the words
of greeting ; she looked on her and on her son, and tears rose so
thick and fast, she was compelled to turn away to hide them.
Ellen alone retained her calmness. In the fond embrace that
had passed between her and Mary, it is true her lip had
quivered and her cheek had paled, but her agitation had passed
unnoticed.
" It was her voice, my Mary, that roused me to exertion, it
was her representations that bade me not despair," whispered
Herbert, as he hung over Mary's couch that evening, and per-
ceived JSUen busily employed in arranging her pillows.
" When, overwhelmed by the deep misery occasioned by your
letter, I had no power to act, it was her ready thought thl
dictated to my f&ther the course he eo BU(io^^^i\3^^ Y^t^ss^^^
392 THE MOTHEB. '0 EECOHPEITSB.
Mary pressed the hand of Ellen within both her own, and
looked up gratefully in her face. A faint smile played round
the orphan's lips, but she made no observation in reply.
A very few weeks elapsed before the dreaded truth forced
itself upon the minds of all, even on her motl^r, that Mary
was sinking, surely sinking, there was no longer hope. De-
votedly as her friends loved her, they could not sorrow, before
her they could not weep. She was spared all bodily sufTering
save that proceeding from debility, so extreme she could not
walk across the room without assistance. No pain distorted
the expression of her features, which, in this hour of approach-
ing death looked more lovely than they had ever seemed
before ; her soft blue eye beamed at times with a celestial
light, and her fair hair shaded a brow and cheek so trans-
parent, every blue vein could be clearly seen. One thought
alone gave her pain, her Herbert she felt was still unprepared
He was speaking one day of the future, anticipating the
time when the Rectory would receive her as its gentle mistress,
and of the many things which occupied his thoughts for the
furtherance of her comfort, when Mary laid her hand gently
on his arm, and with a smile of peculiar sweetness said
" Do not think any more ot such things, my beloved ; the
mansion which will behold our blessed union is already
furnished and prepared ; 1 may seek it first, but it will be but
to render it even yet more desirable to you."
Herbert looked on her face to read the meaning of her
words; he read them, alas! too plainly, but voice utterly
failed
'^ Look not on me thus," she continued, in that same plead-
ing and soothing tone. ^^ One mansion is prepared for us
above ; below, my Herbert, oh, think not it will ever receive
me. Why should I hesitate to speak the truth 1 The blessed
Saviour, to whose arms I so soon shall go, will give you strength
to bear this ; He hath promised that he will, my own Herbert,
my first, my only love. My Saviour caUs me, and to Him, oh,
can you not without tears resign me ?"
" Mary," murmured the unhappy Herbert, " Mary, oh, do
not, do not torture me. You will not die ; you will not leave
me desolate."
" I shall not die, but live, my beloved ^live, oh, in such
blessedness I 'tis but a brief, brief parting, Herbert, to meet
and love eternally."
" You are ill, you ate -wea^L^m^ oTrcL^^T^^^^^illvufi death
THE mothe&'b recompense. 39S
is eTer present to your mind ; but yon will recover, oh, I knoir,
I feel you will. My God will hear my prayers."
^ And he will grant them, Herbert oh, doubt Him not,
grant them, even in my remoyaL He takes me not from you,
my Herbert, He but places me, where to seek me, you must
look to and love but Him alone ; and will you shrink from
this? Will that spirit, vowed to His service from your earliest
boyhood, now murmur at his will ? Oh, no, no ; my Herbert
will yet support and strengthen his Mary, I know, I feel he
wilL Forgive me if I have pained you, my best love ; but I
could bear no other lips than mine to tell you, that on earth
I may not live ^but a brief space more, ana I shall be called
away. You must not mourn for me, my Herbert ; I die so
happy, oh, so very happy 1"
Herbert had sunk on his knees beside her couch; he
drooped his head upon his hands, and a strong convulsion
shook his frame. He uttered no sound, he spoke no word, but
Mary could read the overwhelming anguish that bowed his
spirit to the earth. The words were spoken ; he knew that
she must die, and Mary raised her mild eyes to heaven, and
clasped her hands in earnest prayer for him. ' Forsake him
not now, oh G-od ; support him now ; oh, give him strength to
meet Thy will," was the import of her prayer. Long was that
deep, deep stillness, but when Herbert looked up again he was
calm.
" May God in heaven bless you, my beloved," he said, and
imprinted a long, fervent kiss upon her forehead. " You have
taught me my Saviour's will, and I will meet it May he for-
give " His words failed him ; again he held her to his heart,
and then he sat by her side and read from the Book of Life,
of peace, of comfort, thos^ passages which might calm this an
guish and strengthen her ; he read till sleep closed the eyes
of his beloved. Yes, she was the idol of his young affections ;
he felt her words were true, and when she was gone, there
would be nought to bind his spirit to this world.
It would be needless to lift the veil from Herbert's moments
of solitary prayer. Those who have followed him through his
boyhood, and traced his character, need no description of his
feelings. We know the intensity of his earthly affections, the
strength and force of his every emotion, the depth and holiness
of his spiritual sentiments, and vain then would be tlie attempt
to portray his private moments in this dread trial : yet before
his family he was calm, before his Mary ckecxWL ^\xfti^\V^i
17*
394 THE mother's recompense.
prftyers were heard ; he was, he would be yet more sapported,
and her last pang was soothed.
Mr. Hamilton had returned from France, unsuccessful,
however, in his wish to obtain the restitution of Greville's pa*
pers. Dupont had concealed his measures so artfully, and
with such efficacy, that no traces were discoyered regarding
him, and Mr. Hamilton felt it was no use to remain himself
confident in the integrity and abilities of the solicitor to whom
he had intrusted the whole affair; he was unaccompanied,
however, by Percy, who, as his sister's wedding was, from Ma-
rv's illness, postponed, determined on paying Lord and Lady
St. Eval a visit at Geneva.
As Emmeline's engagement with Arthur very frequently
engrossed her time, Ellen had devoted herself assiduously as
Mary's constant nurse, and well and tenderly she performed
her office. There was no selfishness in her feelings ; deeply,
unfeignedly she sorrowed, and willingly, gladly would she have
laid down her life to preserve Mary's, that this fearful trial
might be removed from Herbert. To spare him one pang, oh,
what would she not have endured ? Controlled and calm, who
could have guessed the chaos of contending feeling that was
passing within ; who, that had seen the gentle smile with which
she would receive Herbert's impassioned thanks for her care
of his Mary, could have suspected the thrill, the pang those
simple words occasioned? Mary alone of those around her,
except Mrs. Hamilton, was not deceived. She loved Ellen,
had long done so, and the affectionate attention she so con-
stantly received from her had drawn the bonds of friendship
closer. She felt convinced she was not happy, that there was
something heavy on her mind, and the quick intellect of a
vivid fancy and loving nature guessed the truth. Her wish to
see her haj)py became so powerful, that she could not control
it. She fancied that Ellen might be herself deceived, and that
the object of her affections once known, all difficulties would
be smoothed. The idea that her last act might be to secure
the happiness of Ellen, was so soothing to her grateful and
affectionate feelings, that, after dwelling on it some time, she
took the first opportunity of being alone with her friend to
seek her confidence.
answer
do not
by me, dear Ellen, it ia oi -jo^x V)a,C\ ^o^'i ^^^^ak"
THB mother's &E0OMPEMSS. 39S
" Of me ?" repeated Ellen, Burprised. " Nay, dearest Mary,
oan you not find a more interesting subject?"
" No, iove, for you are often in my thoughts ; the approach
of death has, I think, sharpened every faculty, for I see and
read trifles clearer than I ever did before ; and I can read
through all that calm control and constant smile that you are
not happy, my kind Ellen ; and will you think me a tad^
intruder on your thoughts if I ask you why ?"
" Do you not remember, Mary, I was ever unlike others ?"
replied Ellen, shrinking from her penetrating gaze. ^' I neyer
knew what it was to be lively and joyous even as a child, and
as years increase, is it likely that I should ? I am contented
with my lot, and with so many blessings around ; should I not
be ungrateful were I otherwise ?"
" You evade my question, Ellen, and convince me more and
more that I am right. Ah, you know not how my last hour
would be soothed, could I feel that I had done aught to restore
happiness to one who has been to me the blessing you have
been, dear Ellen."
Think not of it,.dearest Mary," said Ellen. I ought to
be happy, very happy, and if I am not, it is my own wayward
temper. You cannot give me happiness, Mary; do not let
the thought of me disturb you, dearest ; kind as is your
wish, it is unavailing."
" Do not say so, Ellen ; we are apt to look on sorrow, while
it is confined to our own anxious breasts, as incurable and
lasting ; but when once it is confessed, how quickly do diflScul-
ties vanish, and the grief is often gone before we are aware it
is departing. Do not, dearest, magnify it by the encourage-
ment which solitary thought bestows."
" Are there not some sorrows, Mary, which are better ever
concealed 1 Does not the opening of a wound often make it
bleed afresh, whereas, hidden in our own heart, it remains
closed till tinre has healed it?"
" Some there are," said Mary, " which are indeed irremedia-
ble, but" she paused a moment, then slightly raising herself
on her couch, she threw her arm round Ellen's neck, and said,
in a low yet deeply expressive voice ^" is your love, indeed, so
hopeless, my poor Ellen 1 Oh, no, it cannot be ; surely, there
is not one whom you have known sufficiently to give your pre-
cious love, can look on you and not return it."
Ellen started, a deep and painful flush rose for a momftx\.i
to her cheek, she struggled to speak calmly, lo ^QiU"^ iJ^^ XitwVJa.
996 THE mother's BECOMPEN8S.
of Mary's suBpioion, but she oould not, the secret of her heart
was too suddenly exposed before her, and she burst into tears
How quickly will a word, a tone destroy the well-maintained
calmness of years ; how strangely and suddenly will the voice
of sympathy lift from the heart its veil !
" You have penetrated my secret," she said, and her voice
faltered, " and I will not deny it ; but oh, Mary, let us speak
no more of it. When a woman is weak enough to bestow her
aflPections on one who never sought, who will never seek them,
surely the more darkly they are hidden, the better for her own
peace as well as character. My 'ove was not called for. I
never had aught to hope ; and if that unrequited affection be
the destroyer of my happiness, it has sprung from my own
weakness, and I alone have but to bear it."
"But is there no hope, Ellen ^none? Do not think so,
dearest. If his affections be still disengaged, is there not hope
that they may one day be yours 1
" No, Mary, none. I knew his affections were engaged ; I
knew he never could be mine, and yet I loved him. Oh, Mary,
do not scorn my weakness ; you have wrung my secret from
me, do not, oh, do not betray me. There is no shame in loving
one so good, so holy, and yet and yet Mary, dearest Mary,
promise me you will not speak it I cannot rest unless you
do ; let it pass your lips to none."
" It shall not, my Ellen ; be calm, your secret shall die with
me, dearest," replied Mary, earnestly, for Ellen's feelings com-
pletely overpowered her, and bursting sobs choked her utter-
ance.
" F )r me there is no hope. Oh, could I but see him happy,
I shouxd ask no more ; but, oh, to see him miserable, and feel
I have no power to soothe ^when " She paused abruptly,
again the burning blood dyed her cheeks, even her temples
with crimson. Mary's eyes were fixed upon her in sympathy,
in love ; Ellen fancied in surprise, yet suspicion. With one
powerful effort she conquered herself, she forced back the scald-
ing tears, the convulsive sob, and bending over Mary, pressed
her trembling lips upon her pale brow.
" Let us speak no more of this, dearest Mary," she said, in
a low calm voice. " May God bless your intended kindness.
It is over now. Forgive me, dearest Mary, I have agitated
and disturbed you."
" Nay, forgive me, my sweet Ellen. It is I who have given
jron pain,* and should ask -joi^it loi^-^^Tis*. 1 tkou^t not of
TH mother's RECOBfPENSE. 397
swcb utter hopelessness. I had hoped that, ere I departed, I
might have seen the dawn of happiness for you; but I see, I
feel now that cannot be. My own EUen, I need not tell you
the comfort, the blessed comfort of prayer."
For a few minutes there was silence. Ellen had clasped
the hand of Mary, and turned aside her head to conceal the
tears that slowly stole down her cheek. The entrance of
Emmeline was a relief to both, and Ellen left the room ; and
when she returned, even to Mary's awakened eyes, there were
no traces of agitation. Each week produced a visible change
in Mary; she became weaker and weaker, but her mind
retained its energy, and often her sorrowing friends feared
she would pass from the detaining grasp of love, ere they
were aware of the actual moment -of her departuie. One
evening she begged that all the family might assemble in her
room ; she felt stronger, and wished to see them altogether
again. Her wish was complied with, and she joined so cheer-
fully in the conversation that passed around, that her mother
and Herbert forgot anxiety. It was a soft and lovely even-
ing ; her couch, at her own request, had been drawn to the
open window, and the dying girl looked forth on the beautiful
scene beneath. The trees bore the rich full green of summer,
save where the brilliantly setting sun tinged them with hues
of gold and crimson. Part of the river was also discernible
at this point, lying in the bosom of trees, as a small lake, on
which the heavens were reflected in all their surpassing splen-
dor. The sun, or rather its remaining beams, rested on the
brow of a hill, which, lying in the deepest shadow, formed a
superb contrast with the flood of liquid gold that bathed
its brow. Clouds of purple, gold, crimson, in some parts
fading into pink, floated slowly along the azure heavens, and
the perfect stillness that reigned around completed the en-
chantment of the scene.
" Look up, my Mary, and mark those clouds of light," said
Herbert. " See the splendor of their hues, the unstained blue
beyond ; beautiful as is earth, it shows not such exquisite
beauty as yon heaven displays, even to our mortal sight, nor
calls such feelings of adoration forth. What then will it be
when that blue arch is rent asunder, and the effulgent glory
of the Maker of that heaven bursts upon our view ?"
" Blessed, oh, how blessed are those who, conducted by the
Lamb of God, can share that glory," ana^ei^d. '^^Tj.^'wi^
398 THE mother's recobipense.
sadden energy. " Who can speak the unutterable love, whioli,
while the bounteous earth yet retains the traces of an awfal
curse, hath washed from man his sin, and takes from death it8
sting?"
" And it is this thought, this faith which supports you now,
my Mary ?" demanded Herbert, with that deep tenderness of
tone so peculiarly his own.
" It is, it is," she answered fervently. " My sins are washed
away ; my prayers are heard, for my Saviour pleads, and my
home is prepared on high amid the redeemed and the saved.
Oh, blessed be the G-od of truth that hath granted me this
faith" she paused a minute, then added "and heard my
prayer, my beloved Herbert, and permitted me thus tc die ia
my native land, surrounded by those I love !"
She leaned her head on Herbert's bosom, and for some
time remained silent ; then looking up, said cheerfully, " Do
you remember, Emmeline, when we were together some few
years ago, we always said such a scene and hour as this only
wanted music to make it perfect ? I feel as if all those fresh
delightful feelings of girlhood had come over me again. Bring
your harp and sing to me, dearest, those words you read to me
the other day."
"Nay, Mary, will it not disturb you?" said Emmeline,
kneeling by her couch, and kissing the thin hand extended
to her.
" No, dearest, not your soft sweet voice, it will soothe and
give me pleasure. I feel stronger and better to-night than
I have done for some time. Sing to me, but only those words,
dear Emmy ; all others would neither suit this scene nor my
feelings."
For a moment Emmeline hesitated, and looked towards
her mother and Mrs. Greville. Neither was inclined to make
any objection t her request, and on the appearance of her
harp, under the superintendence of Arthur, Emmeline pre-
pared to comply. She placed the instrument at the further
end of the apartment, that the notes might fall softer on
Mary's ear, and sung, in a sweet and plaintive voice, the fol-
lowing words :
"Remember me ! ah, not with sorrow,
'Tis but sleep to wake in bliss.
Life's gayest hours can seek to borrow
Vainly such a dream as this.
THE mother's eecompensb. 899
"Ah, see, 'tis heaven itself reyealmg
To my dimmed and failing sight ;
And hark ! 'tis angels' voices stealing
Through the starry veil of night.
" Come, brother, come ; ah, quickly sever
The cold links of earth's dull chain ;
Come to thy home, where thou wilt never
Pain or sorrow feel again.
* Come, brother, come ; we spread before thee
Visions of thy blissful home ;
Heed not, if Death's cold pang come o'er thee.
It will but bid thee haste and come 1"
Ah, yes, I see bri|^ht forms are breaking
Through the mist that veils mine eyes ;
Now gladly, gladly, earth forsaking,
Take, oh, take me to the skies.
Remember me ! though upward flying.
Still I wait love's last fond kiss,
rhen, oh, farewell ; my spirit's sighing
To behold its home of bliss."
The mournful strain ceased, and there l^as silence. Emme-
line had adapted the words to that beautiful air of Weber's,
the last composition of his gifted mind. Mary's head still
rested on the bosom of Herbert, her hand clasped his. Even-
ing was darkening into twilight, or the expression of her
countenance might have been remarked as changed more
spiritual, as if the earthly shell had shared the beatified glory
of the departing spirit. She fixed her fading eyes on Ellen,
who was kneeling by her couch, steadily and calmly^ but Ellen
saw her not, for in that hour her eyes were fixed, as in fascina-
tion, on the form of Herbert, as he bent over his beloved.
The dying girl saw that mournful glance, and a gleam of intel-
ligence passed over her beautiful features. She ^tended one
hand to Ellen, who clasped it fondly, and then she tried to
draw it towards Herbert. She looked up in his face, as if to
explain the meaning of the action, but voice and strength ut-
terly failed, and Ellen's hand dropped from her grasp.
^' Kiss me, Herbert, I would sleep," she said, so faintly,
Herbert alone heard it. Their lips met in one long lingering
kiss, and then Mary drooped her head again upon his bosom,
and seemed to sleep so gently, so sweetly, her friends held
their breath lest they should disturb her. "K^wV^ VksM xv
hour passed, and still there was no mo^emeTiV., 'IVva InsS^ ^^^
4G0 TBSE ]IOIHER.'8 BJDOOMFEaBB.
light of an nnclouded moon fell within that silent chamber,
and gilded the forms of Mary and Herbert witii a silvery halo,
that seemed to fall from heaven itself upon them. Mary's
head had fallen slightly forward, and her long loxoriant luur,
escaped from its crafinement, concealed her featores as a veil
of shadowy gold. Gently and tenderly Herbert raised her
head, so as to rest npon his arm ; as he did so her hair fell
back and folly exposed her conntenanoe. A faint cry bn^e
from his parched lips, and EUen started in agony to her
feet
^Hosh, hnsh, my Mary sleeps,'^ Mrs. Gievijle said; but
Mr. Hamilton gently drew her from the couch and from the
roouL Her eyes were closed ; a smile illumined that swejt
fince, as in sleep it had often done, and that soft and shadowy
light took from her features all the harsher tale of deatL
Yes, she did sleep sweetly and calmly, but her pore spirit had
departed.
CHAPTEB XIX.
It was long, very long, ere Mr. Hamilton's fsunily recovered
the shock of Mary's deatL She had been so long loved, living
amongst them from her birth, her virtues and gentleness were
so well known and appreciated by every member. She had
been by Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton so long considered as their
child, by her betrothment with their Herbert, that they sor-
rowed for her as if indeed she had been bound to them by
that tender tie ; and her poor mother now felt desolate : her only
treasure, her precious, almost idolized Mary, was taken from her,
and she was childless, for of Alfred she had long ceased to re-
ceive intelligence. She bowed her head, earnestly striving for
submission, but it was long, long ere peace returned ; soothed
she was indeed by the tender kindness of her friends ; but
what on earth can soothe a bereaved and doting mother?
Emmeline, Ellen, Herbert, even Arthur Myrvin, treated her
with all the love and reverence of children, but neither could
fill the aching void within. On Herbert indeed her spirit
rested with more fondness than on any other object, but it
was with a foreboding love ; she looked on him and trembled.
It was a strange and ajQfecting sight, could any one have looked
on those two afflicted ones : to hear Herbert speak words of holy
oomtort to the motbtex oi\i\a'^i^T^^\jQ\i'5isi\ivEEL^^^3B.^^hQi3ev
THE mother's recompense. 401
of resignation, mark the impress of that heavenly virtue on
his pale features ; his grief was all internal, not a word escaped
his lips, not a thought of repining crossed his chastened mind.
The extent of that deep anguish was seen alone in his fading
form, in his pallid features ; but it was known only to the
Searcher of all hearts. He had wished to perform the last
office to his Mary, but his father and Archdeacon Howard
conjured him to abandon the idea, and suffer the latter to take
his place. All were bathed in tears during that solemn and
awful service. Scarcely could Mr. Howard command his voice
throughout, and his concluding words were wholly inaudible.
But no movement was observablein Herbert's slight and boyish
form ; enveloped in his long mourning robe, his features could
not be seen, but there was somewhat around him that created
in the breasts of all who beheld him a sensation of reverence.
All departed from the lowly grave, but Herbert yet remained
motionless and silent. His father and Myrvin gently sought
to lead him away, but scarcely had he proceeded two paoes,
when he sunk down on the grass in a long 'and deathlike
swoon ; so painfully had it the appearance of death, that his
father and friends believed for a time that his spirit had in-
deed fled to seek his Mary ; but he recovered. There was
such an aspect of serenity and submission in his countenance,
that all who loved him would have been at peace, had not the
thought pressed heavily on their minds that such feelings were
not long for earth.
These fainting fits returned at intervals, and Mrs. Hamil-
ton, whilst she struggled to lift up her soul in undying faith to
the God of Love, and resignedly commit into His hands the
life and death of her beloved son, yet every time she gazed on
him, while lying insensible before her, felt more and more
how difficult was the lesson she so continually strove to learn :
how hard it would be to part from him, if indeed he were called
away. She compared her lot with Mrs. Greville's, and thought
how much greater was her trial ; and yet, she, too, was a mo-
ther, and though so many other gifts were vouchsafed her,
Herbert was as dear to her as Mary had been to Mrs. Greville.
Must she lose him now, now that th^ fruit she had so fondly che-
rished, watched as it expanded from the infant germ, had bloomed
so richly to repay her care, would he be taken from her, now
that every passing month appeared to increase his love for her
and hers for him 1 for Heroert clung to Yiia moXXi^x m 'Cov^
dread hour of aMction with increasing ioikAxie. '^Tx^fe.^V^
402 THE mother's eecompenss
never spoke the extent of his feelings even to her, but his man-
ner betrayed how much he loved her, how deeply he felt her
sympathy, which said that next to his God, he leaned on her.
At first Mr. Hamilton wished his son to resign the Rectory
and join his brother and sister at Geneva, and then accompany
Percy on his travels ; but mournfully yet steadily Herbert re-
jected this plan.
^' No, father," he said. " My duties as a son and brother,
as well as the friend and father of the flock committed to my
charge, will be far more soothing and beneficial, believe me,
than travelling in far distant lands. My health is at present
such, that my home and the beloved friends of my infancy
appear dearer to me than ever, and I cannot part from them
to seek happiness elsewhere. I will do all in my power, by
the steady discharge of my many and interesting duties, to
preserve my health and restore peace d.nd contentment. I
seek not to resign my charge in this world till my Saviour
calls me ; His work has yet to be done on earth, and till He
dismisses me, I will cheerfully perform it ; till then do not ask
me to forsake it. '
Mr. Hamilton wrung his son's hand in silence, and never
again urged his departure.
There was no selfishness in Herbert's sorrow ; he was still
the devoted son, the affectionate brother, the steady friend to
his own immediate circle ; and to the poor committed to his
spiritual charge, he was in truth, as he had said he would be,
a father and a friend. In soothing the sufferings of others,
his own became less bitterly severe ; in bidding others hope,
and watch, and pray, he found his own spirit strengthened and
its frequent struggles calmed. With such unwavering steadi-
ness were his duties performed, that his bodily sufferings
never could have been discovered, had not those alarming
faints sometimes overpowered him in the cottages he visited
ere his duties were completed; and he was thankful, when
such was the case, that it occurred when from home, that his
mother was thus sometimes spared anxiety. He would walk
on quietly home, remain some little time in his own chamber,
and then join his family cheerful and composed as usual, that
no one might suspect he had been ill.
Arthur Myrvm often gazed on his friend with emotions of
admiration, almost amounting to awe. His love for Emmeline
was the strongest feeling of hia heart.^ and when for a moment
be fancied her snatclneOL iioixi Vyec^ ^j& '^^T^'Via^ Vt^xL fcon
THE MOTHEH'S RECOMPENSE. 403
Herbert, he felt he knew he could not have acted like his
friend ; he must have flown from scenes, every trace of which
could speak of the departed, or, if he had remained, he could
not, as Herbert did, have attended to his duties, have been
like him so calm.
In the society of his cousin Ellen, Herbert found both
Bolace and pleasure. She had been so devoted to the departed,
that he felt he loved her more fondly than he had ever done,
and he would seek her as the companion of a walk, and give
her directions as to the cottages he sometimes wished her to
visit, with a portion of his former animation, but Ellen never
permitted herself to be deceived ; it was still a brother's love,
she knew it could never be more, and she struggled long to
control, if not to banish, the throb of joy that ever filled her
bosom when she perceived there were times when she had
power to call the smile to Herbert's pensive features.
Percy's letters were such as to soothe his brother by his
affectionate sympathy ; to betray more powerfully than ever to
Mr, and Mrs. Hamilton how dear to each other were their
sons, how purd and consoling was the friendship subsisting be-
tween them, and on other points to give much pleasure to all
his family. Caroline's health was much improved ; her little
son, Percy declared, was such a nice, merry fellow, and so
handsome, that he was quite sure he resembled in all respects
what he, Percy Hamilton, must have been at the venerable age
of two years. He said farther, that as Lord and Lady St.
Eval were going to make the tour of the principal cities of
Europe, he should remain with them and be contented with
what they saw, instead of rambling alone all over the world, as
he had intended. At first Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton were some-
what surprised at this decision, but knowing the nature of
their son, began to fancy that a certain Miss Manvers had
something to do with it, the sister of Lord Delmont, the Earl
St. Eval's most intimate friend, and the chosen friend of Mary
Greville during her residence at Monte Eosa. In Lord Del
mont's will he had left the Earl guardian of his sister during
the vear that intervened before her coming of age, an office
which rendered St. Eval still more intimate with the family.
On his way to Geneva he had heard from Miss Manvers of her
mother's death, and that she was residing with an English
family on the banks of the Lake. The information that her
brother's friend, and indeed her own, witli^iia '^Vtft mAWe^-^^
intended spending some little time at Geneva, 'w^kE u soxxx^ia ^i
404 THE mother's kecohfensb.
80 much pleasure, that after a little hesitation she accepted
the earnest invitation of both the Earl and his lady, and
gladly and gratefully consented to reside with them during
their stay in Switzerland, and then accompany them on their
intended tour.
The strong affection Percy bore his brother rendered him
long unable to regain his usual mirth and flow of spirits, and
he found the conversation of Louisa Manvers even more pleas-
ing than ever. Mary had made her perfectly acquainted with
Herbert, and therefore, though she had never seen him, she was
well enabled to enter into the deep affliction the loss of his De-
trothed must have occasioned hiuL Percy could speak to her
as often as he pleased of his brother and Mary, and ever found
sympathy and interest attached to the subject. Thus the idea
of travelling alone, when his sister's family offered such attrac-
tions, became absolutely irksome to him, and he was pleased to
see that his plan of joining them was not disagreeable to
Miss Manvers. Mr. Hamilton sent his unqualified approval of
Percy's intentions, and Herbert also wrote sufficiently of him^
self to satisfy the anxious affection of his brother.
There was only one disappointing clause in Percy's plans,
and he regretted it himself, and even hinted that if his sister
still very much wished it, he would give up his intention, and
return home in time to be present, as he had promised, at her
wedding. He wrote in his usual affectionate strain both to
Emmeline and Myrvin, but neither was selfish enough to wish
such a sacrifice.
At Herbert's earnest entreaty, the marriage of his sister
was, however, fixed rather earlier than she had intended It
was not, he said, as if their marriage was to be like Caroline's
the signal for a long course of gayety and pleasure ; that Em-
meline had always determined on only her own family being
present, and every thing would be so quiet, he was sure there
could be no necessity for a longer postponement.
" My Mary wished to have beheld your union," his lip trem-
bled as he spoke ; " had not her illness so rapidly increased,
she wished to have been present, and could she now speak her
wishes, it would be to bid you be happy no longer to defer
your union for her sake. Do not defer it, dear Emmeline," he
added, in a somewhat sadder tone, " we know not the events of
an hour, and wherefore should we delay? it will be such joy
to me to unite my friend and my sister, to pour forth on their
Uve the blessing of the Lord."
TSE mother's RECOBfPENSE. 40S
There was something so inexpresMblj sweet yet mournful
in his concluding words, that Emmeline, unable to restriitn the
impulse, leaned upon his neck and wept.
" Do not chide my weakness, Herbert," she tried to say,
^ these are not tears of unmingled sadness ; oh, could I but
see you happy."
" And you will, my sweet sister ; soon ^very soon, I shall
be happy, quite quite happy," he added, in a lower tone, as he
fondly kissed her brow.
Emmeline had not marked the tone of his concluding
words, she nad not seen the expression of his features ; but
Ellen had, and a cold yet indefinable thrill passed through her
heart, and left a pang behind, which she could not conquer the
whole of that day. She understood it not, for she vmdd not
understand.
Urged on, however, a few days afterwards, during a walk
with Herbert, she asked him why he was so anxious the cere-
mony should take place without delay.
" Because, my dear Ellen, I look forward to the perform-
ance of this ceremony as a source of pleasure which I could
not bear to resign to another."
" To another, Herbert ; what do you mean ? Do you think
of following my uncle's advice, and resigning your duties for
a time, for the purpose of travel ?"
" No, Ellen ; those duties will not be resigned till I am
called away ; they are sources of enjoyment and consolation
too pure to be given up. I do not wish my sister's wedding to
be deferred, for I know not how soon my Saviour may call me
to Himself"
" May we not all urge that plea, my dear cousin ?" said
Ellen ; " and yet in your sermon last Sunday, you told us to
do all things soberly, to give due reflection to things of weight,
particularly those in which temporal and eternal interests
were united ; not to enter rashly and hastily into engagements,
not too quickly to put off the garb of mourning, and plunge
once more into the haunts of pleasure." She paused.
'- 1 did say all this, Ellen, I own ; but it has not much to do
with our present subject. Emmeline's engagement with Ar-
thur has not been entered on rashly or in haste. She does not
throw off the garb of mourning to forget the serious thoughts
it may have encouraged ; and though you are right, we none
of us can know how soon we may be called away.,'5^t..^vtt&V^.^
it behooves those unto whom the dart baa w^^^^ VSafe \xvwA^^
406 THE mother's recompense.
been given, to set their house in order, for they shall Burelj
die, and not liye the usual period of mortals."
" But who can tell this, Herbert ? who are so favored as to
know the actual moment when the dart has sped, and how
soon it will reach them ? Should we not all live as if death
were near?"
" Undoubtedly, we should so order our souls, as ever to be
ready to render them back to Him who gave them ; but we
cannot always so arrange our worldly matters, as we shoald,
did we know the actual moment of death's appearance ; our
business may require constant care ; we may have dear objects
for whom it is our duty to provide, to the best of our power,
and did we know when we should die, these things would .bse
the interest they demand. Death should, indeed, be ever pre-
sent to our minds ; it should follow us in our joy as in our bor-
row, and never will it come as a dark and gloomy shadow to
those who in truth believe ; but wise and merciful is the de-
cree that conceals from us the moment of our departure.
Were the gates of heaven thus visible, how tame and cold
would this world appear ; how few would be the ties that we
should form, how insignificant would seem those duties which
on earth we are commanded to perform ! No. to prepare oar
souls to be ready at a minute's warning to return to their
heavenly home, is the duty of all. More is not expected from
those in perfect health ; but, Ellen, when a mortal disease is
consuming this earthly tabernacle, when, though Death linger,
he is already seen, ay, and even felt approaching, then should
we not wind up our worldly affairs, instead of wilfully blinding
our eyes to the truth, as, alas ! too many do ? Then, should
we not * watch and pray' yet more, not only for ourselves, but
those dearest to us, and do all in our power to secure their
happiness, ere we are called away ?"
Ellen could not answer. She understood too well his
meaning ; a sickness as of death crept over her, but with an
effort she subdued that deadly faintness; she would have
spoken on other things, but her tongue was parched and dry.
Engrossed in his own solemn feelings, in the wish to pre-
pare his cousin for the truth, Herbert perceived not her agita-
tion, and, after a minute's pause, continued tenderly
" My own bousin, death to you is, I know, not terrible ;
why then should I hesitate to impart tidings which to me art
full of bliss ? The shaft which bore away my Mary, also en-
tered my heart, and implanted in me the disease which no
THE mother's recobifense. 407
mortal skill can oare. Do not chide me for entertaining an
imfounded fancy. Ellen, dear Ellen, I look to you, under
keayen, to support my mother under this affliction. I look to
your fond cares to subdue the pang of parting. You alone of
all her children will be left near her, and you can do much to
comfort and soothe not only her, but my father ; they will
mourn for me, nature will speak, though I go to joy inexpres-
sible, unutterable ! Ellen, speak to me ; will you not do this,
my sister, my friend 1
^ Giye me but a moment," she murmured almost inaudibly,
as, oyerpowered by increasing faintness, she sunk down on a
grassy bank near them, and buried her face in her hands.
Minutes rolled by, and still there was silence. Herbert sat
down beside her, threw his arm around her, and pressed a
brother's kiss upon her cold, damp brow. She started and
would haye risen, but strength failed ; for a moment her head
leaned against his bosom, and a burst of tears relieved her.
'' Forgive me Herbert," she said, striving at once for compo-
sure and voice. " Oh, weak as I am, do not repent your con-
fidence. It was unexpected, sudden ; the idea of parting was
sharper than at the first moment I could bear, but it will soon
be over, very, very soon ; do not doubt me, Herbert." She
fixed her mournful eyes upon his face, and her cheek was very
pale. " Yes," she said, with returning strength, " trust me,
dear Herbert, I will be to my aunt, my more than mother,
ever as you wish. My every care, my every energy shall be
employed to soften that deep anguish which " She could
not complete the sentence, but quickly added, " the deep debt
of gratitude I owe her, not a whole life can repay. Long
have I felt it, long wished to devote myself to her and to my
uncle, and this charge has confirmed me in my resolution.
Yes, dearest Herbert, while Ellen lives, never, never shall my
beloved aunt be lonely."
Herbert understood not the entire signification of his
cousin's words ; he knew not, that simple as they were to his
ears, to her they were a vow sacred and irrevocable. She
knew she could never, never love another, and there was some-
thing strangely soothing in the thought, that it was his last
request that consecrated her to his mother, to her benefactress.
To feel that, in endeavoring to repay the debt of gratitude she
owed, she could associate Herbert intimately with her every
action, so to perform his last charge, that could he look down
from heaven it would be to bless her.
108 THE MOTHE&'S REC0HPEN8S.
Herbert knew not the intensity of Ellen's feelings, stili
less did he imagine he was the object of her ill-fated affeetion.
Never once had such a suspicion crossed his mind; thathe
loved him he doubted not, but he thought it was as Emmeline
loved. He trusted in her strength of character, and therefore
had he spoken openly ; and could Ellen regret his confidence,
when she found that after that painful day, her society ap-
peared dearer, more consoling to him than ever ?
Although some members of her family could not be pres-
ent at Emmeline's wedding, a hasty visit from Edward was a
source of joy to all. He was about to sail to the shores of
Africa, in a small frigate, in which he had been promoted te
the second in command, an honor which had elevated his
spirits even beyond their usual buoyancy. He had been much
shocked and grieved at his sister's account of Mary's deaths
and Herbert's deep affliction ; but after he had been at home a
few days, il^e influence of his natural light-heartedness extended
over all, and rendered Oakwood more cheerful than it had been
since the melancholy event we have narrated.
To Lilla Grahame it was indeed a pleasure to revisit Oak-
wood, particularly when Lieutenant Fortescue was amongst its
inmates. Edward's manner was gallantly courteous to all his
fair friends ; a stranger might have found it difficult to say
which was his favorite, but there was something about both
him and Miss Grahame which very often called from Ellen a
smile.
It was an interesting group assembled in the old parish
church on the day that united our favorite Emmeline with her
long-beloved Arthur, but it was far from being a day of un-
mingled gladness. Deep and chastened as was the individual
and mutual happiness of the young couple, they could neither
of them forget that there was a beloved one wanting ; that they
had once hoped the same day that beheld their nuptials would
have witnessed also those of Herbert and his Mary.
Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton had looked with some degree of
dread to this day, as one of painful recollection to Herbert;
but he, perhaps of all who were around him, was the most com-
posed, and as the impressive ceremony continued, he thought
only of those dear ones whose fate he thus united ; he felt
only the solemn import of the prayers he said, and his large
and beautiful eyes glistened with enthusiasm as in former days.
It would have been a sweet group for a skilful painter, those
three principal figures \)ea\^ft ^iJtife ^^.^-t. Ha^bert.^ as we havj
THE mother's recompense. 409
described him ; Emmeline, in her simple garb of white, her
slight figure and peculiarly feminine expression of counte-
nance causing her to appear very many years younger than in
reality she was ; and Arthur, too, his manly features radiant
with chastened yet perfect happiness, seemed well fitted to be
the protector, the friend of the gentle being who so soon would
CdH him husband, and look to him alone for happiness. Mr.
And Mrs. Hamilton rejoiced that their beloved child was
at length blessed in the gratification of her long-cherished,
loQg-controlled hopes ; that, as far as human eye couli pene-
trate, they had secured her happiness by giving her to the man
she loved. There was one other kneeling beside the altar on
whom Mrs. Hamilton looked with no small anxiety, for the
emotion she perceived, appeared to confirm the idea that it was
indeed Arthur Myrvin who had engrossed the affections of her
niece. There are mysteries in the human heart, for which we
seek in vain to account ; associations and sympathies that come
often uncalled-for and unwished. Ellen knew not wherefore
the scene she witnessed pressed strangely on her heart ; she
struggled against the feeling, and she might perhaps have suc-
ceeded in concealing her inward emotions, but suddenly she
looked on Herbert. She marked him radiant, it seemed, in health
and animation, his words flashed across her mind; soon would
the hue of death be on that cheek, the light of fhat eye be
dimmed, that sweet and thrilling voice be hushed on earth for
ever ; that beautiful form bent down as a flower, " the wind
passeth over it and it is gone, and the place thereof shall know
it no more ;" and thus would it soon be with him she loved.
The gush of feeling mocked all her efforts at control, Ellen
buried her face in her hands, and her slight frame shook, and
the low choking sob was distinctly heard in the brief silence
that followed the words, " Those whom God hath joined let
not man put asunder."
Arthur, at Emmeline's own desire, conducted his bride at
once to the small yet comfortable home which had been pre-
Eared for her in his vicarage on Lord St. EvaPs estate. That
er residence was so near them was a great source of pleasure
to both her parents, and the feeling that her home was in the
centre of all she loved, not only so near the beloved guardians
of her infancy but Caroline and St. Eval, would have added
to her cup of joy, had it not been already full to overflowing ;
the pang of parting was thus soothed to both mothet Aid 5its\L^.
Even more than Caroline, Mrs. Hamilton Ml a^i^ ^Q^5JAxss^SL%
18
410 TUE mother's recompense.
the gentle girl, who scarcely from her infancy had given her
one moment's pain ; but in the happiness of her child she toe
was blessed, and thankfully she raised her Yoice to Him whose
blessing, in the rearing of her children, she had so constantly
and feryently implored, and the mother's fond and yearning
heart was comforted.
Though Ellen had smiled, and seemed to every eye but
that of her watchful aunt the same as usual the whole of that
day, yet Mrs. Hamilton could not resist the impulse that bade
her seek her when all had retired to their separate apartment?.
Ellen had been gone some time, but she was sitting in a pos-
ture of deep thought, in which she had sunk on fir&t entering
her room. She did not observe her aunt, and Mrs. Hamilton
traced many tears slowly, almost one by one, fall ;?pon her
tightly-clasped hands, ere she found voice to speak.
" Ellen, my sweet child !"
Ellen sprung up, she threw herself into those extended
arms, and hid her tearful eyes on her aunt's bosom.
" I have but you now, my own Ellen, to cheer my old age
and enliven our deserted hearth. You must not leave me yet,
dearest. I cannot part with you."
" Oh, no, no ; I will never, never leave you. Your home
shall be my home, my more than mother ; and where you go,
Ellen will -follow," she murmured, speaking unconsciously in
the spirit of one of the sweetest characters the Sacred Book
presents. '^ Do not ask me to leave you ; indeed, indeed, no
Lome will be to me like yours."
"Speak not, then, so despondingly, my Ellen," replied
Mrs. Hamilton, fondly kissing her. " Never shall you leave
me without your own full and free consent. Do you remem-
ber, love, when I first promised that ?" she continued, play-
fully ; for she sought not to draw from Ellen the secret of hei
love, she only wished to soothe, to cheer, to tell her, howevei
unrequited might be her affections, still she was not desolate,
and when she left her, fully had she succeeded. Ellen was
comforted, though she scarcely knew wherefore.
Some few months passed after the marriage of Emmeline,
and the domestic peace of Oakwood yet remained undisturbed.
There were times when Ellen hoped she had been deceived,
that Herbert had been deceived himself But Myrvin dared
not hope ; he was not with his friend as constantly as EUen
was, and almost every time he beheld him he fancied he pe^
oeiVed an alarming ohang^Q.
THE mother's R&COMPENSE. 41 .
About ibis time a malignant disease broke out in the
neighborhood of the Dart, whose awful ravages it appeared as
if no medical aid was adequate to stop. In Herbert Hamilton's
parish the mortality was dreadful, and his duties were conse-
quently increased, painfully to himself and alarmingly to his
Mimily. A superhuman strength seemed, however, suddenly
granted him. Whole days, frequently whole nights, he spent
in the cottages of the afflicted poor ; soothing, encouraging,
compelling even the hardened and impenitent to own the power
of the religion he taught ; bidding even them bow in unfeigned
penitence at the footstool of their Bedeemer, and robbing
death, in very truth, of its sting. The young, the old, men in
their prime, were carried off. The terrible destroyer knew no
distinction of age or sex or rank. Many a young child would
cease its wailing cry of suffering when its beloved pastor en-
tered the lowly cot, and with the fondness of a parent, with
that smile of pitying love which few hearts* can resist, would
seek to soothe the bodily anguish, while at the same moment
he taught the young soul that death was not terrible ; that it
was but a few moments of pain to end in everlasting bliss ;
that they were going to Him who had said " Suffer little chil-
dren to come unto me, for of such is the kingdom of heaven."
From the old, Herbert would learn many a lesson of piety and
resignation, and feel that attendance on such beds of death was
in truth a blessing to himself
Fearlessly, for her trust was fixed on the Rock of Eight-
eousness, did Ellen second the exertions of her cousin in this
time of general affliction. There were many who sought to
deter her, for they whispered the disease was contagious, but
Ellen heeded them not, nor did Mrs. Hamilton, herself so
active in seasons of distress, seek to dissuade her. " The arm
of my God is around me, alike in the cottages of the dying as
in the fancied security of Oakwood," she said one day to Her-
bert, who trembled for her safety, though for himself no fears
had ever entered his mind. " If it is His will that I t Jo
should feel His chastening rod, it will find me though I should
never leave my home ; my trust is in Him. I go in the hum-
ble hope to do His work, and He will net forsake me, Herbert."
Herbert trembled for her no more, and an active and judi-
cious assistant did he find her. For six weeks the disease
continued unabated ; about that time it began to decline.^ and
hopes were entertained that it was indeed dei^Lt\ii^.
There was moisture in the eyes of tVie "jouii^ xc^Ti^sXfcx^^a
412 THE mother's 'recompensb.
he looked around him one Sabbath evening on the diminished
number of his congregation ; so many of whom were either clad
in mourning, or bore on their countenances the marks of recent
suffering. Over the last victim the whole family at Oak-
wood had sincerely mourned, for it was that kind old woman
whom we have mentioned more than once as being connected
with the affairs we have related. Nurse Langford had gone
to her last home, and both Ellen and Herbert dreaded writing
the intelligence to her affectionate son, who was now in Percy's
service. She had been buried only the day previous. Her
seat was exactly opposite the pulpit, where she had so often
said it was such a blessing to look on the face of her dear Mas-
ter Herbert, and to hear such blessed truths from his lips.
She now was gone. Herbert looked on her vacant seat, and
it was then his eyes glistened in starting tears. He had seen
his cousin look towards the same place, and though her veil
was closely drawn down, he^c^ her tears falling fast and thick
upon her book. More than usually eloquent was the young
clergyman that day, in the discourse he had selected as most
appropriate to the feelings of those present. He spoke of
death, and, with an eloquence affecting in its pure simplicity,
he alluded to the loss of those we love. " Wherefore should I
say loss, my brethren ?" he said in conclusion. " They have
but departed to mansions of undying joy : to earth they may
be lost, but not to us. Oh, no, God cursed the ground for
man's sake it is fading, perishable ! There will be a new
heaven and a new earth, but the spirit which Grod breathed
within us shall not see corruption. Released from this earthly
shell, we shall again behold those who have departed first;
they will meet us rejoicing, singing aloud the praises of that
unutterable love that redeemed and saved us, removing the
curse pronounced on man, even as on earth, making us heirs
of eternal life, of everlasting glory ! My brethren, death has
been amongst us, but how clothed 1 To us who remain, perhaps
for a time in sadness; but to those who have triumphantly
departed, even as an angel of light, guiding them to the portals
of heaven. Purified by suffering and repentance, their gar-
ments white as snow, they encircle the throne of their Saviour;
and those whose lives below were those of toil and long suffer-
ing, are now among the blessed. Shall we then weep for
them, my friends? Surely not. Let us think of them, and
follow in their paths, that our last end may be like theirs, that
We may rejoin them, never again to part !
THE mother's recompense. 4 IS
" Are there any here who fear to die? Are there any who
shrink and tremble when they think they may he the next il
may please the Lord to call 7 My Christian brethren, think
awhile, and such thoughts will cease to appal you. To the
heathen alone is death the evil spirit, the blackening shadow
which, when called to mind, will poison his dearest joys ! To
us, brethren, what is it 1 In pain it tells us of ease ; in strife
or tumult, that the grave is a place of quiet ; in the weariness
of exhausted spirits, that the end of all these things is at
hand. Who ever found perfect joy on earth ? Are we not
restless, even in the midst of happiness 7 Death tells us of a
purer happiness, in which there is no weariness, no satiety.
When we look around on those we love, when we feel the
blessings of affection, death tells us that we shall love them
still better in heaven ! Is death then so terrible? Oh, let us
think on it thus in li63 and in health, and in the solitude and
silence of our chamber such thoughts will not depart from us.
Let these reflections pervade us as we witness the dying mo-
ments of those we love, and we shall find even for us death has
no sting ; for we shall meet again in a world where death and
time shall be no more ! Oh, my beloved brethren, let us go
home, and in our closets thank God that His chastening hand
appears about to be removed from us, and so beseech Him to
enlighten our eyes to look on death, that so to give us that
faith, which alone can make us whole, and give us peace, that
we may say with the venerable Simeon, ' Lord, now lettest
thou thy servant depart in peace, for mine eyes have seen thy
salvation.' "
He ceased, and a solemn stillness reigned within the
chur.ch. For a moment the young clergyman bowed his head
in silent prayer upon his book, and then he raised his clasped
hands on high, and, in a voice of almost unearthly sweetness
and power, gave the parting benediction. The flush was ob-
served to fade from his cheek, the lustre depart from his eye ;
he raised his hand languidly to his damp brow, and in another
minute Mr. Hamilton darted from his seat, and received his
son in his arms, in a long and deathlike swoon. That same
evening beheld Herbert Hamilton, the beloved, the good,
stretched on his couch a victim to the same fearful disease, to
remove the sting of which he had so long and perseveringly
labored.
4)4 TUB mother's recompense.
CHAPTEB XX.
There was joy in the superb hotel at Frankfort-sur-Maine
which served as the temporary residence of Lord St. Eval's
family, domestic joy, for tne danger which had threatened the
young countess in her confinement had passed away, and she
and her beautiful babe were doing as well as the fond heart of a
father and husband could desire. They had been at Frankfort
for the last two months, at which place, however, Percy Hamil-
ton had not been stationary, taking advantage of this pause in
St. Eval's intended plans, by seeing as much of G-ermany as
he could during that time; and short as it was, his energetic
mind had derived more improvement and pleasure in the places
he had visited, than many who had lingered over the same
space of ground more than double the time. Intelligence
that Caroline was not quite so well as her friends wished,
aided perhaps by his secret desire to see again her gentle com-
panion, Percy determined for a short time to return to Frank-
fort, till his sister^s health was perfectly restored, and they might
be again enabled to travel together. His almost unexpected
arrival added to the happiness of the young EarPs domestic
circle, and there was somewhat in his arch yet expressive
glance, as he received his baby niece from the arms of Miss
Manvers, and imprinted a light kiss on the infant's sleeping
features, that dyed her cheek with blushes, and bade her heart
beat quick with an indefinable sense of pleasure.
The sisterly friendship of Louisa Manvers had been a source
of real gratification to both the Earl St. Eval and his Countess
during their travels, more particularly now, when the health
4)f the latter required such kindly tending. Mrs. Hamilton
had deeply regretted the impossibility of her being with her
child at such a time ; the letter Lord St.- Eval had despatched
was, however, calculated to disperse all her anxiety, the
danger appearing after the letter had gone, and not lasting
sufficiently long to justify his writing again. They were sit-
ting round the breakfast table the morning after Percy's re-
turn, lengthening the usual time of the meal by lively and
intelligent conversation ; Miss Manvers was presiding at the
table, and Percy did not feel the least inclined to move, de-
claring he would wait for his English despatches, if there were
any, before he went out. The post happened to be rather late
that morning, a circumstance, wonderful to say, which did not
THE MOTHTBR'S RECOMPENSE. 415
occasion Percy annoyance. It came in, however, at length,
bringing several papers for Lord St. Eval and his wife, from
the Malvern family, but only two from Oakwood, one, in the
handwriting of Ellen, to Percy, and one for Robert Langford,
evidently from Mr. Hamilton.
" This is most extraordinary," Percy said, much surprised.
^ My mother not written to Caroline, and none from Herbert
to me ; his duties are increased, I know, but surely he could
find time to write to me."
" Mrs. Hamilton has written to Caroline since her confine-
ment, and so did all her family four or five days ago," said
Lord St. Eval, but his words fell unheeded on the ear of Percy,
who had hastily torn open his cousin's letter, and glanced his
eye over its contents.' Engaged in his own letters, the Earl
did not observe the agitation of his friend, but Miss Manvers
saw his hand tremble so violently, that he could scarcely hold
the paper.
'' Merciful heaven ! Mr. Hamilton Percy, what is the mat-
ter ?" she exclaimed, suddenly losing all her wonted reserve,
as she remarked his strange emotion, and her words, connected
with the low groan that burst from Percy's heart, effectually
roused the Earl's attention.
" Hamilton, speak ; are there ill news from Oakwood ? In
mercy speak ! " he said, almost as much agitated as his friend.
" Herbert," was all Percy could articulate, " Herbert, my
brother : oh, God, he is dying, and I am not near him. Bead,
St. Eval, for pity ; I cannot see the words. Is there yet time
can I reach England in time? or is this only a preparation
to tell me he is dead ? "
" He lives, Percy ; there may be yet time, if you set off at
once," exclaimed the Earl, who saw the necessity of rousing
his friend to exertion, for the sudden blow had bewildered his
every faculty. He st&rted up wildly, and was darting from
the room, when he suddenly paused
" Keep it from Caroline tell her not now, it will kill her,"
he cried. " May God in heaven bless you for those tears !" he
continued, springing towards Louisa, and clasping her hands
convulsively in his, as the sight of her unfeigned emotion
caused the hot tears slowly to trickle down his own cheek, and
his lip quivered, till he could scarcely speak the words of part-
ing. " Oh, think of me ; I go to the dying bed of him, whom
I had hoped would one day have been to you a brother would
have joined " He paused in overwhelming emotion, took the
416 THE mother's recompense.
hand of the trembling girl, raised it to his lips, and dartcel
from the apartment.
St. Eval hastily followed him, for he saw Percy was in no
state to think of any thing himself, and the letter Robert had
received, telling him of the death of his mother, rendered him
almost as incapable of exertion as his master ; but as soon as
he heard the cause of Percy's very visible but at first in-
comprehensible agitation, his own deep affliction was at once
subdued ; he was ready and active in Percy's service. That
Mr. Hamilton should thus have written to him, to alleviate
the blow of a parent's death, to comfort him when his own son
lay on a dying bed, penetrated at once the heart of the young
man, and urged him to exertion.
Day and night Percy travelled ; but we must outstrip even
his rapid course, and conduct our readers to Oakwood, the
evening of the second day after Percy's arrival at Ostend.
Herbert Hamilton lay on his couch, the cold hand of Death
upon his brow; but instead of robing his features with a
ghastly hue, it had spread over them even more than usual
beauty. E educed he was to a mere shadow, but his prayers
in his days of health and life had been heard ; the delirium of
fever had passed, and he met death unshrinkingly, his mind
retaining even more than its wonted powers. It was the Sab-
bath evening, and all around him was still and calm. For the
first two days after the delirium had departed, his mind had
still been darkened, restless, and uneasy. Perseveringly as he
had labored in his calling, he had felt in those darker days the
utter nothingness of his own works, how wholly insufficient
they had been to secure his salvation ; and the love of his God,
the infinite atonement in which he so steadily believed, shone
not with sufficient brightness to remove this painful darkness.
Death was very near, and it no longer seemed the angel of light
he had ever regarded it ; but on the Saturday the mist was
mercifully dispelled from his mind, the clouds dispersed, and
faith shone forth with a brilliancy, a lustre overpowering ; it
told of heaven with an eloquence that banished every other
thought, and Herbert's bodily sufferings were felt no longer ;
the confines of heaven were gained ^but a brief space, one
mortal struggle, and he would meet his Mary at the footstool
of his God.
With solemn impressiveness, yet affecting tenderness. Arch-
deacon Howard had administered the sacrament to him, whom
he regarded at once as pupil, friend, and brother i and the
THE MOTHEE*S IIEC0MFN8E. 417
wliole family of the dying youth, at his own particular request,
had shared it with him. Exhausted by the earnestness in
which he had joined in the solemn service, Herbert \iow lay
with one hand clasped in his mother's, who sat by his side, her
head bent over his, and her whole countenance, save when the
gaze of her son was turned towards her, expressive of tearless,
heart-rending sorrow, struggling for resignation to the will of
Him, who called her Herbert to Himself Emmeline was
kneeling by her mother's side. Mr. Hamilton leaned against
the wall, pale and still ; it was only the agonized expression of
his manly features that betrayed he was a living being. On
the left side of the dying youth, stood Arthur Myrvin, who,
from the moment of his arrival at Oakwood, had never once
left Herbert's couch, night and day he remained beside him ;
and near Arthur, but yet closer to her cousin, knelt the or-
phan, her eyes tearless indeed, but her whole countenance so
haggard and wan, that had not all been engrossed in individual
suffering, it could not have passed unobserved. The talL ven-
erable figure of the Archdeacon, as he stood a little aloof from
the principal figures, completed the painful group.
" My own mother, your Herbert is so happy, so very happy !
you must not weep for me, mother. Oh, it is your fostering
love and care, the remembrance of all your tenderness from
my infancy, gilding my boyhood with sunshine, my manhood
with such refreshing rays ^it is that which is resting on my
heart, and I would give it words, and thank and bless you, but I
cannot. And my father, too, my beloved, my revered father
oh^ but little have I done to repay your tender care, my bro-
ther and sister's love, but my Father in heaven will bless
bless you all ; I know, I feel He will."
" Percy," repeated the dying youth, a gleam of light kin-
dling in his eye and flushing his cheek. '' Is there indeed a
hope that I may see him, that I may trace those beloved fea-
tures once again ?"
He closed his eyes, and his lips moved in silent yet fervent
prayer ; that wish was still powerful within ; it was the only
thought of earth that lingered.
" Tell him," he said, and his voice sounded weaker and
weaker, " tell him, Herbert's last prayer was for him, that he
was in my last thoughts ; tell him to seek comfort at the
foot of that Throne where we have so often knelt to-
gether. Oh, let him not sorrow, fbr I shall be happy oh,
00 happy !"
18
413 THE UOTBJEjJs RSCOMFEN8S.
Again he was silent, and for a much longer mist*
val; but when he reopened his eyes, they were fixed on
Ellen.
'^ My sister, my kind and tender nurse, what shall I say to
you ?" he said, languidly, but in a tone that thrilled to her
aching heart. '' I can but commend you to His care, who can
take from grief its sting, even as He hath clothed this moment
in victory. May his Spirit rest upon you, Ellen, and give you
peace. May he bless you, not only for your affectionate kind-
ness towards me, but to her who went before me. You will
not forget, Ellen." His glance wandered from his cousin to
his mother, and then returned to her. She bowed her head
upon his extended hand, but her choking voice could speak no
word.
Caroline, too, she will weep for me, but St. Eval will dry
her tears ; tell them I did not forget them ; that my love and
blessing is theirs even as if they had been around me. Emme-
line, Arthur, Mr. Howard, oh, where are you 1 my eyes are
dim, my voice is failing, yet "
" I am here, my beloved son," said the Archdeaeon, and
Herbert fixed a kind glance upon his face, and leaned his head
against him.
" I would tell you, that it is the sense of the Divine pres
ence, of love, unutterable, infinite, inexhaustible, that has
taken all anguish from this moment. My spirit rises tri-
umphant, secure of eternal salvation, triumphing in the love
of Him who died for me. Oh, Death, well may I say, where
is thy sting? oh, grave, where is thy victory? they are
passed; heaven is opening. Oh, bliss unutterable, un-
dying !" He sunk back utterly eadiausted, but the expres-
sion of his countenance still evinced the internal triumph
of his soul.
" A faint sound, as of the distant trampling of horses, sud-
denly came upon the ear. Nearer, nearer still, and a flush of
excitement rose to Herbert's cheek. " Percy can it be ? My
God, I thank thee for this mercy !"
Arthur darted from the room, as the sound appeared
rapidly approaching; evidently it was a horse urged to its
utmost speed, and it could be none other save Percy. Arthur
flew across the hall, and through the entrance, which had
been flung widely open, as the figure of the young heir of
Oakwood had been recognized by the streaming eyes of the
faithful Morris, who stood by his young master's stirrup, but
THE mother's recompense. 419
without Tittering a word. Percy's tongue clove to the roof of
his mouth ; his eyes were bloodshot and haggard. He had no
power to ask a question, and it was only the appearance of
Myrvin, his entreaty that he would be calm ere Herbert saw
him, that roused him to exertion. His brother yet lived ; it
was enough, and in another minute he stood on the threshold
of Herbert's room. With an overpowering effort the dying
youth raised himself on his couch, and extended his arms
towards him.
"Percy, my own Percy, this is kind," he said, and his
voice suddenly regained its wonted power. Percy sprung
towards him, and the brothers were clasped in each other's
arms. No word did Percy speak, but his choking sobs were
heard ; there was no movement in the drooping form of
his brother to say that he had heard the sound ; he did not
raise his head from Percy's shoulder, or seek to speak of
comfort.
" Speak to me, oh, once again, but once more, Herbert !"
exclaimed Percy. Fearful agony was in his voice, but, oh, it
could not rouse the dead : Herbert Hamilton had departed.
His last wish on earth was fulfilled. It was but the lifeless
form of his beloved brother that Percy held in the stern grasp
of despairing woe. It was long ere the truth was known, and
when it was, there was no sound of wailing heard within the
chamber, no cry of sorrow broke the solemn stillness. For
him they could not weep, and for themselves, oh, it was a grief
too deep for tears.
We will not linger on the first few weeks that passed over
the inmates of Oakwood after the death of one we have fol-
lowed so long, and beheld so fondly and deservedly beloved.
Silent and profound was that sorrow, but it was the sorrow of
those who, in all things, both great and small, beheld the hand
of a God of love. Could the faith, the truth, which from her
girlhood's years had distinguished Mrs. Hamilton, desert her
now? Would her husband permit her to look to him for
support and consolation under this deep affliction, and yet not
find it 1 No ; they looked up to their God ; they rejoiced that
so peaceful, so blessed had been the death of their beloved one.
His last words to them came again and again on the heart of
each parent as soothing balm, of which nor time nor circum-
Btance could deprive them. For the sake of each other, they
exorted themselves, an example followed by their children ; bu*
420 THE mother's becompense.
each felt years mat pass ere the loss they had sustained would
lose its pang, ere they could cease to miss the being they had
so dearly loved, who had been such a brilliant light in their
domestic circle brilliant, yet how gentle ; not one that wa8
ever sparkling, ever changing, but of a soft and steady lustre.
On earth that light had set, but in heaven it was dawniog
never to set again.
For some few weeks the family remained all together, as
far at least as Arthur's ministerial duties permitted. Mr.
Hamilton wished much to see that living, now vacant by the
death of his son, transferred to Myrvin, and he exerted himself
towards effecting an exchange. Ere, however, Percy could re-
turn to the Continent, or Emmeline return to her husband's
home, the sudden and alarming illness of Mrs. Hamilton de^
tained them both at Oakwood. The fever which had been
raging in the village, and which had hastened the death of
Herbert, had also entered the household of Mrs. Hamilton. Be-
solved that no affliction of her own should interfere with those
duties of benevolence, to exercise lyhich was her constant prac-
tice, Mrs. Hamilton had compelled herself to exertion beyond
the strength of a frame already wearied and exhausted by long-
continued but forcibly-suppressed anxiety, and three weeks after
the death of her son, she too was stretched on a bed of suffer-
ing, which, for the first few days during the violence of the
fever, her afflicted family believed might also be of death. In
this trying time, it was to Ellen that not only her cousins but
even her uncle turned, by her example to obtain more control
and strength. No persuasions could induce her to leave the
side of her aunt's couch, or resign to another the painful yet
soothing task of nursing. Young and inexperienced she was^
but her strong affection for her aunt, heightened by some other
feeling which was hidden in her own breast, endowed her at
once with strength to endure continued fatigue, with an expe-
rience that often made Mr. Maitland contemplate her with as-
tonishment. From the period of Herbert's death, Ellen had
placed her feelings under a restraint that utterly prevented all
relief in tears. She was never seen to weep ; every feature
had indeed spoken the deep affliction that was hers, but it
never interfered with the devoted care she manifested towards
her aunt. Silently yet perseveringly she labored to soften the
intense suffering in the mother's heart ; it was on her neck
Mrs. Hamilton had first wept freely and relievingly, and aa
Bhe clasped tb^ orphan to Yiqt \^%Qm.^W4. \\^d\i^ her heart
^
THE mother's recompense. Atii
in th^nksgiying that such a precious gift was yet preservecl
her, how little did even she imagine all that was passing in
Ellen's heart ; that Herbert to her young fancy had been how
much dearer than a brother ; that she mourned not only a
cousin's loss, but one round whom her first affections had been
twined with an intensity that death alone could sever. How
little could she guess the continued struggle pressing on that
young mind, the anguish of her solitary moments, ere she
could by prayer so calm her bursting heart as to appear the
composed and tranquil being she ever seemed before the family.
Mrs. Hamilton could only feel that the comfort her niece be-
stowed in this hour of affliction, her controlled yet sympathiz-
ing conduct, repaid her for all the care and sorrow Ellen once
had caused. Never had she regretted she had taken the
orphans to her heart and cherished them as her own ; but now
it was she felt the Lord had indeed returned the blessing ten-
fold in her own bosoin ; and still more did she feel this in the
long and painful convalescence that followed her brief but
severe attack of fever, when Ellen was the only one of her
children remaining near her.
Completely worn out by previous anxiety, the subsequent
affliction, and, finally, her mother's dangerous illness, Emme-
line's health appeared so shattered, that as soon as the actual
danger was passed, Myrvin insisted on her going with him. for
change of air and scene, to Llangwillan, a proposal that both
her father and Mr. Maitland seconded; trembling for the pre-
cious girl so lately made his own, Arthur resisted her entreaties
to remain a little longer at Oakwood, and conveyed her at once
to his father's vicarage, where time and improved tidings of
her mother, restored at length the bloom to her cheek and the
smile to her lip.
It was strange to observe the difference of character which
opposite circumstances and opposite treatment in their infant
years had made in these two cousins. Emmeline and Ellen,
had they been brought up from babes together, and the same
discipline extended to each, would, in all probability, have in
after years displayed precisely the same disposition ; but
though weak indulgence had never been extended to Emme-
line, prosperity unalloyed, save in the affair with Arthur
Myrvin, had been her portion. Affection and caresses had
been ever lavished almost unconsciously upon her, but instead
of cherishing faults, such treatment had formed her happiness,
and had encouraged and led her on in the paths of virtue
422 THE mother's recomfenbb.
Every thought and feeling were expressed without disguise;
she had been so accustomed to think aloud to her mother from
childhood, so accustomed to give vent to her little vexatioDS
in words, her sorrows in tears, which were quickly dried, that
as years increased, she found it a very difficult task either to
restrain her sentiments or control her feelings. Her mind
could not be called weak, for in her affection for Arthur
Myrvin, as we have seen, when there was a peremptory call for
exertion or self-control, it was ever heard and attended to.
Her health indeed suffered, but that very fact proved the mind
was stronger than the frame ; though when she marked Ellen's
superior composure and coolness, Emmeline would sometimes
bitterly reproach herself From her birth, Ellen had been
initiated in sorrow, her infant years had been one scene of trial
Never caressed by her mother or those around her, save wheo
her poor father was near, she had learned to bury every affec-
tionate yearning deep within her own little heart, every childish
sentiment was carefully concealed, and her father's death, the
horrors of that night, appeared to have placed the seal on her
character, infant as she was. She was scarcely ten when she
became an inmate of her aunt's family, but then it was too late
for her character to become as Emmeline's. The impression
had been made on the yielding wax, and now it could not be
effaced. Many circumstances contributed to strengthen this
impression, as in the first portion of this history we have seen.
Adversity had made Ellen as she was, and self-control had be-
come her second nature, long before she knew the meaning of
the word.
The intelligence of Herbert's death, though deferred till
St. Eval thought his wife enabled to bear it with some com-
posure, had, however, so completely thrown her back, that she
was quite unequal to travel to England, as her wishes had
instantly dictated, and her husband was compelled to keep up
a constant system of deception with regard to her mother's
illness, lest she should insist, weak as she was, on immediately
flying to her aid. As poon as sufficient strength returned for
Mrs. Hamilton to express her wishes, she entreated Percy to
rejoin his sister, that all alarm on her account might subside.
The thought of her child was still uppermost in the mother's
mind, though her excessive debility compelled her to lie
motionless for hours on her couch, scarcely sensible of any
thing passing around her, or that her husband and Ellen hardly
lor one moment left liet ei^e, 'lYift ^^ti vxr^^^\^\. Q^xqUuo
THE mother's recompense. 42ft
reooTered soon after Percy's arrival ; and at the earnest mes*
sage Percy bore her from her mother, that she wonld not think
of returning to England till her health was quite restored, she
consented leisurely to take the celebrated excursion down the
Rhine, ere she returned home.
It would have seemed as though no other grief could bo
the portion of Ellen, but another sorrow was impending over
her, which, while it lasted, was a source of distress inferior
only to Herbert's death. Entering the library one morning,
she was rather surprised to find not only Mr. Maitland but
Archdeacon Howard with her uncle.
The former was now too constantly a visitor it the Hall to
occasion individually much surprise, but it was the expression
on the countenances of each that created alarm. Mr. Hamil-
ton appeared struggling with some strong and painful emotion,
and had started as Ellen entered the room, while he looked
imploringly towards the Archdeacon, as if seeking his counsel
and assistance.
" Can we indeed trust her ?" Mr. Maitland said, doubt-
ingly, and in a low voice, as he looked sadly upon Ellen. ^' Can
we be sure these melancholy tidings will be for the present in-
violably kept from Mrs. Hamilton, for suspense such as this,
in her present state of health, might produce consequences on
which I tremble to think ?"
" You may depend upon me, Mr. Maitland," Ellen said,
firmly, as she came forward. " What new affliction can have
happened of which you so dread my aunt being informed ? Oh,
do not deceive me. I have heard enough to make fancy per-
haps more dreadful than reality, Mr. Howard. My dear uncle,
will you not trust me T^
"My poor Kllen," her uncle said, in a faltering voice,
" you have indeed borne sorrow well ; but this will demand
even a greater share of fortitude. All is not yet known, there
may be hope, but I dare not encourage it. Tell her, Howard,"
he added, hastily shrinking from her sorrowful glance, " I
oannot."
" Is it of Edward you would tell me ? Oh, what of him V'
she exclaimed. " Oh, tell me at once, Mr. Howard, indeed,
indeed, I can bear it."
With the tenderness of a father, Mr. Howard gently and
soothingly told her that letters had that morning arrived from
Edward's captain, informing them that the young lieutenant
had been despatched with a boat's crew,,on a message to a ship
424 TBE HOTHE3l's RECOMFENSE.
stationed about twelve miles southward, towards the Cape U
Good Hope ; a storm had arisen as the night darkened, but
still Captain Seaforth had felt no uneasiness, imagining his
joung officer had deemed it better remaining on board the
Stranger all night, though somewhat contrary to his usual
habits of promptness and activity. As the day^ however,
waned to noon, and still Lieutenant Fortescue did not appear,
the captain dispatched another boat to know why he tarried
The sea was still raging in fury from the last night's storm,
but the foaming billows had never before detained Edward
from his duty. With increasing anxiety. Captain Seaforth
paced the deck for several hours, until indeed the last boat he
had sent returned. He scanned the crew with an eye that
never failed him, and saw with dismay, that neither his Ilea-
tenant nor one of his men were amongst them. Horror-stricken
and distressed, the sailors related, that despite every persuasion
of the captain of the Stranger, Lieutenant Fortescue had re-
solved on returning to the Gem the moment his message had
been delivered and the answer given ; his men had seconded
him, though many signs denoted that as the evening advanced,
so too would the impending storm. Twilight was darkening
around him when, urged on by a mistaken sense of duty, the
intrepid young man descended into the boat, and not half an
hour afterwards the storm came on with terrific violence, and
the pitchy darkness had entirely frustrated every effort of the
crew of the Stranger to trace the boat. Morning dawned, and
brought with it some faint confirmation of the fate which all
had dreaded. Some spars on which the name of the Gem was
impressed, and which were easily recognized as belonging to
the lofig-boat, floating on the foaming wS.ves, and the men sent
out to reconnoitre had discovered the dead body of one of the
unfortunate sailors, who the evening previous had been so full
of life and mirth, clinging to some sea-weed; while a hat,
bearing the name of Edward Fortescue, caused the painful
suspicion that the young and gallant officer had shared the
same fate. Every inquiry was set afloat, every exertion made,
to discover something more certain concerning him, but with-
out any effect. Some faint hope there yet existed, that he
might have been picked up by one of the ships which were
continually passing and repassing on that course ; and Captain
Seaforth concluded his melancholy narration by entreating
Mr. Hamilton not to permit himseft to despair, as hope there
fet was, though but f aiut. ^Vi^cvi^-^ V^ ^xa\fc ^ Vv^ feit^ not
THE mother's recompense. 425
merely to calm the minds of Edward's sorrowing friends, but
Mr. Hamilton could not share these sanguine expectations.
Mystery had also enveloped the fate of his brother-in-law,
Charles Manvers ; long, very long, had he hoped that he lived,
that he would yet return ; but year after year had passed, till
four-aud- twenty had rolled by, and still there were no tidings.
Well did he remember the heart-sickening that had attended
his hopes deferred, the anguish of suspense which for many
weary months had been the portion of his wife, and he thought
it almost better for Ellen to believe her brother dead, than to
live on in the indulgence of hopes that might have no foundation ;
yet how could he tell her he was dead, when there was one
gleam of hope, however faint. Well did he know the devoted
affection which the orphans bore to each other. He gazed on
her in deep commiseration, as in unbroken silence she listened
to the tenderly-told tale ; and, drawing her once more to his
bosom as Mr. Howard ceased, he fondly and repeatedly kissed
her brow, as he entreated her not to despair ; Edward might
yet be saved. No word came from EUeu's parched lips, but
he felt the cold shudder of suffering pass through her frame.
Several minutes passed, and still she raised not her head. Im-
pressively the venerable clergyman addressed her, in tones and
words that never failed to find their way to the orphan's heart.
He spoke of a love and mercy that sent these continued trials
to mark her as more peculiarly His own. He told of comfort,
that even in such a moment she could feel. He bade her cease
not to pray for her brother's safety ; that nothing was too great
for the power of the mercy of the Lord; that however it might
appear impossible to worldly minds that he could be saved, yet
if the Almighty's hand had been stretched forth, a hundred
storms might have passed him by unhurt ; yet he bade her not
entertain too sanguine hopes. " Place our beloved Edward and
yourself in the hands of our Father in heaven, my child ; im-
plore Him for strength to meet His will, whatever it may be,
and if, indeed. He hath taken him in mercy to a happier world,
He will give you strength and grace to meet His ordinance of
love ; but if hope still lingers, check it not ^he may be spared.
Be comfortea, then, my child, and for the sake of the beloved
relative yet spared you, try and compose your agitated spirits.
We may trust to your care in retaining this fresh grief from
her, I know we may^"
'' You are right, Mr. Howard ; oh, may God bless you for
your kindness!" said the almost heart-broken girl, as she
495 THE mother's recomfenss.
rmised her bead and placed her trembling hands in his. Her
cheeks were colorless as marble, but the long dark fringes that
rested on them were unwetted by tears ; she had forcibly sent
them back. Her heart throbbed almost to suffocation, but she
would not listen to its anguish. The form of Herbert seemed
to flit before her and remind her of her promise, that her every
care, her every energy should be devoted to his mother ; and
that remembrance, strengthened as it was by Mr. Howard's
words, nerved her to the painful duty which was now hers to
perform. " You may indeed trust me. My Father in heaven
will support me, and give me strength to conceal this intelli-
gence effectually, till my beloved aunt is enabled to hear it
with composure. Do not fear me, Mr. Maitland ; it is not in
my own strength I trust, for that I feel too painfully at thh
moment is less than nothing. My dearest uncle, will you not
trust your Ellen ?"
She turned towards him as she spoke, and Mr. Hamilton
felt the tears glisten in his eyes as he met the upturned glance
of the afflicted orphan ^now indeed, as it seemed, so utterly
alone.
" Yes, I do and ever will trust you, my beloved Ellen," he
said, with emotion. " May God grant you His blessing in this
most painful duty. To Him I commend you, my child ; I
would speak .of comfort and hope, but He alone can give them."
" And He vnll" replied Ellen, in a slow, steady voice ; and,
gently withdrawing her hand from Mr. Howard's, she softly
but quickly left the library. But half an hour elapsed, and
Ellen was once more seated by her aunt's couch. The struggle
of that half hour we will not follow ; it was too sacred, too
painful to be divulged, and many, many solitary hours wera
thus spent in suffering, known only to herself and to her God.
" You have been long away from me, my Ellen, or else my
selfish wish to have you again near me has made me think so,"
Mrs. Hamilton said, that eventful morning.
" Have you then missed me, my dear aunt ? I am glad of
it, for comfort as it is to be allowed to remain always with you,
it is even greater pleasure to think you like to have me near
you," replied Ellen.
" Can I do otherwise, my own Ellen? Where can I find a
nurse so tender, affectionate, and attentive as you are ? Who
Would know so well how to cheer and soothe me as the child
whose smallest action ipTo^ea Vio^n TowcVk. ^\\^ li^ea me ?"
Tears glistened in t\ie e^^B ot "^NVetL^'&V^T ^^5Sl\ ^-^Oa^^Vst.
THE MOTHE&'S RECOMPENSE. 427
if she had wanted fresh incentive for exertion, those simple
words would have given it. Oh, how much encouragement
may be given in one sentence from those we love ; how is every
effort to please lightened by the consciousness it is appreciated ;
how is every duty sweetened when we feel we are beloved.
Mrs. Hamilton knew not how that expression of her feel-
ings had fallen on the torn heart of her niece ; she guessed not
one half Ellen endured in secret for her sake, but she felt, and
showed she felt, the full value of the unremitting affectionate
attentions she received.
Days, weeks passed by ; at length, Mrs. Hamilton's ex-
treme debility began to give place to the more restless weari-
ness of convalescence. It was comparatively an easy task to
sit in continued silence by the couch, actively yet quietly to
anticipate her faintest wish, and attend to all the duties of
nurse, which demanded no exertion in the way of talking, and
other efforts at amusement ; there were then very many hours
that Ellen's saddened thoughts could dwell on the painful
past.
She struggled to behold heaven's mercy in affliction, and
rapidly, more rapidly than she was herself aware of, was this
young and gentle girl progressing in the paths of grace. Had
Herbert and Mary both lived and been united, Ellen would,
in all probability, have at length so conquered her feelings, as
to have been happy in the marriage state ; and though she could
not have bestowed the first freshness of young affection, she
would ever have so felt and acted as to be, in very truth, as
Lord St. Eval had said, a treasure to any man wno had tho
felicity to call her his. Had her cousin indeed married, Ellen
mifeht have felt it incumbent on her as an actual duty so to
conquer herself ; but now that he was dead, she felt it no sin to
love, in devoting herself to his parents in their advancing age,
partly for his sake, in associating him with all she did for
them, and for all whom he loved; there was no sin now in aU
this, but she felt it would be a crime to give her hand to
another, when her whole heart was thus devoted to the dead.
There was something peculiarly soothing to the grateful and
affectionate feelings with which she regarded her aunt and
ancle, that she perhaps would be the only one of all those who
had
Played
Beneatli the same green tree,
Whose voices mingled as they prayed
Around one parent knee,"
428 THE mother's recohpeksc
wlio wouM remain with nothing to divert her attention from th
pleasing task of soothing and cheering their advancing years, v
and her every effort was now turned towards making her singk I
life indeed one of blessedness^ by works of good and thoughts
of love towards all with whom she might associate ; but in
these visions her brother had ever intimately mingled. She
had pictured herself beholding and rejoicing in his happiness,
loving his children as her own, being to them a second mother.
She had fancied herself ever received with joy, a welcome inr
mate of her Edward's home ; and so strongly had her imagina- ^
tion become impressed with this idea, that its annihilation ap
peared to heighten the anguish wita which the news of hiB
untimely fate had overwhelmed her. He was gone ; and it
'seemed as if she had never, never felt so utterly destitute be-
fore ; as if advancing years had entirely lost the soft and gentle
coloring with which they had so lately been invested It
seemed but a very short interval since she had seen him, the
lovely, playful child, his mother's pet, the admiration of all who
looked on him ; then he stood before her, the handsome, manly
boy she had parted with, when he first left the sheltering roof
of Oakwood, to become a sailor. Then, shuddering, she re-
called him when they had met again, after a lapse of suffering
in the young life of each ; and her too sensitive fancy conjured *
up the thought that her fault had not yet been sufficiently
chastised, that he was taken from her because she had lovea
him too well ; because her deep, intense affection for him had
caused her once to forget the mandate of her God. In the
deep agony of that thought, it seemed as if she lived over
again those months of suffering, which in a former page we
have endeavored to describe.
Humbled to the dust, she recognized the chasstising hand of
her Maker; and as if it had only now been committed, she
acknowledged and repented the transgression a moment's pow-
erful temptation had forced her to commit. Had there been
one to whom she could have confessed these feelings, whose
soothing friendship would have whispered it was needless and
uncalled-for to enhance the suffering of Edward's fate by such
self-reproach, Ellen's young heart would have been relieved ;
but from that beloved relative who might have consoled and
alleviated her grief, this bitter trial she must still conceal. Mr.
Hamilton dared not encourage the hope which he had never
felt, but his bosom swelled with love and almost veneration for
the gentle being, (.0 w\iose c^xe^ '^T.^^\^^^^V'8.^^j^^\x^"i.\im
THE mother's recokfense. 429
the recovery of his beloved wife was, under Providence, greatly
owing. He longed to speak of comfort ; but, alas \ what could
he say ? he would have praised, encouraged, but there was that
about his niece that utterly forbade it ; for it silently yet im-
pressively told whence that sustaining strength arose.
It was when Mrs. Hamilton was beginning to recover, that
still more active exertions on the part of Ellen were demanded.
Eivery effort was now made to prevent her relapsing into that
despondency which convalescence so often engenders, however
we may strive to resist it. She was ready at a minute's notice
to comply with and often to anticipate her aunt's most faintly
hinted wishes ; she would read to her, sing her favorite airs,
or by a thousand little winning arts unconsciously to CLtice
the interest of her aunt to her various pursuits, as had been
her wont in former days. There was no appearance of effort
on her part, and Mrs. Hamilton insensibly, at first, but surely
felt that with her strength her habitual cheerfulness was re-
turning, and fervently she blessed her God for this abundant
mercy. No exertion on her side was wanting to become to
her husband and household as she had been before the death
of her beloved son ; she felt the beauteous flower was trans-
planted above ; the hand of the reaper had laid it low, though
the eye of faith beheld it in perfect undying loveliness ; and
though the mother's heart yet sorrowed, 'twas a sorrow now in
which no pain was mingled.
One evening they had been speaking, among other subjects,
of Lilla Grahame, whose letters, Mrs. Hamilton had observed,
were not written in her usual style. Too well did Ellen guess
the reason ; once only the poor girl had alluded to Edward's
supposed fate, but that once had more than sufficiently be-
trayed to Ellen's quickly-excited sympathy the true nature of
her feelings towards him. As Lilla had not, however, written
in perfect confidence, but still as if she feared to write too
much on emotions she scarcely understood herself, Ellen had not
answered her as she would otherwise have done. That her
sympathy was Lilla's was very clearly evident, but as the
secrecy preserved towards Mrs. Hamilton had been made
known to her by Emmeline, she had not written again on the
subject, but yet Ellen was not deceived ; in every letter she
received * she could easily penetrate where Lilla's anxious
thoughts were wandering. Of Cecil Grahame there were still
no tidings, and, all circumstances considered, it did not seem
strange she should often be sorrowful and anxious. On dis
430 iHE mother's recompense.
missing tais subject, Mrs. Hamilioii had asked Ellen to sing
to her, and selected, as a very old favorite, " The Graves of
the Household." She had always forgotten it, she said, be-
fore, when Ellen wished her to select one she preterred. She
was surprised that Ellen had not reminded her of it, as it had
once been an equal favorite with her. For a moment Ellen
hesitated, and then hastened to the piano. In a low, sweet,
yet unfaltering voice, she complied with her aunt's request;
once only her lip quivered, for she could not sing that versfl
without the thought of Edward.
" The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one,
He lies where pearls lie deep ;
He was the loved of all, yet none
O'er his low bed may weep."
Mr. Hamilton unobserved had entered the room, and low
stood with folded arms and mournful glance, alternately re-
garding his wife and niece. Mr. Maitland had that morning
told him there was not now the slightest danger remaining,
and he rather advised that Mrs. Hamilton should be informed
of what had passed, lest the painful intelligence should come
upon her when quite unprepared. He had striven for com-
posure, and he now entered expressly to execute this painful
task ; he had marked the suffering imprinted on his niece's
face, and he could continue the deception no longer. On the
conclusion of her song, Ellen reseated herself on the stool she
had occupied at her aunt's feet, her heart too full to speak.
" Why are you so silent, my dear husband ?" Mrs. Hamil-
ton said, addressing him, and he almost started at her ad
dress. " May I know the subject of such very deep thought?'
'' Ellen, partly," he replied, and he spoke the truth. " I
was thinking now pale and thin she looks, and how much she
has lately had tc distress and cause her anxiety."
" She has, indeed, and therefore the sooner we can leave
Oakwood for a few months, as we intended, the better. I
have been a long and troublesome patient, my Ellen, and all
your efforts to restore me to perfect health will b quite inef-
fectual unless I see the color return to your cheek, and your
step resume its elasticity."
" Do not fear for me, my beloved aunt ; indeed I &m quite
well," answered Ellen, not daring to look up, lest her tears
should be discovered..
" You are right, my Emmelino," suddenly exclaimed Mr
THE mother's recompense. 431
Hamilton, rousing himself with a strong effort, and advancing
to the couch where his wife sat, he threw his arms around her.
" You do not yet know all that our Ellen has in secret borne
for your sake. You do not yet know the deep affliction which
is the real cause of that alteration in her health, which only
now you are beginning to discover. Oh, my beloved wife, 1
have feared to tell you, but now that strength is returning, I
may hesitate no longer ; for her sake you will bear these cruel
tidings even as she has done. Will you not comfort her?
Will you ^^ The sudden opening of the door arrested the
words upon his lips. Touched by indefinable alarm, Mrs.
Hamilton's hand grasped his without the power of speech.
Ellen had risen, for she felt she could not hear those sad words
again spoken.
It was James the footman who entered, and he placed a
letter in her hand. She looked at the direction, a faint cry
broke from her lips ; she tore it open, gazed on the signature,
and sunk senseless on the floor. She who had borne suffering
so well, who had successfully struggled to conceal every trace
of emotion, when affliction was her allotted portion, was now
too weak to bear the sudden transition from such bitter grief
to overwhelming joy. Mr. Hamilton sprang forward; he
could not arrest her fall, but his eye had caught the well-known
writing of him he had believed lay buried in the ocean ; and
conquering her own extreme agitation, Mrs. Hamilton com-
pelled herself to think of nothing but restoring the still sense-
less girl to life. A few, very few words told her all. At first
Mr. Hamilton's words had been almost inarticulate from the
thankfulness that filled his heart. It was long ere Ellen awoke
to consciousness. Her slight frame was utterly exhausted by
its continued conflict with the mind within, and now that joy
had come, that there was no more need for control or sorrow,
her extraordinary energy of character for the moment fled, and
left her in very truth the weak and loving woman. Before she
could restore life to Ellen's inanimate form, Mrs. Hamilton
had time to hear that simple tale of silent suffering, to feel her
bosom glow in increasing love and gratitude towards the gentle
being who for her sake had endured as much.
" Was it but a dream, or did I not read that Edward lived,
was spared, that he was not drowned ? Oh, tell me ! my
brain seems still to swim. Did they not give me a letter
signed by him himself? Oh, was it only fancy ?"
" It is truth, my beloved Ellen ; the Almighty mercifully
432 THE mothee's recompense.
Btretched forth His arm and saved him. Should we not gife
aim thanks, my child?''
Like dew upon the arid desert, or healing balm to a throb-
bing wound, so did those few and simple words fall on Ellen's
ear ; but the fervent thanksgiving that rose swelling in her
heart, wanted not words to render it acceptable to Him, whose
anbounded mercy she thus acknowledged and adored.
Mrs. Hamilton pressed her closer to her bosom, again and
again she kissed her, and tried to speak the words of affection-
ate soothing, which seldom failed to restore Ellen to com-
posure.
" You told me once, my Ellen, that you never, never coidd
repay the large debt of gratitude you seemed to think yon
owed me. Do you remember my saying you could not tell
that one day you might make me your debtor, and are not my
words truth ? Did I not prophesy rightly ? What do I not
owe you, my own love, for sparing me so much anxiety and
wretchedness ? Look up and smile, my Ellen, and let us try
if we can listen composedly to our dear Edward's account of
his providential escape. If he were near me I would scold him
for giving you such inexpressible joy so suddenly."
Ellen did look up and did smUe a bright beaming smile of
chastened happiness, and again and again did she read over
that letter, as if it were tidings too blessed to be believed, as if
it could not be Edward himself who had written. His letter
was hasty, nor did he enter into very many particulars, which,
to render a particular part of our tale intelligible, we must re-
late at large in another chapter. This epistle was dated from
Rio Janeiro, and written evidently under the idea that his sis-
ter had received a former letter containing every minutiae of
his escape, which he had forwarded to her, under cover to Cap-
tain Seaforth, only seven days after his supposed death. Had
the captain received this letter, all anxiety would have been
spared, for as he did not write to Mr. Hamilton for above a
week after Edward's disappearance, it would have reached him
first ; it was therefore very clear it had been lost on its way,
and Edward fearing such might be the case, from the uncertain
method by which it had been sent, wrote again. He had quite
recovered, he said, all ill effects from being so long floating in
the water on a narrow plank ; that he was treated with marked
kindness and attention by all the crew of the Alma, a Spanish
vessel bound to Rio Janeiro and thence to New York, partica-
laxly by an Englis\imaii,lA^\x\.e\\^TA.'^^T^^\y.\v\.^\a^V'c^^
it was lie vii' ioal. ujFvaiiifL dl nt*: ^srriaiiL n ipiper & ^hbel v
He ccsii:siKiL "Lits^ 'P]kt i^ume'iiimr i4i*iir .*-iifTii^3aHin iLnraiiiiiii
he eouli xicc fi^*- mi; -tim-i iii*L ii4t i'nfi^2r a: 1^^^-^-^ Tt-r-
aUraeung ia refiiteci- x iii^ afeciiHL -^-^ si try itt itmif^^L
was UDC'jieii&T^tL. irn: itt jiul uik 7^ ihstl j: iiL aaiL t-^tr tu*
time to rcfctt ii. ai iit ins -i^ mr n. ^^^ic jassH; A5^*:m[iE-
ttely he k^^ed m* ajsz!!! smmir^ ii irj^nc* imt i^esr errts^-
tained om ks acsonuL. ixia: 1: ^ihul iiic i#t jumr itErnrt m r(-
torned Iko^ : iw ai swh. is "Uit inw^ wi'hTr ^i^niBrc tinuR
inish li^ a^izs ist iie itiira tLiiair xih: fists; of SrarLisii
America, aad re*^ X-eiP-Yiirx. Laetasnirm Vnr- n ann: tOiL nn^
sdf had detenaiii&a t tnurLiiir i*c:. ant TfinznirLr -r JjuriEiji
hy the fiist packss ia:K s&lii^ A ieiifis' *! Vfv Tnri iL^rm
readi him. bat it was a mxuvt : ia g3iu rf ' iit cue ifm T7*fr?x '^
reeeire aar eeitaas isr^lii^eiit*3t of iiDmf^ a irci -^xj^ oi2t
made him the more aazrirns v^ ?e&^ ii
retmning home ia f^erfeet ii*a-jij^ ec#si!a*d fir and viif:. ni.
brought joy to all wiio itesra it A ^^^eiira" wits iiiFLfiziT.j
dispatched to TreTia:n Vjearjir*- Vj huzthn ib* iTT-ful inif 3-
genoe to Arthur a&d Ejsaitt-ziit. Ld tkit rt dsj saw tiia
both at Oakwood i rt^'5r witji Elies ai il5s ii2cipeptei l*3t
most welecHoe nevs. Tiere was ih?? :*se wi^? bad beiea awars
of the suspense Mr. HafiulvTa aid Ellen bad been ttsdunnff
who did not sympathize in their relief. Exea Mrs. Greriiie
left her solitary hoote to s&ek the friends of her Tonth : she
had done so prerioiislT when aSiction was their portion. She
had more tlin onec shared Ellen's aniioiis task of nnrsin^
when Mrs. Hamilton's ferer had been highest : kindly and ju-
diciously she had soothed in gri^ and Mrs. GreTille's charae*
ter was too unselfish to refuse her sympathy in joy.
A few weeks after the receipt of that letter.'Mr. Hamilton,
his wife, and Ellen, removed to a beautiful little Tilla in the
neighborhood of Kichmond, where they intended to pass some
of the winter months. A change was desirable ; indeed requi-
site for alL But a short inter^ had passed since the death
of their beloved Herbert, and there were many times when tha
parents' hearts yet painfully bled, and each felt retirement U\
society of each other, and sometimes of their most valued
friends, the exercise of domestio and religious duties, wouUl li
the most efficient means of acquiring that ipeaoa ii ^\ivc\\^j^
19
494 THB mother's &EC01CPEN8E.
the greatest affliction cannot deprive the truly religious mind
At Oliristmas, St. Eval had promised his family should joii
them, and all looked forward to that period with pleasure.
CHAPTER XXI.
Although we are as much averse to retrospection in a tale as
our readers can be, yet to retrace our steps for a short interval
is a necessity. Edward had written highly of Lieutenant
Mordaunt, but as he happens to be a personage of rather more
consequence to him than young Fortescue imagined, we must
be allowed to introduce him more intimately to our readers.
It was the evening after that in which Lieutenant Fortescue
had so rashly encountered the storm, that a Spanish vessel of
ill-shaped bulk and of some hundred tons, was slowly pursuing
her course from the coast of Guinea towards Kio Janeiro.
The sea was calm, almost motionless, compared with its pre-
vious fearful agitation. The sailors were gayly employed in
their various avocations, declaring loudly that this respite of
calm was entirely owing to the interposition of St. Jago in
their favor, he being the saint to whom they had last appealed
during the continuance of the tempest. Aloof from the crew,
and leaning against a mast, stood one apparently very different
to those by whom he was surrounded. It was an English
countenance, but embrowned almost to a swarthy hue, from
continued exposure to a tropical sun. Tall and remarkably
well formed, he might well have been supposed of noble birth ;
there were, however, traces of long-continued suffering im-
printed on his manly face and in his form, which sometimes
was slightly bent, as if from weakness rather than from age.
His dark brown hair was in many parts silvered with gray,
which made him appear as if he had seen some fifty years at
least; though at times, by the expression of his countenance,
he might have been thought full ten years younger. Melan-
choly was the characteristic of his features ; but his eye would
kindle and the cheek flush, betraying that a high, warm spirit
still lurked within, one which a keen observer might have
fancied had been suppressed by injury and suffering. It was
in truth a countenance on which a physiognomist or painter
would have loved to dwell, for both would have found in it an
interest they could scarcely have defined.
Thus resting in me^ilaXV^^ ^^itift^.^\k\wvVfc\kassA MAtdauntu
THE mother's recompense. 435
ftttention was attracted by a strange object floating on the now
calm ocean. There were no ships near, and Mordaont felt his
eyes ^Eiscinated in that direction, and looking still more atten-
tively, he felt convinced it was a human body secured to a
plank. He sought the captain instantly, and used every per-
suasion humanity could dictate to urge him to lower a boat.
For some time he entreated in vain. Captain Bartholomew
said it was mere folly to think there was any chance of saving
a man's life, who had been so long tossed about on the water,
it would be only detaining him for nothing; his ship was
already too full either for comfort or profit, and he would not
do it.
Fire flashed firom the dark eyes of Mordaunt at the cap-
tain's positive and careless language, and he spoke again with
all the spirited eloquence of a British sailor. He did not spare
t^e cruel recklessness that could thus refuse to save a fellow-
creature's life, merely because it might occasion - little delay
and trouble. Captain Bartholomew looked at him in astonish-
ment ; he little expected such a burst of indignant feeling from
one whose melancholy and love of solitude he had despised ;
and, without answering a word, led the way to the deck, looked
in the direction of the plank, which had now floated near enough
to the ship for the body of Edward to be clearly visible upon
it, and then instantly commanded a boat to be lowered and
bring it on board. ^
" It will be but taking him out of the sea to plunge him
back again, Senor," he said, in Spanish, to the Lieutenant, who
was now anxiously watching the proceedings of the sailors,
who, more active than their captain, had carefully laid the
plank and its burden at the bottom of the boat, and were: now
rapidly rowing to the ship, f' Never was death more clearly
imprinted on a man's countenance than it is there, but have
your own will ; only do not ask me to keep a dead man on
board, I should have my men mutiny in a twinkling."
Mordaunt made him no answer, but hastened towards tho
gangway, where the men were now ascending. They carefully
unloosed the bonds that attached the body to the plank, and
laid him on a pile of cushions where the light of the setting
sun shone full on his face and form. One glance sujced for
Mordaunt to perceive he was an English officer ; another caused
bin#to start some paoe|J)ack in astonishment. As the youth
thus lay, the deadly paleness of his countenance, tke extt^xfika
fairness of his throat and part of his ixeck,^\i\e\i,j& \Xi^ ^-^^ot^
16*
436 rHE moisee's recompense.
hastily untied his neckcloth and opened his jacket, were Mij
exposed to view, the beautifully formed brow strewed by thidc
Tnasses of golden curls gave him so much the appearance of a
delicate female, that the sailors looked humorously at each
other, as if wondering what right he had to a sailor's jacket ;
bat Mordaunt's eyes never moved from him. Thoughts came
crowding over him, so full of youth, of home and joy, that tears
gushed to his eyes, tears which had not glistened there for
many a long year ; and yet he knew not wherefore, he knew
not, he could not, had he been asked, have defined the cause of
that strong emotion ; but the more he looked upon that beau-
tiful face, the faster and thicker came those visions on his soul
Memories came rushing back, days of his fresh and happy
boyhood, affections, long slumbering, recalled in all their
purity, and his bosom yearned towards home, as if no time had
elapsed since last he had beheld it, as if he should find all
those he loved even as he had left them. And what had
brought them back ? who was the youth on whom he gazed,
and towards whom he felt affection strangely and suddenly
aroused, affection so powerful, he could not shake it off?
Nothing in all probability to him ; and vainly he sought to
account for the emotions those bright features awakened
within him. Bousing himself, as symptoms of life began to
appear in the exhausted form before him, he desired that the
youth might be carried to his own cabin. He was his country-
man, he said ; an officer of equal rank it appeared, from his
epaulette, and he should not feel comfortable were he under
the care of any other. On bearing him from the deck to the
cabin, a small volume fell from his loosened vest, which Mor^
daunt raised from the ground with some curiosity, to know
what could be so precious to a youthful sailor. It was a
Eocket Bible, so much resembling one Mordaunt possessed
imself, that, scarcely knowing what he was about, he drew it
from his pocket to compare them. " How can I be so silly ?"
he thought ; " is there any thing strange in two English Bibles
resembling each other ?" He replaced his own, opened the
other, and started in increased amazement. " Charles Man-
vers I" he cried, as that name met his eye. " Merciful heaven I
who is this youth? to whom would this Bible ever have been
given ?" So great was his agitation, that it was with difficulty
he read the words which were written beneath.
"Edward Fortescuel oh, 'vheu will that name rival his to
rliom this book once teVoii^'ei^'^ \ m^-^ \i^ ^^ \stw^ ^ ^^yt^
TttB mother's ^tECOMlENSlS. 437
biit nrhftt will make me as good a man. This Sacred Book, he
loved it, and so will I." Underneath, and evidently added at
a later period, was the following :
^ I began to read this for the sake of those beloved ones to
whom I knew it was all in all. I thought, for its own sake, it
would never have become the dear and sacred volume they re-
garded it, but I am mistaken ; how often has it soothed me in
my hour of temptation, guided me in my duties, restrained mj
angry moments, and brought me penitent and humble to the
footstool of my God? Oh, my beloved Ellen, had this been
my companion three years ago as it is now, what misery I should
have spared you."
^ther memorandums in the same style were written in the
blank leaves which appeared attached for the purpose, but it
so happened that not one of them solved the mystery which so
completely puzzled Mordaunt. The name of Fortescue was
utterly unknown to him, and increased the mystery of the
youth's having produced such a strange effect upon his mind.
There were many names introduced in these memorandums,
but they explained nothing ; one only struck him, it was one
which in his hours of suffering, of slavery, ever sounded in his
ear, the fondly-remembered name of her whom he longed to
clasp to his aching heart ^it was Em/mdine; and as he read
it, the same gush of memory came over him as when he first
gazed on Edward. In vain reason whispered there were many,
very many Emmelines in his native land; that name only
brought one to his remembrance. Though recovering, the
youth was still much too weak and exhausted to attempt speak-
ing, and Mordaunt watched by his couch for one day and two
nights, ere the surgeon permitted him to ask a question or Ed-
ward to answer it. Often, however, during that interval, had
the young stranger turned his bright blue eyes with a look of
intelligence and feeling on him who attended him with the care
of a father, and the color, the expression of those eyes seemed
to thrill to Mordaunt's heart, and speak even yet more forcibly
of days gone by.
^' Let me write but two lines, to tell Captain Seaforth I am
safe and well," said Edward impetuously, as he sprung with
renewed spirits from the couch on which he had been so long
an unwilling prisoner.
^ And how send it, my young friend ? There is not a vessel
within sight on the wide sea."
"Edward uttered an exclamation of imp^AAfiu^^^ ^^ii \Dt
Btantljr ^fbecking himself, said, with a smile
438 THE mother's recompense.
'^ Forgive me, sir; I should think only of my merciful
preserTatioD; and -of endeavoring to express in some manner
my obligations to you, to whose generous exertions, blessed as
they were by heaven. I owe my lifa Oh, would that my aunt
and sister were near me, their gratitude for the preservation
of one whom they perhaps too fondly and too partially love,
would indeed be gratifying to feelings such as yours. I can
feel what I owe you. Lieutenant Mordaunt, but I cannot ex-
press myself sufficiently in words."
^ In the name of heaven, young man, in pity tell me who
you are !" gasped Mordaunt, almost inarticulately, as he grasped
Edward's hand and gazed intently on his face ; for every word
he spoke, heightened by the kindling animation of his featfj/res,
appeared to render that extraordinary likeness yet more per
feet.
" Edward Fortescue is my name."
" But your mother's, boy, ^your mother's ? I ask not
from idle curiosity."
'^ She was the youngest daughter of Lord Delmont, Eleanor
Manvers."
Mordaunt gazed yet more intently on the youth, then
hoarsely murmuring, " I knew it,-T-it was no fancy," sunk back
almost overpowered with momentary agitation. Kecovering
himself almost instantly, and before Edward could give vent
to his surprise and sympathy in words, he asked, " Is Lord
Delmont yet alive ? I knew him once ; he was a kind old
man." His lip quivered, so as almost to prevent the articula-
tion of his words.
'^ Oh, no ; the departure of my mother for India was a
trial he never recovered, and the intelligence that his only son,
a noble and gallant officer, perished with the crew of ike
Leander, finally broke his heart ; he never held up his head
again, and died a very few months afterwards."
Mordaunt buried his face in his hands, and for several mi-
nutes remained silent, as if struggling with some powerful emo-
tion, then asked, " You spoke only of your aunt and sister.
Does not your mother live ?"
" She died when I was little more than eleven years dd,
and my sister scarcely ten. My father, Colonel Fortescue,
dying in India, she could not bear to remain there, but we
were compelled to take refuge off the coast of Wales from the
storms which had arisen, and then she had only time to give
us to the careolieT Bvalct^iot ^Vcrai^5k\ksai^^^\iii^^s^Ldi^ in
^er arms."
tHE hothee's recompensel 439
" And is it her sister, or your father's, of whom you spoke
just now?"
'' Hers Mrs. Hamilton."
" Hamilton, and she lives still ! you said you knew her."
repeated Mordaunt, suddenly springing up and speaking in a
tone of animation that bewildered Edward almost as much as
his former agitation. " Speak of her, young man ; tell me
something of her. Oh, it is long since I have heard her
narie."
" Did you know my aunt ? I have never heard her mention
your name. Lieutenant Mordaunt."
" Very likely not," he replied, and a faint smile played
round his lip, creating an expression which mad3 young For-
tescue start, for the features seemed familiar to him. ^ It was
only in my boyhood that I knew her, and she was kind to me.
We do not easily forget the associations of our boyhood, my
young friend, particularly when manhood has been a dreary ^
blank, or tinged with pain. In my hours of slavery, the smile
and look of Emmeline Manvers has often haunted my waking
and my sleeping dreams ; but she is married is in all proba-
bility a happy wife and loving mother ; prosperity is around
her, and it is most likely she has forgotten the boy to whom
her kindness was so dear."
" Hours of slavery ?" asked Edward, for those words had
alone riveted his attention. " Can you, a free and British
S'vilor, have ever been a slave ?"
^' Even so, my young friend ; for seven years I languished
in the loathsome dungeons of Algiers, and the last sixteen
years have been a slave."
Edward grasped his hand with an uncontrollable impulse,
while at the same moment he clenched his sword, and his coun-
tenance expressed the powerful indignation of his young and
gallant spirit, though words for the moment he had none.
Lieutenant Mordaunt again smiled that smile, which by some
indefinable power inspired Edward with affection and esteem.
" I am free now, my gallant boy," he said ; " free as if the
galling fetters of slavery had never bowed down my neck. An-
other day you shall hear more. Now gratify me by some ac-
count of your aunt ; speak of her tell me if she have children
if her husband still lives. If Mrs. Hamilton is still the
same gantle affectionate being ^the same firm, unflinching
character^ when duty called her, as the Emmeline Ma.u.y^Y^ \1
was once my joy to know.^^
440 THE mother's &EGOMPENSE.
With an animation which again riveted the eyes of Lieut*
nant Mordaunt on his countenance, Edward eagerly entered oq
the subject. No other could have been dearer to him ; Mor-
daunt could have fixed on few which would thus have called
forth the eloquence of his young companion. Sailor as he was.
truly enthusiastic in his profession, yet home to Edward still
possessed invincible attractions, and the devoted affection, gra-
titude, and reverence he felt for his aunt appeared to increase
with his years. Neither Percy nor Herbert could have loved
her more. He spoke as he felt ; he tcld of all he owed her,
and not only himself but his orphan sister ; he said that as a
mother she had been to them both, that never once had she
made the slightest difference between them and her own chil-
dren. He painted in vivid colors the domestic joys of Oak-
wood, the affectionate harmony that reigned there, till Mor-
daunt felt his eyes glisten with emotion, and ere that conver-
sation ceased, all that affection which for many a long and
weary year had pined for some one on which to expend its
force, now centred in the noble youth of whose preservation he
had been so strangely and providentially an instrument. To
Edward it was not in the least strange, that any one who had
once known his aunt, it mattered not how many years previous^
should still retain a lively remembrance of her, and wish to
know more concerning her, and his feelings were strongly ex-
cited towards one whose interest in all that concerned her was
evidently so great. His first letter to his family, which he
endorsed in one to his captain, spoke very much of Lieutenant
Mordaunt, wondering that his aunt had never mentioned one
who remembered her so well This letter, as we know, was
never received, and the next he wrote was too hurried to enter
into particulars, except those that related to himself alone.
When he again wrote home, he had become so attached and so
used to Mordaunt, that he fancied he must be as well known
to his familv as himself; and though he mentioned his name
repeatedly, he did not think of inquiring any thing concerning
lum.
The able activity as a sailor, the graceful, courteous man-
ner of Edward as a man, soon won him the hearts of Captain
Bartholomew and all his crew. Ever the first when there was
any thing to be done on board or on shore, lively, high-spirited,
and condescending, his appearance on deck after any absence
Was generally acknowledged with respect The various charac-
ters thus presented to \ua "Xio\.\cl^m^ike^%^^\i\3b\viYQ,^5(^th^ manj
THE mother's RECOICPENSE. 44 1
ports he toached at, afforded him continual and exciting amuse*
ment, although his thoughts very often lingered on his darling
" Gem," with the ardent desire to be once more doing his duty
on her decks. But amid all these changing scenes, Edward
and his friend, diverse as were their ages and apparently their
dispositions, became almost inseparable. An irresistible im-
pulse urged Edward repeatedly to talk to him of his home, till
Mordaunt became intimately acquainted with every member of
the family. Of Herbert, Edward would speak with enthusi-
asm ; he little knew, poor fellow, that the cousin whose charac-
t^ he almost venerated was gone to his last home, that he
should never see him more. Letters detailinjg that melancholy
event had been forwarded to the Oem, arriving there just one
week after the young sailor's disappearance; and, when in-
formed of his safety. Captain Seaforth, then on his way to
England, had no opportunity of forwarding them to him. His
repeated mention of Herbert in his letters home, his anxious
desire to hear something of him, were most painful to his
family, and Ellen was more than ever anxious he should re-
ceive the account ere he returned.
Among other subjects discussed between them, Mordaunt
once askSd Edward who now bore the title of Lord Delmont,
and had appeared somewhat agitated when told the title was
now extinct, and had become so from the melancholy death of
the promising young nobleman on whom it had devolved.
" Sir George Wilmot is out in his prognostication then,"
he observed, after a pause. " I remember, when a youngster
under his command, hearing him repeatedly prophesy that a
Debront would revive the honor of his ancient house by naval
fJEune. Poor Charles was ever his favorite amongst us."
" You were my uncle's messmate then," said Edward, in a
tone of surprise and joy. " Why did you not tell me this
before, that I might ask all the questions I long to know con-
cerning him ?"
"And what have you heard of Charles to call for this
extreme interest ?" replied Mordaunt, with his peculiar smila
" I should have thought that long ere this my poor friend had
been forgotten in his native land."
" Forgotten ! and by a sister who doated on him ; who has
never ceased to lament his melancholy fate j who ever held him
up to my young fancy as one of those whom it should be my
glory to resemble. Did you know my aunt, as by two or tht^^
things I have heard jou say, I fancy you muat^-jou iQ\i^Ti^'^^\
19*
442 THE mother's recompense.
Buspect her of forgetting one she loved as she did her brotiier.
My uncle Charles is enshrined in her memory too fondly foi : i
time to efface it." U
Tears rose to Mordaunt's eager eyes at these words ; he ] i
turned aside a moment to conceal his agitation, then asked 1]
if Sir George Wilmot ever spoke of Manvers. Animate^y
Edward related the old Admiral's agitation the first night he
had seen him at Oakwood ; how feelingly he had spoken of
one, whom he said he had evei? regarded as the adopted son of
his affections, the darling of his childish years, his gallant,
merry Charles. Mordaunt twined his arm in Edward's, and
looked up in his face, as if to thank him for the consolation
his words imparted. Again there was an expression in his
countenance, which sent a thrill to the young man's heart, but
vainly he tried to discover wherefore.
We may here perhaps relate in a very few words Mor-
daunt's tale of suffering, which he imparted at different times
to Edward. The wreck of the vessel to which ho belonged
had cast him, with one or two others of his hapless companions,
on the coast of Morocco and Algiers. There they were seixed
by the cruel Moors, and carried as spies before the Dey, and
by his command immured in the dungeons of the fortress where
many unhappy captives were also 'confined, and had been for
many years. For eight years he was an inmate of these horri-
ble prisons, a sickening witness of many of those tortures and
wuelties which were inflicted on his fellow-prisoners, and often
on himself All those at all acquainted with the bombardment
ojC Algiers, so ably carried on by Admiral Sir Edward Pellew,
atteiwatds Viscount Exmouth, an enterprise which was entered
on to aveiige the atrocious indignities practised by the Dey on
all the unfortunate foreigners that visited his coast, can well
imagine the sufferings Mordaunt had not only to witness bat
to endure. On the first report of a hostile fleet appearing off
the coast of Barbary, the most active and able of the prisoners
were marched oat to various markets and there sold as slaves.
Mordaunic was one of these : imprisonment and suffering had
not quenched his /outhful spirit, nor so bowed his frame as to
render him incapable of energy. Scarcely twenty when this
cruel reverse of fortune overtook him, the tortures of his mind
during the eight, nearly nine, years of his captivity may be
better conceived than described. He had entered prison a boy,
with all the fresh, elarftio buoyancy of youth, he quitted it a
OiSLu; but oh, how wsia t\ii.\m^T^vftc^^^Y^vKvfc^'Wi ^V^^sXv in hif
THE mother's recokpense. 449
visions of futurity he had looked with such bright anticipation
as the zenith of his naval fame, now about to pass ? as a slave ;
exposed to increased oppression and indignity on account of
his religion, which he had inwardly vowed never to give up.
JEIe secured the Bible, which had first been a treasure to him
m^ely as the gift of a beloved sister, and throughout all his
change of destiny it was never taken from him. To submit
calmly to slavery, Mordaunt felt at first his spirit never could,
and various were the schemes he planned, and in part executed,
towards obtaining his freedom, but all were eventually frus-
trated by the observation of his masters, who were too well ac-
customed to insubordination on the part of their slaves for
such attempts to cause them much trouble or uneasiness. Still
Mordaunt despaired not ; still was the hope of freedom upper-
most in his breast, even when he became the property of a Turk,
who, had he been but a Christian, Mordaunt declared, must
have commanded his reverence if not his affection. Five times
he had been exposed for sale, and each master bad appeared to
him more cruel and oppressive than the last. To relate all he
suffered would occupy a much larger portion of our tale than
we could allow, but they were such that any one but Mordaunt
would have felt comparative contentment and happiness when
changed for the service of Mahommed Ali, an officer of emi-
nence in the court of Tunis. He was indeed one who might
well exemplify the assertion, that in all religions there is some
good. Suffering and sorrow were aliens from his roof, misery
approached not his doors, and Mordaunt had, in fact, been pur-
chased from motives of compassion, which his evident wretch-
edness, both bodily and mental, had excited ; to cure his bodily
ills no &indly attention was spared, but vainly Mahommed Ali
Bought to lessen the load of anguish he saw imprinted on the
brow of his Christian captive. Mordaunt's noble spirit was
touched by the indulgence and kindness he received, and he
made no effort to escape, for he felt it would be lut an un-
generous, dishonorable return but still he was a slave. No
fetters galled his limbs, but the fetters of slavery galled his
spirit with a deeper anguish ; no task-master was now set over
him with the knotted whip, to spur on each slackening effort ;
but the groan which no bodily suffering could wring, whiah he
had suppressed, lest his persecutors should triumph, now burst
from his sorrowing heart, and scalding drops stole down his
cheeks, when he deemed no eye was near. Sla.N^t-^.^^V'K^^T^
seemed his for ever, and each fond vision oi \i\axLMvi^\asA ^cq\
bII he loved but added to the burden on Ina boxxL
444 THE mother's REC0MP1SB.
Mahommea at length became so deeply interested in lui
Christian slave, that he offered him freedom, wealth, distinc-
tioD, his own friendship and support, all on the one, he thought^
simple and easy condition of giving up his country and his
faith, and embracing the one holy creed of Mahomet. In kind-
ness was the offer made, but mournfully, yet with a steadinesi
that gave no hope of change, was it refused ; vainly Mahomet
urged the happiness its acceptance would bring, that he knew
not all he so rashly refused ; still he wavered not, and Ali with
a weary heart gave up the attempt Time passed, but its
fleeting years reconciled not Mordaunt to his situation, nor
lessened the kindly interest he excited in the heart of the good
old man; and when at length it happened that Mordaunt,
almost unconsciously to himself, became the fortunate instm
ment of reconciling some affairs of his master, which were in
confusion, and had been so for years, when, among many other
unexpected services which it had been in his power to perform,
he rescued the favorite son of Mahommed from an infuriated
tiger, which had unexpectedly sprung upon aim during a hunt-
ing expedition, the bid man could contain his wishes no longer,
but gave him his freedom on the spot. Unconditional liberty
to return to his native land was very soon after accorded, and
loading him with rich gifts, Ali himself accompanieu him to
the deck of the Alma, which was the only vessel then starting
from the coast of Guinea, where Mahommed in general resided.
Mordaunt was too impatient to wait for an English vessel, nor
did he wish to incur the risk of encountering any hostile to his
interests^ by crossing the country and embarking from Algiers
or Tunis. While in Africa he felt that the chain of slavery
still hovered round his neck. He could not feel himself once
more a freeborn Briton till he was indeed on the bounding
ocean.
Once on the way to Europe, there was hope, even though
that way was by America. He parted from his former master,
now his friend, with a feeling of regret ; but the fresh breezes,
the consciousness he stood on deck free as the wind, free as
the oceaa that bore him onward to his native land, removed
from his mind all lingering dread, and filled his soul with joy;
but the human heart is not now in a state to feel for any length
of time unchecked happiness. Four-and-twenty years had
elapsed since Mordaunt had been imagined dead ; six-and^
twenty since he had departed from his native land, and had
hat beheld his friends \iq bo ^e^V^ Vs^^^ H.^ mi^ht return
THE MOTHlgOt's RECOMPENSE. 445
and be by all considered an intruder, perhaps not recognized,
his tale not belieyed ; he might see his family scattered, all of
them with new ties, new joys, and with no place for the long-
absent exile. The thought was anguish, but Mordaunt had
weakly indulged it too long to enable him at first to conquer
it, even when Edward's tale of the fond remembrance in which
bis uncle was held by all who had loved him, unconsciously
penetrated his soul with a sense of the injustice he had done
his friends, and brought consolation with it.
These facts, which we have so briefly thrown together,
formed most interesting subjects to Edward many times dur-
ing his voyage to New- York. Edward hung as in fascination
on the stranger's history, innate nobleness was stamped in
every word. More than once the thought struck him that he
was more than what he appeared to be, but Edw&xd knew he
had a slight tendency towards romance in his composition, and
fearful of lowering himself in the estimation of his new-found
friend by the avowal of such fanciful sentiments, he kept them
to himself.
At length the wished-for port to both the Englishmen
(New- York) was gained, and their passage secured in the first
packet sailing for England. Edward's heart beat high with
anticipated pleasure ; he longed to introduce his new friend to
his family, and his bright anticipations shed a kindred glow
over the mind of Mordaunt, who had now become so devotedly
attached to the youth, that he could scarcely bear him out of
his sight ; and had he wanted fresh incentive to affection, the
deep affliction of the young sailor on receiving the intelligence
of his cousin Herbert's death, would have been sufficient. Ed-
ward had one day sought the post-office, declaring, however,
that it was quite impossible such increased joy could be in
store for him, as a letter from home. There were two instead
of one : one firom his aunt and uncle, the other from his sister ;
th ) black seal painfully startled him. Mourning for poor Mary
is over long ere this, he thought, and scarcely had he strength
to break the seal, and when he had read the fatal news, he sat
for some time as if overwhelmed with the sudden and unex-
pected blow.
Mordaunt's words of consolation fell at first unheeded on
his ear; it was not for Herbert alone he sorrowed, it was for
his aunt. He knew how devotedly she loved her son, and
though she did not write much on the actual loaa \i^ V^sA ^^5L^-
tiiined; yet every word seemed to reacb Hb Yieait, ^^^"^^^^^
446 THE mother's reoohpense.
leaned his head upon the paper, and wept like a child. He^
bert, the bright, the good, the gentle companion of his hoy-
hood, the faithful friend of his maturer years, had he indeed
gone his place would know him no more? And oh, how
desolate must Oakwood seem. Percy, though in affection for
his parents and his family, in his devoted attention to their
comfort, equalled only by his brother, yet never could he be
to Oakwood as Herbert. He was as the brilliant plant, shed-
ding lustre indeed on all over whom it gleamed, but never still,
continually roving, changing its course, as if its light would be
more glittering from such unsteady movements ; but Herbert
was as the mild and lucid star, stationary in its appointed or-
bit, gilding all things with its mellow light, but darting its
most intense and radiant lustre on that home which was to
him indeed the centre-point of love. Such was the description
of his two cousins given by Edward to his sympathizing com-
panion, and Mordaunt looked on the young sailor in wonder-
ing admiration. Eagerly, delightedly, he had perused the let-
ters, which Edward intrusted to him ; that of Mrs. Hamilton
was pressed to his lips, but engrossed in his own thoughts, Ed-
ward observed him not. Sadness lingered on Edward's heart
during the whole of that voyage homeward ; his conversation
was tinged with the same spirit, but it brought out so many
points of his character, which in his joyous moods Mordaunt
never could have discovered, that the links of that strangely-
aroused affection became even stronger than before. Edward
returned his regard with all the warmth of his enthusiastic
nature, s'-rengthened by the manner in which his letters from
home alluded to Lieutenant Mordaunt as his preserver ; and
before their voyage was completed, Mordaunt, in compliance
with the young man's earnest entreaty, consented to accompany
him, in the first place, to Richmond, whence Edward promised,
after introducing him to his family, and finding him a safe har-
bor there, he would leave no stone unturned to discover every
possible information concerning Mordaunt's family. That
same peculiar smile curled the stranger's lips as Edward thua
animatedly spoke, and he promised unqualified compliance.
Having thus brought Edward and his friend within but a
few weeks' voyage to England, we may now leave them and
return to Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton, who were both rejoicing in
the improved looks of their niece at Richmond.
The delightfal calmness of their beautiful retreat, the sus-
pension of all anxiety, l\iek lo\.ti\ ^^^^^ oii ^^^-vva ^luch wai
THE mother's recompense. 447
aroand them, had done much towards restoring peace, not only
to Ellen but to her aunt. The feeling that she was now in-
deed called upon to fulfil the promise she had made to Her
bert, that the enjoyment and cheerfulness of home depended
on her alone, had inspired exertions which had partially ena-
bled her to conquer her own grief ; and every week seemed to
bring forward some new quality, of which her relatives imag-
ined they must have been ignorant before. Ellen's character
was one not to attract at first, but to win affeetion slcwly but
surely ; her merits were not dazzling, it was generally long be*-
fore they were all discovered, but when they were, they ever
commanded reverence and love. In all her children Mrs.
Hamilton felt indeed her cares fully repaid, and in Ellen more,
far more than she had ventured to anticipate. Thus left alone
in her filial cares, Ellen's character appeared different to what
it had been when one of many. Steady, quiet cheerfulness
was restored to the hearts of all who now composed the small
domestic circle of Mr. Hamilton's family; each had their pri-
vate moments when sorrow for the loss of their beloved Her-
bert was indeed recalled in all its bitterness, but such sacred
hours never were permitted to tinge their daily lives with
gloom.
They were now in daily expectation of St. Eval's return
to England, with Miss Manvers, who, at Mrs. Hamilton's par-
ticular request, was to join their family party. An under-
standing had taken place between her and Percy, but not yet
did either intend their engagement to be known. The sym-
pathy and affection of Louisa were indeed most soothing to
Percy in this affliction, which, even when months had passed,
he could not conquer, but he could not think of entering into
the bonds of marriage, even with the woman he sincerely
loved^ till his heart could, in some degree, recover the deep
wound which the death of his only brother had so painfully
inflicted. To his parents indeed, and all his family, he re-
vealed his engagement, and Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton anxiously
anticipated the return of Lord and Lady St. Eval, to intro-
duce them to the intended bride of their only son. Their in
tention was to remain at Richmond till the spring, when Ar-
thur and his wife would pay their promised visit at Oakwood,
instead of spending the Christmas with them an arrange-
ment Emmeline had herself suggested ; because, she said, if
she and her husband were away, the family i^axty '^laJiftV W^
ever assembied at Oakwood during thai ieatv?^^^^Qra.^Qv^V^^
448 THE mother's recompense.
broken up, and Herbert's absence be less painfully felt. Mrs
Hamilton noticed it to none, but her penetration discovered
the cause of this change in Emmeline's intentions, and tears
of delicious feeling filled her eyes, as for a moment she per-
mitted that gentle and affectionate girl to occupy that thought
which she was about to bestow on Herbert.
We have received interesting news this morning, my dear
Arthur," Mrs. Hamilton said, as her husband entered the pa^
lor, where she and Ellen were seated. ' Lucy Harcourt is
returning to England, and has requested us to look out for a
little cottage for her near Oakwood. The severe illness, and
finally the death of her cousin, Mr. Seymour, has been the
cause of my not hearing from her so long. Poor fellow, he has
been for so many years such a sad sufferer, that a peaceful
death must indeed be a blessed release.''
" It was a peaceful death, Lucy writes, mournfully but re
signedly ; she says she cannot be sufficiently thankful that he
was spared long enough to see his daughters would both be
happy under her charge. That she had gained their young
affections, and that, as far as mortal eye could see, by leaving
them entirely under her guardianship and maternal care, he
had provided for their happiness. He said this almost with
his last breath ; and poor Lucy says that, among her many
consolations in this trying time, this assertion was not one of
the least precious to her heart."
'^ No doubt it was. To be the friend and adopted mother
of his children must be one of the many blessings created for
herself by her noble conduct in youth. I am glad now my
prophecy was not verified, and that she never became his
wife."
" Did you ever think she would, uncle ?" asked Ellen, sur-
p'^ised.
" I fancied Seymour must have discovered her affection,
and then admiration on his part would have done the rest. It
is, I own, much better as it is ; his children will love her more,
regarding her in the light of his sister and their aunt, than
had she become their stepmother. But why did you seem so
surprised at my prophecy, Nelly? Was there any thing very
impossible in their union ?"
" Not impossible ; but I do not think it likely Miss Har-
court would have betrayed her affection, at the very time when
she was endeavoring to soothe her cousin for the loss of a be-
loved wife. She was muc\i mox^ \ik^^ \a ^tkaRs\\\.^s^^Tv.\a$y
THE mother's recompense. 449
effectnally than she had ever done before. Nor do I think it
probable Mr. Seymour, accustomed from his very earliest
years to regard her as a sister, could ever succeed in looking
on her in any other light."
'^ You seem well skilled in the history of the human heart,
my little Ellen," said her uncle, smiling. " Do you think it
then quite impossible for cousins to love ?"
EUen bent lower over her embroidery-frame, for she felt a
tell-tale blush was rising to her cheek, and without looking up,
replied, calmly,
^' Miss Harcourt is a proof that such love can and does
exist more often, perhaps, in a woman's heart. In a man
seldom, unless educated and living entirely apart from each
other."
" I think you are right, Ellen," said her aunt. " I never
thought, with your uncle, that Lucy would become Mr. Sey-
mour's wife."
" Had I prophesied such a thing, uncle, what would you
have called me ?" said Ellen, looking up archly from her frame,
for the momentary flush had gone.
" That it was the prophecy of a most romantic young lady,
much more like Emmeline's heroics than the quiet, sober
Ellen," he answered, in the same tone ; " but as my own idea,
of course it is wisdom itself. But jokes apart, as you are so
skilled in the knowledge of the human heart, my dear Ellen,
you must know I entered this room to-day for the purpose of
probing your own."
" Mine !" exclaimed the astonished girl, turning suddenly
pale ; " what do you mean ?"
" Only that the Kev. 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 permis-
sion 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 Tiot,\)y ^o\ Q,QTi's&"^\
let him encourage hopes which must end in dist^^omVc!^^\i\?
450 THE mother's recompense.
"My approbation I cannot withdraw, Ellen, for most sin .
cerely do I esteem the young man ; and there are few whom I [^
would sc gladly behold united to my family as himself Why ]^
do you so positively refuse to hear him 1 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 probabihty
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 wish-,
ing 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 hus-
band," 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 irri-
table, and bring the painfully-checked tears back to her eye,
too powerfully to be restrained. She tried to retain her calm-
ness, 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 \ieT B.Vio\]id.^T.) ^\id murmured, almost in-
ftudibly.
THE MOTHER'S RECOMPENSE. 451
^' Oh, do not, do not' bid me leave you, 1 am happy here ]
but ekewhere, 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 mo ; 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 lobked 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 oi you ? Speak then,
my dear girl, without reserve ; who has so secretly gained your
young affections, that for his sake every other is rejected ?"
Ellen raised her head and looked mournfully in her uncle's
face. She tried to obey, but voice for a 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 fi om 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 L give my hand
unto another?"
" Herbert 1" 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 ex-
treme emotion ; his mind's eye rapidly glanced o^er tJx^ -^"^a^
'^nd in an instant be b&w what a heavy load, oi ^\S&fai% "ss^s^sX
452 THE mother's becokpensk
have been his niece's portion from the first moment she awoks
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 every thing in her power to secure his happiness, what
must have been her own feelings 1 Yes, in very truth she bad
loved loved with all the purity, the self-devotedness ci
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 com-
fort ; but they were mingled with a sensation almost amount
ing to self-reproach at her own blindness in not earlier discov-
ering the truth. Why not imagine Ellen's affection's fixed on
Herbert as on Arthur Myrvin ? both were equally probable.
She could now well understand Ellen's agitation when He^
bert'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 oth-
ers, was it strange that admiration and respect should mingle
with the love she bore her 1 that from that hour Ellen ap-
peared 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 re-
jected 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
9heck them, for shelaiew \iON^\A.^^^^^iJae^^ma*\.\i^\j^ ^\^^^\lq
THE HOTHE&'S RECOMPENSE. 453
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 un-
derstand. At the first, a sensation of shame had overpowered
her, that she could thus have given words to an unrequited af-
fection ; 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 that they felt for and with their Ellen ; con-
fidence 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 retug;! 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. Hamil-
ton'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 re-
called those visions of her girlhood, when she had looked to
her brother to support the ancient line, and gilding it with
naval honors, bid it stand forth as it had doTie ^otxi^ i^\L\?oxv^%
before. Mm Hamilton had but little oi 'w^a.^ \s\,etm^^^%ssSc^
454 THE mother's recobcpensb.
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 hoped for. The scene had entirely changed ; never before
had they passed a Christmas any where but at Oakwood, and
that simple circumstance prevented the void in that domestio
circle from being so sadly felt. That Herbert was in th
thoughts of all his family, that it was an effort for them to re-
tain the cheerfulness which in them was ever the characteris-
tic of the season, we will not deny, but afUction vxok not from
the calm beauty which ever rested round Mr. Hamilton's
hearth. All appeared as if an even more hallowed and mel-
lowed 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, the eternal Home, to which all who loved them looked
with an eye of faith.
Sir George Wilmot was the only guest at Bidimond dur-
ing 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 oi
a mere guest. The kind old man had sorrowed deeply for
Herbert's death, had felt himself attracted even more irresisti-
bly to his friends in their sorrow than even in their joy, and
so constantly had he been invited to make his stay at Mr. Ha-
milton's residence, wherever that might be, that he often de-
clared 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 out-
wardly sad, but his volatile nature appeared departed. He
iras no longer tlie B&an^ ^^^^\)CAsXftxQM& ^Qro^k^^s^^t on the
THE mother's HECOKPENSE. 455
look-onfc 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 de-
TOtedness to his parents, which before had never been so dis-
tinctly 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
tiboughless pleasure-seeking, joke-loving lad, into the calm and
serious man. To the eyes of his family, opposite as the bra*
thers in youth had been, there were now many points of Her-
bert'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 characterized 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 honorable
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. Lieu-
tenant 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 excellencfl
of his memory ; as she one day ventured to hint that it was s
very many years, it was quite impossible Sir George could re
member the names of all the middies under him. It was mud
more probable. Sir George would retort, that slavery had be
wildered the poor man's understanding, and that he fancied h^
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 concluBion oi \i\ift oV^ K^tc^.
ral's jokes, as each day increased his impatience Iot Ifi^^^vc^^
return.
456 THE mother's recompense.
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. feval? 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 re-
stored 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 him-
self 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 Btretched 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. Shah we
not rejoice that you are spared us ? Emmeline, iny own Em-
melinCj think on the blessings still surrounding us."
His impressive vroxd^ W^ VJsievx ^^^^ w^\ssi\aWvs. Stated
THE mother's REC01CPEN8E. 457
aaditors. Edward gently withdrew himself from the detain-
ing arms of his aunt ; he pressed a long, lingering kiss upon
her cheek, and hastily conquering his emotion, clasped Sir
George Wilmot^s extended nand, and 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
litt le 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-crea-
tures do, 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 such
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 com-
mand 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 her 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
endeavored to suppress, by declaring he had done nothing
worth speaking of Mrs. Hamilton joined her husband in wel-
coming the stranger, with that grace and kindness peculiarly
ker own. She thanked him warmly for the care he had taken,
and the exertions he had made for her nephew ; and as she
did 80, the color so completely faded from Mordaunt's sun
burnt cheek, that Edward, declaring he was ill and exhaTiatoA
by the exertions he had made from the fixat m.omfiii\. qI ^nwx
458 THE mother's recokpense.
landing at Portsmouth, entreated him to retire to the chamber
which had been prepared for him, but this Mordaont refdsed,
saying he was perfectly well.
" It is long since 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, mj
young friend ?"
His mournful voice thrilled to Mrs. Hamilton's heart, as
ho 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 yes 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 (Jeorge, 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 favor, who, however un-
worthy, you ever held up to his comrades as a pattern of all
that was excellent in a seaman and a youth, whom you eyer
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, re-
tained 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
vcars 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 kue^? m^\iTQt\iw^theu^ Lieutenant Mo^
THE hothee's recompense. 459
daunt," 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 coast 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 prefera-
ble to lingering on his years in slavery."
'^ Alas I my Emmeline, wherefore indulge in such fallacious
hope ?" said her husband, tenderly, for he saw she was exces-
sively 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 fea-
tures, and gazed on her face. A gleam of sunshine at this in-
stant threw a sudden glow upon his countenance, and Mr.
fiamilton 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.
" Oh God ! it is Charles himself !" she sobbed, and sunk
almost fainting in his embrace ; convulsively the brother
pressed her to his bosom. It seemed as if the happiness of
that moment was too great for reality, as if it were but some
dream of bliss; scarcely was he conscioTia oi \.\i^ ^^sx\ss.
greeting he received ; the uncontrollable emoVivoxL oi ^^ ^^
460 THB mother's recompense.
Admiral, who, as lie wrung his hand again and again,
wept like a child. His brain seemed to reel, and every
object danced before his eyei^, he was alone sensible that he
held his sister in his arms, that sister whom he had loyed even
more devotedly, more constantly, in his hours of slavery than
when she had been ever near him. Her counsels, her example,
had had but little apparent effect on him when a wild and
reckless boy at his father's house, but they had sustained him
in his affliction ; it was then he knew the value of those serioos
thoughts and feelings his sister had so labored to inculcate,
and associated as they were with her, she became dearer each
time he felt himself supported, under his many trials, by fer-
vent prayer, and that implicit trust, of which she had so often
spoken.
In wondering astonishment the younger members of the
family had regarded this little scene some minutes before the
truth had flashed on the mind of Mrs. Hamilton. Both
St. Eval and Percy had guessed who in reality the stranger
was, and waited in some anxiety for the effect that recognition
would have on Mrs. Hamilton, whom Edward had already
considerably agitated. With characteristic delicacy of feel-
ing all then left the room, Sir George Wilmot and Mr.
Hamilton alone remaining with the long-separated brother
and sister.
" My uncle Charles himself ! Fool, idiot that I was, never
to discover this before," had been Edward's exclamation, in
a tone of unrestrained joy.
A short time sufficed to restore all to comparative compo-
sure, but a longer interval was required for Charles Manvers,
whom we must now term Lord Delmont, to ask and to answer
the innumerable questions which were naturally called for by
his unexpected return ; much had he to hear and much to tell,
even leaving, as he said he would, the history of his adven-
tures in Algiers to amuse two or three winter evenings, when
all his family were around him.
" All my family," he repeated, in a tone of deep feeling.
" Do I say this ? I, the isolated, desolate being I imagined
myself; I who believed so many years had passed, that I
should remain unrecognized, unloved, forgotten. Reproach
ine not, my sister, the misery I occasioned myself, the emo-
tions of this moment are punishment enough. And are all
those whom I saw here yours, Hamilton ?" he continued more
cheerfully. " QV let me cAsmxi \\xfc\t Vs^^ \ ^^k^ss^ ^\jkftm. all
THE MOTHER^S RECOMPENSE 461
already, for Edward has long ere this made me acquainted
with them, both individually and ad the united members of
one affectionate family ; I long to judge for myself if his ac-
count be indeed correct, though I doubt it not. Poor, fellow,
I deserve his reproaches for continuing my deception to him
so long."
^' And why was that name assumed at all, dear Charles ?"
inquired Mr. Hamilton. " Why not resume your own, when
the chains of slavery were broken ?"
'^ And how dare you say Mordaunt was yours as long as
you can remember ?" demanded Sir George, holding up his
hand in a threatening attitude, as if the full grown man be-
fore him were still the slight stripling he last remembered
him. " Deception was never permitted on my decks, Mastei
Charles."
Mrs. Hamilton smiled.
" Nor have I practised it, Sir George," he replied. " Mor-
daunt was my name, as my sister can vouch. Charlea
Mordaunt Manvers I was christened Mordaunt being the
name of my godfather, between whom and my father, however,
a dispute arose, when I was about seven years old, completely
setting aside old friendship, and causing them to be at enmity
till Sir Henry Mordaunt's death. The tale was repeated
to me when I was about ten years old, much exaggerated oi
course, and I declared I would bear his name no longer. I
remember well my gentle sister Emmeline's entreaties and
persuasions that I would not interfere. that I knew nothing
about the quarrel, and had no right to be so Bugrf. How-
ever, I carried my point, as I generally did, with my too
indulgent parent, and therefore from that time I was only
known as Charles Manvers, for my father could not bear the
name spoken before him. Do you not remember it, Em-
meline ?"
" Perfectly well, ntw it is recalled, though I candidly own
I had forgotten the circumstance."
" But, still, why was Manvers disused ?" Mr. Hamilton
again inquired.
" For perhaps an unjust and foolish fancy, my dear friend.
I could not enjoy my freedom, because of the thought I men-
tioned before. I knew not if my loved father still lived, nor
who bore the title of Lord Delmont, which, if he were no more,
was mine by inheritance ; for four-and-twen.ty -j^^t^ \ V^^
heard nothing of all whom I loved *, tliey IooVl^^ oti tcl^^ ^a
462 THE mother's recompense.
dead : they might be scattered, dispersed ; instead of joy, my
return might bring with it sorrow, vexation, discontent. It
was for this reason I relinquished the name of Manvers, and
adopted the one I had well-nigh forgotten as being mine by
an equal right ; I wished to visit my native land unknown, and
bearing that name, any inquiries I might have made would be
unsuspected.
Surrounded by those whom in waking and sleeping dreams
he had so long loved, the clouds which had overhung Lord
Delmont's mind as a thick mist, even when he found himself
free, dissolved before the calm sunshine of domestic love. A
sense of happiness pervaded his heart ^happiness chastened
by a deep feeling of gratitude to Him who had ordained it
Affected he was almost to tears, as the manner of his Lephew
and nieces towards him unconsciously betrayed how affection-
ately they had ever been taught to regard his memory. Kap-
idly he became acquainted with each and all, and eagerly
looked forward to the arrival of Emmeline and her husband to
look on them likewise as his own : but though Edward laugh-
ingly protested^ he should tremble now for the continuance of
his uncle's preference towards himself, he ever retained his
place. He had been the first known ; his society, his sooth-
ing words, his animated buoyancy of spirit, his strong affec-
tion and respect for his uncle's memory when he believed him
dead, and perhaps the freemasonry of brother sailors, had
bound him to Lord Delmont's heart with ties too strong to be
riven. The more he heard of, and the more he associated
with him in the intimacy of home, the stronger those feelings
became ; and Edward on his part unconsciously increased
them by his devotedness to his uncle himself, the manner
with which he ever treated Mrs. Hamilton, and his conduct
to his sister, whose quiet and unselfish happiness at his
return, and thus accompanied, was indeed heightened, more
than she herself a few months previous, could have believed
possible.
CHAPTER XXIL
Our little narrative must here transport the reader to a small
cottage in the picturesque village of Llangwillan, where, about
three months after the events we have narrated, Lilla Grabame
fat one evening in soWtviAft^ ^\i^\\. ^^^-vsl'^A. Va. ^c^trow. The
THE mother's recompense. 463
room in which she was seated was small, but furnished and
adorned with the refined and elegant taste of one whose rank
appeared much higher than the general occupants of such a
dwelling. A large window, reaching to the ground, opened on
% smooth and sloping lawn, which was adorned by most beauti-
ful flowers. It led to a small gate opening on a long, narrow
lane, which led to the Vicarage, leaving the little church and
its picturesque burjing-ground a little to the right ; the thick
grove which surrounded it forming a ^eafy yet impenetrable
wall to one side of the garden. There were many very pretty
tombs in this churchyard ; perhaps its beauty consisted in its
extreme neatness, and the flowers that the vicar, Mr. Myrvin,
took so much pleasure in carefully preserving. One lowly
grave, beneath a large and spreading yew, was never passed
unnoticed. A plain marble stone denoted that there lay one
who had once been the brightest amid the bright, the brilliant
star of a lordly circle. The name, her age, and two simple
verses, were there inscribed ; but around that humble grave
there were sweet flowers flourishing more luxuriously than in
any other part of the churchyard ; the climbing honeysuckle
twined its odoriferous clusters up the dark trunk of the storm*
resisting yew. Boses of various kinds intermingled with the
lowly violet, the snowdrop, lily of the valley, the drooping con-
volvulus, which, closing its petals for a time, is a fit emblem of
that sleep which, closing our eyes on earth, reopens them in
heaven, beneath the genial warmth of the sun of righteous-
ness. These flowers were sacred in the eyes of the villagers,
and their children were charged not to despoil them ; and too
deep was their reverence for their minister, and too sacred was
that little spot of earth, even to their uncultured eyes, for
those commands ever to be disobeyed. But it was not to Mr.
Myrvin^s care alone that part of the churchyard owed its beau-
ty. It had ever been distinguished from the rest by the flow-
ers around it ; but it was only the last two years they had
flourished so luxuriantly ; the hand of Lilla Grahame watered
and tended them with unceasing care. In the early morning
or the calm twilight, she was seen beside the grave, and many
might have believed that there reposed the ashes of a near and
dear relation ; but it was not so. Lilla had never seen and
never known the lovely being whose last home she thus affec-
tionately tended. It was dear to her from its. association with
him whom she loved j there her thoughts could TRWxd^x \\3mss\
464 THE MOTHER'S RECOHPENSB.
and surely the love thus oherished beside the dead must haTi
been purity itself.
It was the hour that Lilla usually sought the churchyard,
but she came not, and the lengthening shadows of a soft and
lovely May evening fell around the graceful figure of a tall and
elegant young man, in naval uniform, who lingered beside the
grave ; pensive, it seemed, yet scarcely melancholy. His fine
expressive countenance seemed tO; breathe of happiness pro-
ceeding from the heart, chastened and softened by holier
thoughts. A smile of deep feeling encircled his lips as he
looked on the flowers, which in this season were just bursting
into beautiful bloom ; and, plucking an early violet, he pressed
it to his lips and placed it next his heart. " Doubly precious,"
he said, internally, " planted by the hand of her I love, it flou- I
rished on my mother's grave. Oh, my mother, would that ^
you could behold your Edward now ; that your blessings could i
be mine. It cannot be, and thrice blessed as I am, why should |'
I seek for more ?" A few moments longer he lingered, then
turned in the direction of the Vicarage.
Lilla's spirits harmonized not as they generally did with
the calm beauty of nature around her. Anxious and sorrow-
ful, her tears more than once fell slowly and unheeded on her
work ; but little improvement had taken place in her father's
temper. She had much, very much to bear, even though she
knew he loved her, and that his chief cares were for her ; re-
tirement had not relieyed his irritated spirit. Had he, instead
of retreating from, mingled as formerly in, the world, he might
have been much happier, for he would have found the dishonor-
able conduct of his son had not tarnished his own. He had
been too long and too well known as the sovl of honor and in-
tegrity, for one doubt or aspersion to be cast upon his name.
Lady Helen's injudicious conduct towards her children was in-
deea often blamed, and Grahame's own severity much re-
gretted, but it was much more of sympathy he now commanded
than scorn or suspicion, and all his friends lamented his retire-
ment. Had not Lilians spirits been naturally elastic, they
must have bent beneath these continued and painful trials ; her
young heart often felt breaking, but the sense of religion, the
excellent principles instilled both by Mrs. Douglas and Mrs.
Hamilton now had their full effect, and sustained her amidst
all. She never wavered in her duty to her father ; she never
complained, evo.n ip her letters to her dearest and most confix
dential friendt
THE mother's recompense. 465
'' Have you thought on the subject we spoke of last nigh^
Lilla V" asked her father, entering suddenly, and seating him-
self gloomily on a chair some paces from her. His daughter
started as she saw him, for the first tone of his voice betrayed
he was more than usually irritable and gloomy.
" Yes, father, I have," she replied, somewhat timidly.
" And what is your answer ?"
^ I fear you will be displeased, my dear father ; but indeed
I cannot answer differently to last night."
*' You are still resolved then to refuse Philip Clappeiton ^"
Lilla was silent.
^^ And pray may I ask the cause of your fastidiousness,
Miss Grahame? Your burst of tears last night made a
very pretty scene, no doubt, but they gave me no proper
answer."
^' It is not only that I cannot love Mr. Clapperton, father,
but I cannot respect him."
" And pray why not 1 I tell you, Lilla, blunt, even coarse,
if you like, as he is, unpolished, hasty, yet he has a better
heart by far than many of these more elegant and attractive
sprigs of nobility, amongst which perhaps your romantic
fancy has wandered, as being the only husbands fitted for
you."
" You do me injustice, father. I have never indulged in
such romantic visions, but I cannot willingly unite my fate
with one in whom I see no fixed principle of action one who
owns no guide but pleasure. His heart* may be good, I doubt
it not ; but I cannot respect one who spends his whole life in
fox-hunting, drinking, and all the pleasures peculiar to the
members of country clubs."
" In other words, a plain, honest-speaking, English gentle-
man is not fine enough for you. What harm is there in the
amusements you have enumerated ? Why should not a fox-
hunter make as good a husband as any other member of
society?"
Lilla looked at her father with astonishment. These were
not always his sentiments she painfully thought.
^' I do not mean to condemn these amusements, my dear
father, but when they are carried on without either principle
or religion. How can I venture to intrust my happiness to
such a man?"
" And where do you expect to find either princi^lft ox t^-
ligion now? Not in those polished circVea, ^\it^ \. i^^ ^^'t
20*
466 THE mother's RECOlfPENSE.
oeive your hopes are fixed. Oirl, banish such hopes. No oiM
amongst them would unite himself to the sister of that dis-
honored outcast,- Cecil Grahame."
Grahame's whole frame shook as he pronounced his son's
name, but sternness still characterized his voice.
' Never would I unite myself with one who considered him-
self degraded by a union with our family, father, be assured,"
said Lilla, earnestly. " My hopes are not high. I have
thought little of marriage, and till I am sought have no wish
to leave this sequestered spot, believe me."
" And who, think you, will seek you here ? You had bet-
ter banish such idle hopes, for they will end in disappoint-
ment."
" Be it so, then," Lilla replied, calmly, though had her
father been near her, he would have seen her cheek suddenly
become pale, and her eyelids quiver, as if by the pressure of a
tear. '' Is marriage a thing so indispensable, that you would
compel me to leave you, my dear father?"
" To you it is indispensable ; when once you have lost the
name you now hold, the world and all its pleasures will be
spread before you, the stain will be remembered no more;
your life need not be spent in gloom and exile like this."
'^ And what, then, will become of you ?"
" Of me ! who cares ? What am I, and what have I ever
been to either of my children that they should care for me?
I scorn the mere act of duty, and which of you can love ? no,
Lilla, not even you."
" Father, you do me wrong ; oh, do not speak such cruel
words," said Lilla, springing from her seat, and flinging her-
self on her knees by her father's side. *' Have I indeed so
failed in testimonies of love, that you can for one instant be-
lieve it is only the duty of a child I feel and practise ? Oh,
my father, do me not such harsh injustice ; could you read my
inmost heart, you would see how full it is of love and rever-
ence for you, though I have not always courage to express it
Ask of me any, every proof but this, and I will do it ; but, oh,
do not command me to wed Mr. Clapperton : why, oh, why
would you thus seek to send me from you ?"
" I speak but for your happiness, Lilla ;" his voice some-
what softened. " You cannot be happy now with one so harsh,
irritable, cruel, as I know I am too often."
"And would you compare the occasional irritation, pro-
ceeding from the iaWing, \i^^V?CL c^i ^\i^\ss^5i4 father.^ with th
THE mother's recompense. 467
fierce passion and constant impatience of a husband, with
whom I could not have one idea in common, whom I could
neither love nor reverence, to whom even my duty would be
wretchedness? oh, my father, can you compare the two? Think
of Mrs. Greville: Philip Clapperton ever reminds me of Mr.
Greville, of what at least he must have been in his youth, and
would you sentence me to all the misery that has been poor
Mrs. Greville's lot and her children's likewise ?"
" You do not know enough of Clapperton to judge him
thus harshly, Lilla ; I know him better, and I cannot see the
faults against which you are so inveterate. Your sister
chose a husband for herself, and how has she fared ? is she
happy ?"
^' Annie cannot be happy, father, even if her husband were
cf a very different character. She disobeyed ; a parent's bless-
ing hallowed not her nuptials, and strange indeed would it be
were her lot otherwise ; but though I cannot love the husband
of your choice, you may trust me, father, without your con-
sent and blessing, I will never marry."
"Do not say you cannot love Philip Clapperton, Lilla;
when once his wife, you could not fail to do so. I would see
you united to one who loves you, my child, ere your affections
are bestowed on another, who may be less willing to return
them."
Grahame spoke in a tone of such unwonted softness, that
the tears now rolled unchecked down Lilla's cheeks. Her in-
genuous nature could not be restrained ; she felt as if, were she
still silent, she would be deceiving him, and hiding her face in
her hand, she almost inaudibly said
" For that, then, it is too late, father ; I cannot love Mr.
Clapperton, because because I love another."
" Ha !" exclaimed Grahame, starting, then laying his trem-
bling hand on Lilla's head, he continued, struggling with
strong emotion, " this, then, is the cause of your determined
refusal Poor child, poor child, what misery have you formed
for yourself!"
" And wherefore misery, my father ?" replied Lilla, raising
her head somewhat proudly, and speaking as firmly as her
tears would permit. " Your child would not have loved had
she not deemed her affections sought, ay, and valued too.
Think not I would degrade myself by giving my heart to any
one who deemed me or my father beneath his notice. If evei
eye or act can speak, I do not love in vavu?^
468 IBM MOTHBt's xsooimnsBL
^ And would you believe in triflefl snch ms ihene'i^ asked
her fSEiiher, sorrowfully. ^ Alas I poor child, words arn ofteo
false, still less can you rely on the language of the eye. Has
any thing like an understanding taken place between yon ?"
^ Alas ! my &ther, no ; and yet ^and yet oh, I know he
loyes me."
^ And so he may, my child, and yet break his own heart
and yours, poor guileless girl, rather than unite himself witb
the dishonored and the base. Lilla, my own Lilla, I havi
been harsh and cruel ; it is because I feel too keenly perhapi
the gall in which your wretched brother's conduct has steepea
your life and mine ; mine will soon pass away, but the dark
shadow will linger still round you, my child, and condemn you
to wretchedness. I cannot, cannot bear that thought 1" and he
struck his clenched hand against his brow.
^ Why on the innocent should fall the chastisement of the
^ilty? My child, my child, oh banish from your unsuspect-
ing heart the hopes of love returned. Where in this selfish
world will you find one to love you so for yourself alone, that
family and fortune are as naught ?"
" Why judge so harshly of your sex, Mr. Grahame ?" said
a rich and thrilling voice, in unexpected answer to his words,
and the same young man whom we before mentioned as linger-
ing by a village crave, stepping lightly from the terrace on
which the large window opened into the room, stood suddenly
before the astonished father and his child. On the latter the
effect of his presence was almost electric. The rich crimson
mantled at once over cheek and brow and neck, a faint cry
burst from her lips, and as the thought flashed across her, that
her perhaps too presumptuous hopes of love returned had been
overheard, as well as her father's words, she suddenly burst
into tears of mingled feeling, and darting by the intruder,
passed by the way he had entered into the garden ; but even
when away from him, composure for a time returned not. She
forgot entirely that no name had been spoken either by her
father or by herself to designate him whom she confessed she
loved ; her only feeling was, she had betrayed a truth, which
from him she would ever have concealed, till he indeed had
sought it ; and injured modesty now gave her so much pain, it
permitted her not to r^oice in this unexpected appearance of
one whom she had not seen since she had believed him dead.
She knew the churchyard was at this period of the evening
)uite deserted, and. vAxxlob.^ u\iQQuw:Asv& ^\ii&.t he was about]
THE mother's RECOlfFENSE. 469
she hastily tied on her bonnet, and with the speed of a young
lawn she bounded through the narrow lane, and rested not till
she found herself seated beside her favorite grave ; there she
gave full vent to the thoughts in which pleasure and confusion
somewhat strangely and painfully mingled.
" Can you, will you forgive this unceremonious and, I fear,
anwished-for intrusion ?" was the young stranger's address to
Grahame, when he had recovered from the agitation which
Lilla's emotion had called forth, he scarcely knew wherefore.
"To me you have over extended the hand of friendship, Mr.
Grahame, however severe upon the world in general, and will
you refuse it now, when my errand here is to seek an even
nearer and a dearer name ?"
" You are welcome, ever welcome to my humble home, my
dear boy, for your own sake, and for those dear to you,"
replied Grahame, with a return of former warmth and cor-
diality. " More than usually welcome I may say, Edward, as
this is your first visit here since your rescue from the bowels
of the great deep. You look confused and heated, and as if
you would much rather run after your old companion than stay
with me, but indeed I cannot spare you yet. I have so many
questions to ask you."
" Forgive me, Mr. Grahame, but indeed you must hear me
first.
" I came here to speak to you on a subject nearest my
heart, and till that is told, till from your lips I know my fate,
do not, for pity, ask me to speak on any other. I meant not
to have entered so abruptly on my mission, but that which Mr.
Myrvin has imparted to me, and what I undesignedly over-
heard as I stood unseen on that terrace, have taken from me
all the eloquence with which I meant to plead my cause."
" Speak in your own proper person, Edward, and then I
may perhaps hear you," replied Grahame, from whom the sight
of his young friend appeared to have banished all misanthropy.
" What I can, howevsr, have to do with your fate, I know not,
except that I will acquit you of all intentional eaves-dropping,
if it be that which troubles you ; and what can Mr. Myrvin
have said to rob you of eloquence ?"
" He told me that that you had encouraged Philip Clap-
perton's addresses to Lil ^to Miss Grahame," answered
Edward, with increasing agitation, for he perceived, what was
indeed the truth, that Grahame had not the least idea of hia
intentions.
470 THE mother's recompense.
^ And what can that have to do with yon, young man V
inquired Grahame, somewhat haughtily, and his brow darken-
ed. " You have not seen Lilla, to be infected with her preju-
dices, and in what manner can my wishes with regard to mj
daughter on that head concern you?"
" In what manner 1 Mr. Grahame, I came hither with my i
aunt's and uncle's blessing on my purpose, to seek from you
your gentle daughter's hand. I am not a man of many words,
and all I had to say appears to have departed, and left me
speechless. I came here to implore your consent, for without
it I knew 'twere vain to think or hope to make your Lilla
mine. I came to plead to you, and armed with your blessing,
plead my cause to her, and you ask me how Mr. Myrvin's
intelligence can affect,me. Speak, then, at once ; in pity to that
weakness which makes me feel as if my lasting happiness or
misery depends upon your answer."
" And do you, Edward, do you love my poor child ?" asked
the father, with a quivering lip and glistening eye, as he laid
his hand, which trembled, on the young man's shoulder.
" Love her, oh, Mr. Grahame, she has been the bright
beaming star that has shone on my ocean course for many a
long year. I know not when I first began to love, but from 1
my cousin Caroline's wedding-day the thoughts of Lilla Hug- '
ered with me, and gilded many a vision of domestio peace and
love, and each time I looked on her bright face, and marked
her kindling spirit, heard and responded inwardly to her ani-
mated voice, I felt that she was dearer still ; and when again
I saw her in her sorrow, and sought with Ellen to soothe and
cheer her, oh, no one can know the pain it was to restrain the
absorbing wish to ask her, if indeed one day she would be
mine, but that was no time to speak of love. Besides, I knew
not if I had the means to oflPer her a comfortable home, I knew
not how long I might be spared to linger, near her ; but now,
when of both I am assured, wherefore should I hesitate longer 1
With the title of captain, that for which I have so long pined,
I am at liberty to retire on half-pay, till farther orders ; the
adopted son and acknowledged heir to my uncle. Lord Del-
mont, I have now enough to offer her my hand, without one
remaining scruple. You are silent. Oh, Mr. Grahame, must
I plead in vain ?"
" And would you marry her, would you indeed take my
hild as your chosen bride ?" faltered Grahame, deeply moved.
" Honored, titled as -jou w^^tk^ ^Q^t.^^otSKa^ikft.'Si^ I^vlla is no
ttit bride for you."
THE mother's re ohpense. 471
" Perish honors and title too, if they could deprive me of
he gentle girl I love," exclaimed the young captain, impetu-
ously. " Do not speak thus, Mr. Grahame. In what was my
lamented father better than yourself ^my mother than Lady
Helen ? and if she were in very truth my inferior in birth, the
virtues and beauty of Lilla Grahame would do honor to the
proudest peer of this proud land."
" My boy, my gallant boy !" sobbed the agitated father, his
irritability gone, dissolved, like the threatening lQud of a
summer day beneath some genial sunbeam, and as he wrung
Captain Fortescue's hand again and ags^in in his, the tears
streamed like an infant's down his cheek.
" Will I consent, taiU I give you my blessing ? Qh, to
see you the husband of my poor child would be too, too much
happiness, happiness wholly, utterly undeserved. But, oh,
Edward, can Mr. Hamilton, can Lord Delmont consent to ypur
union with one, whose only brother is a disgraced, dishonored
outcast, whose father a selfish, irritable misanthrope ?"
^* Can the misconduct of Cecil cast, in the eyes of the just
and good, one shadow on the fair fame of his sister 1 No, my
dear sir, it is you who have looked somewhat unkindly and
unjustly on the world, as when you mingle again with your
friends, in company with your children, you will not fail, with
your usual candor, to acknowledge. A selfish, irritable misan-
thrope," he added, archly smiling. " You cannot terrify me,
Mr. Grahame. I know the charge is false, and I dread it
not."
"Ask m2 not to join the world again," said Grahame,
hoarsely ; " in all else, the duties of my children shall be as
laws, but that"
" Well, well, we will not urge it now, my dear sir," replied
the young sailor cheerfully ; then added, with the eager agita-
tion of affection, " But Lilla, my Lilla. Oh, may I hope that
she will in truth be mine ? Oh, have I, can I have been too
presumptuous in the thought I have not loved in vain ?"
" Away with you, and seek the answer from her own lips,"
said Mr. Grahame, with more of his former manner than he
had yet evinced, for he now entertained not one doubt as to
Edward being the chosen one on whom his daughter's young
affections had been so firmly fixed. " Go to her, my boy ; she
will not fly a second time, so like a startled hare, from your
approach ; tell her, had she told her father Edward Fortescue
was the worthv object of her love, lie 'womI^ Tio\ ^\va \i:^^
472 THE. mother's kecompenss.
thrown a damp upon hor young heart, he would not have con'
demned him as being incapable of loving her for herself alona
Tell her, too, the name of Philip Clapperton shall offend her
no more. Away with you, my boy."
Edward awaited not a second bidding. In a very few mi-
nutes the whole garden had been searched, and Miss Grahams
inquired for all over the house, then he bounded through the
lane, and scarcely five minutes after he had juitted Mr. Gra*
hame, he stood by the side of Lilla ; the consciousness that she
had confessed her love, that he might have overheard it, was
still paramount in her modest bosom; and she would have
avoided him, but quickly was her design prevented. Rapidly,
almost incoherently, was the conversation of the last half hour
repeated, and with all the eloquence of his enthusiastic nature,
Edward pleaded his cause, and, need it be said, not in vain.
Lilla neither wished nor sought to conceal her feelings, and
long, long did those two young and animated beings remain in
sweet and heartfelt commune beside that lowly grave.
" What place so fitted where to pledge our troth, my Lilla,
a^ by my mother's resting place ?" said Edward. " Would
that she could look upon us now, and smile her blessing."
Happily indeed flew those evening hours unheeded by the
young lovers. Grahame, on the entrance of his happy child,
folded her to his bosom ; his blessing descended on her head,
mingled with tears, which sprung at once from a father's love
and self-reproach at all the suffering his irritability had occa-
sioned her. And that evening Lilla indeed felt that all her
sorrows, all her struggles, all her dutiful forbearance, were re-
warded. Not only was her long-cherished love returned, not
only did she feel that in a few short months she would be her
Edward's own ; that he, the brave, the gallant, honored sailor,
had chosen her in preference to any of those fairer and nobler
maidens with whom he had so often associated; but her father,
her dear father, was more like himself than he had been since
her mother's death. He looked, he spoke the Montrose Gra-
hame we have known him in former years. Edward had ever
been a favorite with him, but he and Lilla had been so inti-
mate from their earliest childhood, that he had never thought
of him as a son ; and when the truth was known, so truly did
Grahaine rejoice, that the bitterness in his earthly cup was
Well-nigh drowned by its present sweetness.
Innumerable were the questions both Lilla and Grahama
fcd to ask, and TSdwaid. wx^i^^ \iSi ^wiCsvNJoa.^* ^^i\iliar ioy-
THE mother's recompense. 473
ousness which eyer threw a charm around him. The adyen*
tures of his yoyage, his dangers, the extraordinary means of
his long-lost uncle being instrumental in his preservation, Lord
Belmont's varied tale, all was animatedly discussed till a late
hour. A smile was on Grahame's lip, as his now awakened
eye recalled the drooping spirits and fading cheek of his Lilla
during those three months of suspense, when Captain For-
tescue was supposed drowne^, and the equally strange and
sudden restoration to health and cheerfulness when Ellen's
letter was receivedj detailing her brother's safety. Lilla's
streaming eyes were hid on her lover's shoulder as he detailed
his danger, but quickly her tears were kissed away ; thankful-
ness that he was indeed spared, again filled her heart, and the
bright smile returned. He accounted for not seeking them
earlier by the fact that, while they remained at Richmond, his
uncle, whose health, from long-continued suffering, was but
weakly established, could not bear him out of his sight, and
that he had entreated him not to leave him till they returned
to Oakwood. This, young Fortescue afterwards discovered,
was to give Lord Delmont time for the gratification of his
wishes, which, from the time he had heard the line of Delmont
was extinct, had occupied his mind. Many of his father's old
friends recognized him at once. His father's and his sister's
friends were eager to see and pay him every attention in their
power. He found himself ever a welcome and a courted guest,
and happiness, so long a stranger from his breast, now faded
not again. To adopt Edward as his son, to leave him heir to
his title and estate, was now, as it had been from the first mo-
ment he recognized his nephew, the dearest wish of his heart,
" if it were only to fulfil Sir George T7ilmot's prophecy," he
jestingly told the old Admiral, who, with Mr. and Mrs. Hamil-
ton, warmly seconded his wishes. The necessary formula met
with no opposition, and the same day that gave to Edward his
promotion of captain, informed him of the secretly-formed and
secretly-acted upon desire of his uncle.
In the time of Edward's grandfather, the Delmont estates,
as some of our readers may remember, were, from the careless-
ness of stewards, and the complete negligence of their lord, in
such an embarrassed state, as barely to return a sufficient
income for the expenses of Lord Delmont's establishment.
Affairs, however, were not in a worse state than that a little
energy and foresight might remedy. The gvxw:^\a.Ti csl "^^xit^
lAanveraj who, as we know already, "became \kOt^ \^iss^2fcX
474 THE mother's llECOMPENSE.
when only three years old, had acted his part with so muoli
straightforwardness and trust, that when Manvers came of age
he found his estates in such a thriving condition, that he was
a very much richer nobleman than many of his predecessors
had been. Well able to discern true merit, and grateful for
the services already rendered, his guardian, by his earnest
entreaty, remained his agent during his residence with his
ijiother and sister in Switzerland. There, living very much
within his income, his fortune accumulated, and by his early
death it fell to the Crown, from which Lord Belmont, on his
return from his weary years of slavery, received it with the
title of earl, bestowed to prove that the tale of a British
sailor's sufferings and indignities had not fallen unheeded on
the royal ear. The long-banished seaman was presented to
his Majesty by the Duke of Clarence himself, and he had no
need to regret the gracious interview. His intentions con-
cerning the young officer, Captain Fortescue, met with an un-
qualified approval. Ardently loving his profession, the royal
Duke thought the more naval heroes filled the nobility of his
country the better for England, and an invitation to Bushy
Park was soon afterwards forwarded, both to Lord Dehnont
and his gallant nephew.
Edward, already well-nigh beside himself by his unexpected
pr^motion, no longer knew how to contain the exuberance of
his spirits, much to the amusement of his domestic circle ; par-
ticularly to his quiet gentle sister, who, as she looked on her
brother, felt how truly, how inexpressibly her happiness in-
creased with his prosperity. She too had wound herself round
the heart of her uncle ; she loved him, first for his partiality to
her brother, but quickly her affection was extended to himself.
Mrs. Hamilton had related to him every particular of her his-
tory with which he had been deeply and painfully, affected, and
as he quickly perceived how much his sister's gentle firmness
and constant watchfulness had done towards forming the cha-
racter of not only Edward and Ellen but of her own children,
his admiration for her hourly increased.
A very few days brought Lord Delmont and his niece Ellen
to Mr. Grahame's cottage, and Lilla's delight at seeing Ellen
was only second to that she felt when Edward came. The
presence, the cordial greeting of Lord Delmont, removed from
the mind of Grahame every remaining doubt of his approbation
of the bride his nephew had chosen. As a faithful historian,
however, I must ackiio^\e^^& ^i^l^ -w^^^ ii\k^T^^^a^5k\sJi\iai
THE mother's recompense. 475
pointed out Lady Emily Lyle as the most suitable connection
for Edward. Lady Florence he would have preferred, but
there were many whispers going about that she was engaged
to the handsome young baronet Sir Wialter Cameron, who, by
the death of his uncle Sir Hector, had lately inherited some
extensive estates in the south-west of Scotland. When, how-
ever. Lord Delmont perceived his nephew's affections were
irrevocably fixed, and he heard from his sister's lips the cha-
racter of Lilla Grahame, he made no opposition, but consented
with much warmth and willingness. He was not only content,
but resolved on being introduced to Miss Grahame as soon as
possible, without, however, saying a word to Edward of his in-
tentions. He took Ellen with him, he said, to convoy him
safely and secure him a welcome reception ; neither of which,
she assured him, he needed, though she very gladly accom-
panied him.
A few weeks passed too quickly by, imparting happiness
even to Ellen, for had she been permitted the liberty of choos-
ing a wife for her Edward, Lilla Grahame would have been
her choice. Deeply and almost painfully affected had she
been indeed, when her brother first sought her to reveal the
secret of his love.
" I cannot," he said, " I will not marry without your sym-
pathy, your approval, my sister my more than sister, my
faithful friend, my gentle monitress, for such you have ever
been to me." And he folded her in his arms with a brother's
love, and Ellen had concealed upon his manly bosom the glis-
tening tears, whose source she scarcely knew. " I would have
you love my wife, not only for my sake but for herself alone.
Never will I marry one who will refuse to look on you with
the reverential affection your brother does. Lilla Grahame
does this, my Ellen ; it was her girlish affection for you that
first attracted my attention to her. She will regard you as I
do ; she will teach her children, if it please Heaven to grant us
any, to look on you even as I would ; her heart and home will
be as open to my beloved sister as mine. Speak then, my ever
cherished, ever faithful friend ; tell me if, in seeking Lilla, your
blessing will be mine."
Tears of joy choked her utterance, but quickly recovering
herself, Ellen answered him in a manner calculated indeed to
increase his happiness, and her presence at Llangwillan satis
fied every wish.
JJnahle to resist the eloquent entteatiea oi ^\i\^iT\ss^\%
476 THE mother's keooupense.
and the appealing eyes of his child, Grahame at last oonsented
to s^end the month, which was to intervene ere his daughter's
nnptials, at Oakwood. That period Edward intended to em-
ploy in visiting the ancient hall on the Delmont estate, which
for the last three months had been in a state of active prepara-
tion for the reception of its long-absent master. It was bea^i-
tifully situated in the vicinity of the New Forest, Hampshiie.
There Edward was to take his bride, considering the whole
estate, his uncle declared, already as his own, as he did not
mean to be a fixture there, but live alternately with his sister
and his nephew. Oakwood should see quite as much of hun
as Beech Hill, and young people were better alone, particularly
the first year of their marriage. Vainly Edward and Lilla
sought to combat his resolution; the only concession thej
could obtain was, that when their honeymoon was over, he and
Ellen would pay them a visit, just to see how they were get-
ting on.
" You must never marry, Nelly, for I don't kno^ what my
sister will do without you," said Lord Delmont.
" Be assured, uncle Charles, I never will. I love the free-
dom of this old hall much too well ; and, unless my aunt abso-
lutely sends me away, I shall not go."
"And that she never will, Ellen," said Lilla, earnestly.
** She said the other day she did not know how she should ever
spare you even to us ; but you must come to us very often,
dearest Ellen. I shall never perform my part well as mistress
of the large establishment with which Edward threatens me,
without your counsel and support."
" I will not come at all, if you and Edward lay your wise
heads together, as you already seem inclined to do, to win me
by flattery," replied Ellen, playfully, endeavoring to look grave,
though she refused not the kiss of peace for which Lilla looked
up so appealingly.
The first week in July was fixed for the celebration of the
two marriages in Mr. Hamilton's family. As both Edward and
Percy wished the ceremony should take place in the parish
church of Oakwood, and be performed by Archdeacon Howard,
it was agreed the same day should witness both bridals : and
that Miss Manvers, who had been residing at Castle Terrp
with the Earl and Countess St. Eval, should accompany them
to Oakwood a few days previous. Young Hamilton took hif
bride to Paris, to which capital he had been intrusted with
some government commission. It was not till the end of July
THE mother's RECOBfPENSE. 477
he had originally intended his nuptials should take place ; but
he did not choose to leave England for an uncertain period
without his Louisa, and consequently it was agreed their honey*
moon should be passed in France. It may be well to mention
here that Mr. Hamilton had effected the exchange he desired,
and that Arthur Myrvin and his beloved Emmeline were now
comfortably installed in the Rectory, which had been so long
the residence of Mr. Howard ; and that Myrvin now performed
his pastoral duties in a manner that reflected happiness not
only on his parishioners, but on all his friends, and enabled him
to enjoy that true peace springing from a satisfied conscience.
He trod in the steps of his lamented friend ; he knew not him-
self how often his poor yet contented flock compared him in
their humble cottages with Herbert, and that in their eyes he
did not lose by the comparison. Some, indeed, would say, " It
is all Master Herbert's example, and the society of that sweet
young creature. Miss Emmeline, that has made him what he
is." But whatever might be the reason, Arthur was univer-
sally beloved ; and that the village favorite. Miss Emmeline,
who had grown up amongst them from infancy, was their Rec-
tor's wife ; that she still mingled amongst them the same gen-
tle, loveable being she had ever been ; that it was to her, and
not to a stranger, they were ever at liberty to seek for relief
in trouble, or sympathy in joy, was indeed a source of un-
bounded pleasure ; and Emmeline was happy, truly, gratefully
happy. Never did she regret the choice she had made, nor
envy her family the higher stations of life it was theirs to fill.
She had not a wish beyond the homes of those she loved ; her
husband was all in all to her, her child a treasure for which
she could not be sufficiently thankful. She was still the sa^ie
playful, guileless being to her family which she had ever been ;
but to strangers a greater degree of dignity characterized her
deportment, and commanded their involuntary respect. The
hbme of Arthur Myrvin was indeed one over which peace and
love had entwined their roseate wings ; a lowly, yet a beau-
teous spot, over which the storms of the busy, troubled world,
might burst but never reach ; and for other sorrows piety and
submission were alike their watchword and their safeguard.
Lord St. Eval was the only person who regretted Arthur's
promotion to the rectory of Oakwood, as it deprived him, he
declared, of his chaplain, his vicar, and his friend. However,
he willingly accepted a friend of Mr. HamWtoxi'^ \.q ^w?^^-^ V\%
pl&ce/a clergyman not much beyond tli "ujtitcl^ oi \\1^\ ^^^
478 THE mother's recompense.
who for seyen years had deyoted himself^ laboriously and an*
ceasiDgly, to a poor and unprofitable parish in one of the Pcroe
Islands ; in the service of Mr. Hamilton he had been employed,
though voluntarily he had accepted, nay, eloquently he had
pleaded, for the office. To those of our readers who are ac-
quainted with the story of Home Influence, the Rev. Henry
Moreton is no stranger. They may remember that he accom-
panied Mr. Hamilton on his perilous expedition, and had joy-
fully consented to remaining there till the young Christian,
Wilson, was capable of undertaking the ministry. He had
done so ; his pupil promised fair to reward his every care, and
preserve his countrymen in that state of peace, prosperity, and
virtue, to which they had been brought by the unceasing cares
of Moreton ; and that worthy man returned to his native land
seven years after he had quitted it, improved not only in
inward peace but in health, and consequently appearances. A
perceptible lameness was now the only remains of what had
been before painful deformity. The bracing air of the island
had invigorated his nerves ; the consciousness that he was ac-
tive in the service of his fellow-creatures removed from his
mind the morbid sensibility that had formerly so oppressed
him ; and Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton perceived, with benevolent
pleasure, that life was to him no longer a burden. He had
become a cheerful, happy member of society, willing to enjoy
the blessings that now surrounded him with a truly chastened,
grateful spirit : Oakwood and Castle Terryn were ever en-
livened when he was present. After the cold and barren living
at Feroe, exiled as he there had been from any of his own rank
in life, the Vicarage at Castle Terryn and the society those
duties included, formed to him indeed a happy resting-place ;
while his many excellent qualities soon reconciled St. Eval and
his Countess to Myrvin's desertion, as they called his accepting
the Rectory at Oakwood. No untoward event occurred to
prevent the celebration of Percy and Edward's bridals as in-
tended. They took place, attended with all that chastened joy
and innocent festivity, which might have been expected from
the characters of those principally concerned. No cloud ob-
scured the happiness of the affectionate, united family, whc
witnessed these gladdening nuptials. Each might, perhaps, in
secret have felt there was one blank in every heart, that when
thus united, there was still a void on earth. In their breasts
the fond memory of Herbert lingered still. Mr. Grahame for-
got his moroseness, though he had resolved on returning to hu
THE mother's recompense. 479
cottage in Wales. He could feel nothing but delight as he
looked on his Lilla in her chaste and simple bridal robes, and
felt that of her he might indeed be proud. Fondly he dried
the tear that fell from her bright eyes, as she clung to him in
parting, and promised to see her soon, very soon, at Beech Hill.
It was the amusement of the village gossips for many a
long evening to discuss, over and over again, the various merits
of the two brides ; some preferring the tearful, blushing Lilla,
others the pale, yet composed and dignified demeanor of Miss
Manvers. Some said Captain Eortescue looked much more
agitated than he did when he saved his uncle's life off Dart-
mouth, some years before ; it was marvellously strange for a
brave young officer such as he, to be so flustered at such a sim-
ple thing as taking a pretty girl for better or worse. And Mr.
Percy Hamilton, some said, was very much too serious for
such a joyous occasion ; if they had been Miss Manvers they
should not have liked it and so unlike himself, too.
" Hold your tongue, silly woman," a venerable old man in-
terposed, at this part of the conversation, "the poor lad's
thoughts were with his brother, to whom this day would have
been as great a source of joy as to himself He has not been
the same man since dear Master Herbert's death, and no won-
der, poor fellow."
This observation effectually put an end to the remarks on
Percy's demeanor, and some owned, after all, marriage was
somehow a solemn ceremony, and it was better to be too se-
rious at such a time than too gay.
Percy and hig bride stayed a week in London, and thence
proceeded to Paris, which place, a very short scrutiny con-
vinced Percy, was internally in no quiet condition ; some dis-
turbance, he was convinced, was threatening, though of what
nature he could not at first comprehend. He had not, how-
ever, left England a fortnight before his family were alarmed
by the reports which so quickly flew over to our island, of that
extraordinary revolution which in three short days completely
changed the sovereign dynasty of France, and threatened a
renewal of those horrors which had deluged that fair capital
with blood, in the time of the unfortunate Louis XVI. We
beve neither space nor inclination to enter into such details ;
some extracts of a letter from Percy, which Mr. Hamilton re-
ceived, after a week of extreme anxiety on his account, we feel,
however, compelled to transcribe, as the ultimate fates of two
individuals^ whose names have more than o^lce^ft^ Ti^\^\Qrckfe^
480 THE mother's kecomfensb.
in the course of these memoirs, may there perhaps be disoov-
ered.
" Your anxiety, my dearest mother, and that of my father
and Ellen, I can well understand, but for myself I had no fear.
Had I been alone,. I believe a species of pleasurable excite-
ment would have been the prevailing feeling, but for my Lou-
isa I did tremble very often ; the scenes passing around oa
were, to a gentle eye and feelmg heart, terrible indeed, and so
suddenly they had come upon us, we had no time to attempt
retreat to a place of greater safety. Cannon-balls were flying
in all directions, shattering the windows, killing some, and
fearfully wounding many others ; for several hours I concealed
Louisa in the cellar, which was the only secure abode onr
house presented. Mounted guards, to the number of six or
seven hundred, were dashing down the various streets with a
noise like thunder, diversified only by the clash of arms, the
shrieks of the wounded, and the fierce cries of the populace.
It was indeed terrible the butchery of lives has indeed been
awful ; in these sanguinary conflicts between desperate men,
pent up in narrow streets, innocent lives have also been taken,
for it was next to impossible to distinguish "between those who
took an active part in the affray, and those who were merely
paralyzed spectators. In their own defence the gens d'armes
were compelled, to fire, and their artillery did fearful havoc
amonff the people. # # # # #
Crossmg the Quai de la Tournelle, at the commencement of
the first day, I was startled by being addressed by name, and
turning round, beheld, to my utter astonishment, Cecil Gra*
hame at my elbow ; he was in the uniform of a gend'arme, in
which corps, he told me with some glee, his brother-in-law,
Lord Alphingham, who was high in favor with the French
court, had obtained him a commission ; he spoke lightly, and
with that same recklessness of spirit and want of principle
which unfortunately has ever characterized him, declaring he
was far better oflf than he had ever been in England, which
country he hoped never to see again, as he utterly abhorred
the very sight of it. The French people were rather more
agreeable to live with ; he could enjoy his pleasures without
any confounded restraint. I suppose he saw how little I sym-
pathized in his excited spirits, for, with a hoarse laugh and an
oath of levity, he swore that I had not a bit more spirit in me
than when I was a craven-hearted lad, always cringing before
the frown of a samtly iA\iQ;t,%.Tv.^ \kt^^cyt^ no fi.t companion
THE mother's RECOlfPENSE. 481
for a jolly fellow like himself ' Have you followed Herbert's
example, and are you, too, a godly-minded parson ? then, good
day, and good riddance to you, my lad,* was the conclusion at
his boisterous speech ; and setting spurs to his horse, he would
have galloped off, when I detained him to ask why he had not
informed his family of his present place of abode and situation ;
my blood had boiled as he spoke, that rude and scurrilous lips
should thus scornfully have spoken my sainted brother's name ;
passion rose fierce within me, but I thought of him whose
name he spoke, and was calm. He swore that he had had
quite enough of his father's severity, that he never meant to
see his face again. He was now, thank heaven, his own mas-
ter, and would take care to remain so ; that he had been a fool
to address me, as he might bo sure I should tell of his doings,
and bring the old fellow after him. Disgusted beyond meas-
ure, yet I could not forbear asking him if he had heard of his
mother's death. Without the least change of countenance or
of voice, he replied
" ' Heard of it, man, aye, and forgotten it by this ; why,
it is some centuries ago. It would have been a good thing for
me had she died years before she did.'
" * Cecil Grahame !' I exclaimed, in a tone that rung in my
ears some houX'S afterwards, and I believe made him start, dar-
ing even as hs was ; * do you know it is your mother of whom
you speak? a mother whose only fault towards you was too
much lova^ a mother whose too fond heart your cruel conduct
broke ; &'/e you so completely devoid of feeling that not even
this can move you V
"'Pray add to your long list of my good mother's perfeo-
ticns a weakness that ruined me, that made me the wretch I
r.m,' he wildly exclaimed ; and he clenched his hand and bit his
lip till the blood came, while his cheek became livid with some
feeling I could not fathom. He spurred his horse \'iolently,
the spirited animal started forward, a kind of spell seemed to
rivet my eyes upon him. There was a loud report of cannon
from the Place de Gr6ve, several balls whizzed closed by me,
evidently fired to disperse the multitude, who were tumultu-
ously assembling on the Pont de la Cit6 ; and ere I could re-
cover from the startling effects of the report, I heard a shrill
scream of mortal agony, and Cecil Grahame fell from his horse
t shattered corpse.
ffoT several minutes I was wholly unconsoioua oi i)^(JDaXi
21
4fi2 THE MOTHERS RECOMPENSE.
passing around me. I stood by the body of tbe unfortunaU
yoang man, quite insensible to the danger I was incurring
from the shot. I could only see him before my eyes, as I had
known him in his boyhood and his earliest youth, full of fair
promises, of hopeful futurity, the darling of his mother's eye,
the pride of his father, spite of his faults ; and now what was
he ? a mangled corpse, cut off without warning or preparation
in his early youth. But, oh, worse, far worse tlian all, with
the words of hatred, of defiance, on his lips. I sought in vain
for life ; there was no sign, no hope. To attempt to rescue
the body was vain, the tumult was increasing fearfully around
me ; many gensd'drmes were falling indiscriminately with the
populace, and the countenance of Cecil was so fearfully dis-
figured, that to attempt to recognize it when all might again
be quiet would, I knew, be useless. One effort I made, I in-
quired for and sought Lord Alphingham's hotel, intending to
obtain his assistance in the proper interment of this unfortu-
nate man, but this was equally frustrated, the hotel was closely
shut up. Lord and Lady Alphingham had, at the earliest
threatening of disturbances, retreated to their chateau in the
province of Champagne. I forwarded the melancholy intelli-
gence to them, and returned to my own hotel sick at heart
with the sight I had witnessed. The fearful tone of his last
words, the agonized shriek, rung in my ears as the shattered
form and face floated before my eyes, with a tenacity no effort
of my own or even of my Louisa's could dispel. Oh, mj
mother, what do I not owe you for guarding me from the
temptations that have assailed this wretched young man, or
rather for imprinting on my infant mind those principles
which, with the blessing of our heavenly Father, have thus
preserved mo. Naturally, my temper, my passions, were like
his, in nothing was I his superior ; but it was your hand, your
prayers, my mother, planted the seeds of virtue, your gentle
firmness eradicated those faults which, had they been fostered
by indulgence, might have rendered my life like Cecil Gra-
hame's, and exposed me in the end to a death like his. What
would have availed my. father's judicious guidance, my brother's
mild example, had not the soil been prepared by a mother's
hand and watered by a mother's prayers ? Blessings, a thou
sand blessings on your head, my mother I Oh, may my chil*
dren learn to bless theirs even as I do mine ; they cannot know
a purer joy on earth.
THE mother's REOOMFEirSE. 483
^ We have arriyed at Ronen in safety. I am truly thank*
Pdl to feel my beloved wife is far from the scene of confosion
eind danger to which she had been so unavoidably exposed.
I am not deceived in her strength of nerve, my dear mother ;
I did not think, when I boasted of it as one of her truly valu-
able acquirements, I should so soon have seen it put to the
proof; to her letter to Caroline I refer you for all entertaining
matter.
^ I have been interrupted by an interview as unexpected
as it promises to be gratifying. One dear to us all may, at
length, rejoice there is hope ; but I dare not say too much,
for the health of this unhappy young man is so shattered, he
may never yet embrace his mother. But to be more explicit,
I was engaged in writing, unconsciously with the door of my
apartment half open, when I was roused by the voice of the
waiter, exclaiming, * Not that room, sir, if you please, yours is
yonder.' I looked up and met the glance of a yoimg man,
whom, notwithstanding the long lapse of years, spite of faded
form and attenuated features, I recognized on the instant. It
was Alfred Greville. I was far more surprised and inconceiv-
ably more shocked than when .Cecil Grahame crossed my
path ; I had marked no change in the features or the expres-
sion of the latter, but both in Alfred GreviUe were so totally
altered, that he stood before me the living image of his sister,
a likeness I had never perceived before. I was too much
astonished to address him, and before I could frame words, he
harf sprung forward, with a burning flush on either cheek, and
grasping my hand, wildly exclaimed, ' Do not shun me, Hamil-
ton, I am not yet an utter reprobate. Tell me of my mother ;
does she live ?"
" She does." I replied ; instantly a burst of thanksgiving
broke from his lips, at least so I imagined, from the expression
of his features, for there were no articulate sounds, and a
swoon resembling death immediately followed. Medical as-
sistance was instantly procured, but though actual insensibility
was not of long continuance, he is pronounced to be in such
ah utterly exhausted state, that we dare not encourage hopes
for his final recovery ; yet still I cannot but believe he will
be spared spared not only in health, but as a reformed and
better man, to bless that mother, whose cares for him, despite
long years of difficulties and sorrow, bave ne^et i^iXa^. ^
rain I entreated bim not to exhaust himaeM Xyj ^\^^\WL\
484 THE mother's recompense.
that I would not leave him, and if he would only be quiet, he
might be better able on the morrow to tell me all he desired
He would not be checked ; he might not, he said, be spared
many hours, and he must speak ere he died. Comparatively
speaking, but little actual vice has stained the conduct of
Greville. Throughout all his career the remembrance of his
mother has often, very often mingled in his gayest hours, and
dashed them with remorseful bitterness. He owns that often
of late years her image, and that of his sister Mary, ha?e
risen so mildly, so impressively before him, that he has flown
almost like a maniac from the gay and heartless throngs, and
as the thoughts of home and his infancy, when he first lisped
out his boyish prayer by the side of his sister at his mother's
knee, came thronging over him, he has sobbed and wept like a
child. These feelings returned at length so often and so
powerfully, that he felt to resist them was even more difficult
and painful than to break from the flowery chains which his
gay companions had woven round him. He declared his reso-
lution ; he resisted ridicule and persuasion. Almost for the
first time in his life he remained steadily firm, and when he
had indeed succeeded, and found himself some distance from
the scenes of luxurious pleasures, he felt himself suddenly
endowed with an elasticity of spirit, which he had not experienced
for many a long year. The last tidings he had received of his
mother and sister were that they were at Paris, and thither he
determined to go, having parted from his companions at Flo^
ence. During the greater part of his journey to the French
capital, he fancied his movements were watched by a stranger,
gentlemanly in his appearance, and not refusing to enter into
conversation when G-reville accosted him ; but still Alfred did
not feel satisfied with his companionship, though to get rid of
him seemed an impossibility, for however he changed his course,
the day never passed without his shadow darkening Q-reville*8
path. Within about eighty miles of Paris, however, he lost all
traces of him, and he then reproached himself for indulging in
unnecessary fears. He was not in Paris two days, however,
before, to his utter astonishment, he was arrested and thrown
into prison on the charge of forging bank-notes, two years
previous, to a very considerable amount. In vain he pro-
tested against the accusation, alleging at that time he had been
in Italy and not in Paris. Notes bearing his own signature,
and papers betraying other misdemeanors, were brought for*
ward, and on their testimony and that of the stranger, whose
THE mother's recompense. 485
name he found to be Dupont, he was thrpwn into prison to
await his trial To him the whole business was an impenetra-
ble mystery. To us, my dear father, it is all clear as day.
Poor Mrs. Greville's fears were certainly not without founda-
tion, and when affairs are somewhat more quiet in Paris I shall
leave no stone unturned to prove young Greville's perfect in-
nocence to the public, and bring that wretch Dupont to the
same justice to which his hatred would have condemned the
son of his old companion. Alfred's agitation on hearing my
explanation of the circumstance was extreme. The errors of
his father appeared to fall heavily on him, and yet he uttered
no word of reproach on his memory. The relation of his me-
lancholy death, and the misery in which we found Mrs. Greville
and poor Mary affected him so deeply, I dreaded their effect
on his health ; but this was nothing to his wretchedness when,
by his repeated questions, he absolutely wrung from me the
tale of his sister's death, his mother's desolation : no words can
portray the extent of his self-reproach. It is misery to look
upon him now, and feel what he might have been, had his
mother been indeed permitted to exercise her rights. There
is no happiness for Alfred Greville this side of the Channel;
he pines for home for his mother's blessing and forgiveness,
and till he receives them, health will not cannot return.
In prison he remained for six long weary months, with the
consciousness that, amidst the many light companions with
whom he had associated, there was not one to whom he could
appeal for friendship and assistance in his present situation,
and the thoughts of his mother and sister returned with greater
force, from the impossibility of learning any thing concerning
them. The hope of escaping never left him, and with the
assistance of a comrade, he finally effected it on the 27th of
July, the confusion of the city aiding him far more effectually
than he believed possible. He came down to Bouen in a coal-
barge, so completely exhausted, that he declared, had not the
thought of England and his mother been uppermost, he would
gladly have laid down in the open streets to die. To England
he felt impelled, he scarcely knew wherefore, save that he looked
to us for the information he so ardently desired. Our family
had often been among his waking visions, and this accounts for
the agitation I witnessed when I first looked up. He said he
folt he knew me, but he strove to move or speak in vain ; he
could not utter the only question be wis^i^^ \o It^isi^.^^aA'^^^
486 THE mother's recomfense.
anable to depart without being conyinced if I indeed wen
Percy Hamilton.
^ ' And now I have seen you, what haye I learnt V he said,
as he ceased a tale, more of sorrow than of crime.
" * That your mother lives,' I replied, * that she has never
ceased to pray for and love her son, that you can yet be to her
a blessing and support.'
^' Should he wish her sent for, I asked, I knew she would
not demand a second summons. He would not hear of it.
" ' Not while I have life enough to seek her. What ! bring
her all these miles to me. My mother, my poor forsaken
mother. Oh, no, if indeed I may not live, if strength be not
granted me to seek her, then, then it will be time enough to
think of beseeching her to come to me ; but not while a hope
of life remains, speak not of it, Percy. Let her know nothing
of me, nothing, till I can implore her blessing on my kneea*
* * * * *
'^ I have ceased to argue with him, for he is bent upon it,
and perhaps it is better thus. His mind appears much re-
lieved, he has passed a quiet night, and this morning the
physician finds a wonderful improvement, wonderful to him
perhaps, but not to me."
* * * * ' *
Percy's letters containing the above extracts were produc-
tive of much interest to his friends at Oakwood. The details
of Cecil's death, alleviated by sympathy, were forwarded to his
father and sister. The words that had preceded his death,
Mr. Hamilton carefully suppressed from his firiend ; and Mr.
Grahame, as if dreading to hear any thing that could confirm
his son's reckless disposition, asked no particulars. For three
months he buried himself in increased seclusion at Llangwillan,
refusing all invitations, and denying himself steadfastly to alL
At the termination of that period, however, he once more joined
his friends, an altered and.a happier man. His misanthropy
had departed, and often Mr. Hamilton remarked to his wife,
that the Grahame of fifty resembled the Grahame of five-and-
twenty far more than he had during the intervening years.
Lilla and Edward were sources of such deep interest to him,
that in their society he seemed to forget the misery occasioned
by his other children. The shook of her brother's death was
long felt by Lilla ; she sorrowed that he was thus suddenly
out off without time for one thought of eternity, one word of
penitence, of ptajet, TYi^ ^fecM\Qi\i ^i V^st W%\i^xid^ bowever,
THE mother's recompense. 487
gradually drew firom her these melancholy thoughts, and when
Lord Delmont paid his promised visit to his nephew, he found
QO abatement in those light and joyous spirits which had at
first attracted him towards Lilla.
Ellen, at her own particular request, had undertaken to
prepare Mrs. Greville for the return of her son, and the change
that had taken place in him. Each letter from Percy confirmed
his recovery, and here we may notice, though somewhat out of
place, as several months elapsed ere he was enabled fully to
succeed, that, by the active exertions of himself and of the soli-
citor his father had originally employed, Dupont was at length
brought to justice, his criminal machinations fully exposed to
view, and the innocence of Alfred Greville, the son of the de-
ceased, as fully established in the eyes of all men.
Gently and cautiously Ellen performed her office, and vain
would be the effort to portray the feelings of the fond and deso-
late mother, as she anticipated the return of her long- absent
son. Of his own accord he came back to her ; he had tried the
pleasures of the world, and proved them hollow ; he had formed
friendships with the young, the gay, the bright, the lovely, and
he had found them all wanting in stability and happiness
Amid them all his heart had yearned for home and for domes-
tic love ; that mother had not prayed in vain.
Softly and beautifully fell the light of a setting sun around
the pretty little cottage on the banks of the Dart, which was
^ now the residence of Mrs. Greville ; the lattice was thrown
widely back, and the perfume of unnumbered flowers scented
the apartment, which Ellen's hand had loved to decorate, that
Mrs. Greville might often, very often forget she was indeed
alone. It was the early part of September, and a delicious
breeze passed by, b3aring health and elasticity upon its wing,
and breathing soft melody amid the trees and shrubs. Softly
and calmly gUded the smooth waters at the base of the garden.
The green verandah running round the cottage was filled with
beautiful exotics, which Ellen's hand had transported from the
conservatory at Oakwood. It was a sweet and soothing sight
to see how judiciously, how unassumingly Ellen devoted her*
self to the desolate mother, without once permitting that work
of love to interfere with her still nearer, still dearer ties at
home. She knew how Herbert would have loved and devoted
himself to the mother of his Mary, and in this, as in all thingi
ehe followed in his steps. Untiringly would she listen to and
speak on Mrs. Greville^s favorite tneme^YieT lilar^ \ wA '^Km
488 THE mother's recompense.
she sat beside her, enlivening by gentle converse the hours tiat
must intervene ere Alfred came. There was an expression of
such calm, such chastened thanksgiving on Mrs. Greville's fea-
tures, changed as they were by years of sorrow, that none could
gaze on her without a kindred feeling stealing over the heart,
and in very truth those feelings seemed reflected on the young
and lovely countenance beside her. A pensive yet a sweet and
pleasing smile rested on Ellen's lips, and her dark eye shone
softly bright in the light of sympathy. Beautiful indeed were
the orphan's features, but not the dazzling beauty of early
youth. If a stranger had gazed on her countenance when in
calm repose, he would have thought she had seen sorrow ; hut
when that beaming smile of true benevolence, that eye of intel-
lectual and soul-speaking beauty met his glance, as certain
would he have felt that sorrow, whatever it might have been,
indeed had lost its sting.
" It was such an evening, such an hour my Mary died,"
Mrs. Greville said, as she laid her hand in Ellen's. " I thought
not then to have reflected on it with feelings such as now fill
my heart. Oh, when I look back on my past years, and recall
the prayers I have uttered in tears for my son, my Alfred, the
doubts, the fears that have arisen to check my prayer, I wonder
wherefore I am thus blessed."
" Our God is a God of truth, and He promiseth to answer
prayer, dearest Mrs. Greville," replied Ellen, earnestly ; " and
He is a God of love, and will bless those who seek Him and
trust in Him as you have done."
" He gave me grace to trust in Him, my child. I trusted.
1 doubted not He would answer me in another world, but 1
thought not such blessing was reserved for me in this. A
God of love ay, in the hour of affliction, I have felt Him so.
Oh, may the blessings of His loving-kindness, showered down
upon me, soften yet more my heart to receive His glorious
image."
She ceased to speak, but her lips moved still as in inward
prayer. Some few minutes elapsed, and suddenly the glowing
light of the sun was darkened, as by an intervening shadow.
The mother raised her head, and in another instant her son
was at her feet.
" Mother, can you forgive me, receive me? Bid me not go
forth I cannot, may not leave you."
" Go forth, my son,- my son ^no, never, never !" she cried,
and clasping him to \ieT \oom^\)tv"ek ^v2^^^ \Ras^^!^^isA
THE mother's recompense. 489
apon his brow. She released him to gaze again and again upon
his face, and fold him closer to her heart, to read in those
sunken features, that faded form, the tale that he had come
back to her heart and to her home, never, never more to leave
her.
In that one moment years of error were forgotten. The
mother only felt she held her son to her heart, a suffering, yet
an altered and a better man ; and he, that he knelt once more
beside his mother, forgiven and beloved.
CONCLUSION.
And now, what can we more say ? Will nit the memoirs of
the Hamilton family, and those intimately connected with them,
indeed be deemed complete ? It was our intention to trace in
the first part of our tale, the cares, the joys, the sorrows of pa-
rental love, during the years of childhood and earliest youth ;
in the second, to mark the effect of those cares, when those on
whom they were so lavishly bestowed, attained a period of life
in which it depends more upon themselves than on their pa-
rents to frame their own happiness or misery, as far, at least,
as we ourselves can do so. It may please our Almighty Father
to darken our earthly course by the trial of adversity, and yet
that peace founded on religion, which it was Mr. and Mrs.
Hamilton's first care to inculcate, may seldom be disturbed.
It may please Him to bless us with prosperity, but from cha-
racters such as Annie Grahame happiness is a perpetual exile,
which no prosperity has power to recall. We have followed
Mr. Hamilton's family from childhood, we have known them
from their earliest years, and now that it has become their
parts to feel those same cares and joys, and perform those pre-
cious but solemn duties which we have watched in Mrs. Ha-
milton, our task is done ; and we must bid farewell to those we
have known and loved so long ; those whom we have seen the
happy inmates of one home, o'er whom
" The same fond mother bent at night,"
who shared the same joys, the same cares, whose deepest affeo-
tions were confined to their parents and each other, are now
teattered in different parts of their native land, distinct mem-
bers of society, each with his own individual cares and joys,
with new and precious ties to divide t\iA. Yi^tX '^V^'^^ ^^^
2i*
490 I^B mother's RECOltPENSR
affeotiob had once been centced in one spot and in one oirde ;
and can we be accused, in thus terminating our simple annals,
of wandering from the real course of life 1 Is it not thus with
very many families of England ? Are not marriage and death
twined hand in hand, to render that home desolate which once
resounded with the laugh of many gleesome hearts, with the
glad tones of youthful revelling and joy ? True, in those halls
they often meet again, and the hearts of the parents are not
lone, for the family of each child is a source of inexpressible
interest to them ; there is still a link, a precious link to bind
them together, but vain and difficult would be the attempt to
continue the history of a family when thus dispersed*. Sweet
and pleasing the task to watch tL, unfledged nestlings while
under a mother's fostering wing, but when they spread their
wings and fly, where is the eye or pen that can follow them on
their eager way?
Once more, but once, we will glancp within the halls of
Oakwood, and then will we bid them farewell, for our task will
be done, and the last desires of fancy, we trust, to have ap-
peased.
It was in September, of the year 1830, we closed our narra-
tive. Let us then, for one moment, imagine the yell of fancy
is upraised on the first day of the year 1838, and gaze within
that self-same room, which twenty years before we had seen
lighted up on a similar occasion, the anniversary of a new
year, brignt with youthful beauty, and enlivened by the silvery
laugh of early childhood. But few, very few, were the strangers
that this night mingled with Mr. Hamilton's family. It was
notj as it had been twenty years previous, a children's ball, od
which we glance. It was but the happy reunion of every
member of that truly happy family ; and the lovely mirthful
children there assembled, were, with the exception of a very
few, closely connected one with another, by the near relation-
ship of brothers, sisters, and cousins. In Mi*, and Mrs. Ha-
milton, Mrs. Greville, Montrose Grahame, Lucy Haroourt,
and Mr. Moreton, who were all present, time had, comparativelyt
made but little diflerence ; but it was in those who, twenty
years before, had so well acted the part of youthful entertain*
ers to their various guests, that the change was striking, yet
far, very far from being mournful.
On one side might be seen Percy Hamilton, M. P., in ear
nest yet pleasurable conversation with Mr. Grahame. It was
(enerally noticed thai l\xeQ 1nq ^t^TkWi^Tsi^TL^^T^ ^.V^oiya talking
THE MOTUE&'S RECOMPENSK 491
politics, discussing, whenever they met, the affairs of the na*
tiou, for no senator was more earnest and interested in his
vocation than Percy Hamilton, but certainly on this night
there was no thoughtful gravity of a senator imprinted on his
brow ; he was looking and laughing at the childish efforts of
the little Lord Manvers, eldest child of the Earl of Delmont,
then in his seventh year, to emulate the ease and dignity of his
cousins, Lord Lyle and Herbert and Allan Myrvin, some two
or three years older than himself, who, from being rather more
often at Oakwood, considered themselves quite lords of the soil
and masters of the ceremonies, during the present night at
least. The ladies Mary and Gertrude Lyle, distinguished by
the perfect simplicity of their dress, had each twined an arm
in that of the gentle, retiring Caroline Myrvin, and tried to
draw her from her young mother*s side, where, somewhat abashed
at the number that night assembled in her grandfather's hall,
she seemed determined to remain, while a younger sister fro-
licked about the room, making friends with all, in such wild
exuberance of spirits, that Mrs. Myrvin's gentle voice was more
than once raised in playful reproach to reduce her to order,
while her husband and Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton seemed to take
delight in her movements of elasticity and joy. The Countess
St. Eval, as majestic and fascinating in womanhood, as her
early youth had promised, one moment watched with a proud
yet softly flashing eye the graceful movements of her son, and
the next, was conversing eagerly and gayly with her brother
Percy and the young Earl of Delmont, who were standing near
her ; seven years had wrought but little change in him, who
till now we hav3 only known by the simple designation of Ed-
ward Fortescue. Manhood, in its prime, had rather increased
than lessened the extreme beauty of his face and form ; few
gazed on him once but turned to gaze again ; and the little
smiling cherub of five years, whose soft round arms were twined
round Miss Fortesoue's neck, the Lady Ellen Fortescue, pro-
mised fair to inherit all her father's beauty and peculiar grace,
and endeared her to her young mother's heart with an increased
warmth of love, while the dark flashing eyes of Lord Manvers,
and his glossy, flowing, ebon curls rendered him, Edward de-
clared, the perfect likeness of his mother, and therefore he was
the father's pet Round Mr. Hamilton were grouped, in atti-
tudes which an artist might have been glad to catch for natural
grace, about three or four younger grandchildren, the eldest
not exceeding four years, who, too young to ^om m "Oafc \^xsra
492 THE MOTHEH'S RECOlfFENSE.
and sports of their elder brethren, were listening with eager
attention to the entertaining stories grandpapa was relating
calling forth peals of laughter from his infant auditors, pa^
ticularly from the fine curly-headed boy who was installed on
the seat of honor, Mr. Hamilton's knee, being the only child
of Percy and Louisa, and consequently the pet of alL It was
to that group Herbert Myrvin wished to confine the attention
of his merry little sister, who, however, did not choose to be
BO governed, and frisked about from one group \o another, re-
gardless of her graver brother's warning glances ; one minute
seated on Mrs. Hamilton's knee and nestling her little head
on her bosom, the next pulling her uncle Lord St. Eval's coat,
to make him turn round and play with her, and then running
away with a wild and ringing laugh.
" Do not look so anxious, my own Emmeline," Mrs. Hamil
ton said fondly, as she met her daughter's glance fixed somewhat
anxiously on her little Minnie, for so she was generally called,
to distinguish her from Lady St. Eval's Mary. " You will
have no trouble to check those wild spirits when there is need
to do so ; her heart is like your own, and then sweet is the
task of rearing."
With all the grateful fondness of earlier years did Mrs.
Myrvin look up in her mother's face, as she thus spoke, and
press her hand in hers.
" Not even yet have you ceased to peneitrate my thoughts,
my dearest mother," she replied ; " from childhood unto the
present hour you have read my countenance as an open book."
" And have not you, too, learned that lesson, my child 1 Is
it not to you, your gentle, timid Caroline clings most fondly?
Is it not to you Herbert comes with his favorite book, and
Allan with nis tales of glee ; Minnie's mirth is not complete
unless she meets your smile, and even little Florence looks for
some sign of s}'mpathy. You have riot found the task so dif-
ficult that you should wonder I should love it ?"
" For those beloved ones, oh, what would I not do ?" said
Mrs. Myrvin, in a tone of animated fervor, and turning her
glistening eyes to her mother, she added, " My own mother,
marriage may bring with it new ties, new joys, but, oh, who can
say it severs the first bright links of life between a mother and
a child ? it is now, only now, I feel how much you loved me "
" May your children be to you what mine have ever been
to me, my Emmeline ; I can wish you no greater blessing,"
replied Mrs. Hamilton, in a tone of deep emotion, and twining
THE mother's recompense. 493
Emmeline^J arm in hers, they joined Mrs. Greville and Miss
Harcourt, who were standing together near the pianoforte,
where Edith Seymour, the latter's younger niece^ a pleasing
girl of seventeen, was good-naturedly playing the music of the
various dances which Lord Lyle and Herbert Myrvin were
calling in rapid succession. In another part of the room Alfred
Grreville and Laura Seymour were engaged in such earnest
conversation, that Lord Delmont indulged in more than one
joke at their expense, of which, however, they were perfectly
unconscious; and this had occurred so often, that many of
Mrs. Greville's friends entertained the hope of seeing the hap-
piness, now so softly and calmly imprinted on her expressive
features, very shortly brightened by the union of her. now truly
estimable son with an amiable and accomplished young woman,
fitted in all respects to supply the place of the daughter she
had lost.
And what had these seven years done for the Countess of
Delmont, who had completely won the delighted kiss and smiles
of Minnie Myrvin, by joining in all her frolics, and finally ac-
cepting Allan's blushing invitation, and joining the waltz
with him, to the admiration of all the children ? The girlish
vivacity of Lilla Grahame had not deserted Lady Delmont ;
conjugal and maternal love had indeed softened and subdued a
nature, which in early years had been perhaps too petulant ;
had heightened yet chastened sensibility. Never wag happi-
ness more visibly impressed or more keenly felt than by the
youthfui Countess. Her husband, in his extreme fondness,
had so fostered her at times almost childish glee, that he might
have unfitted her for her duties, had not the mild counsels, the
example of his sister. Miss Fortescue, turned aside the threat-
ening danger, and to all the fascination of early childhood Lady
Delmont united the more solid and enduring qualities of pious,
well-regulated womanhood.
" I wonder Charles is not jealous," observed Mrs. Percy
Hamilton, playfully, after admiring to Lord Delmont his wife's
peculiar grace in waltzing. '^ Allan seems to have claimed her
attention entirely."
" Charles has something better to do," replied his father,
laughing, as the little Lord Manvers flew by him, with his arm
twined round his cousin Gertrude in the inspiring gallop, and
seemed to have neither ear nor eye for any one or any thing
else. " Caroline, do you permit your dau^htcix to \\stf3 nJca
oogueti;e so early ?"
494 THE mother's recompense.
" Better at seven than seventeen, Edward, believe me ; had p*^'
she numbered the ktter, I might be rather more uneasy, at
present I can admire that pretty little pair without any such
feeling. Gertrude told me to-day, she did not like to see her
cousin Charles so shy, and she should do all she could to make
him as much at home as she and Leslie are."
" She has succeeded, then, admirably," replied Edward,
laughing, ^' for the little rogue has not much shyness in him
now. Herbert and Mary have got that corner all +o them-
selves ; I should like to go slily behind them, and find out what
they are talking about."
" Try and remember what you used to talk about to your
partners in this very room, some twenty years back, and pe^
haps recollection will satisfy your curiosity," said Lady St
Eval, smiling, but faintly, however ; the names Herbert and
Mary, had recalled a time when those names had often been
joined before, and the silent prayer arose that their fates might
not resemble those whose names they bore, that they might
be spared a longer time to bless those who loved them.
" Twenty years back, Caroline, what an undertaking ! Allan
is more like the madcap I was then, so I can better enter into
his feelings of pleasure. By the by, why are not Mrs. Came-
ron's family here to-night ? I half expected to meet them here
yesterday." |
" They spend this season with Sir Walter and Lady Came-
ron in Scotland," replied Lady St. EvaL " Florence declared
she would take no excuse ; the Marquis and Marchioness of
Malvern, with Emily and Louis, are there also, and Lady Al-
ford is to join them in a week or two." '
'* You were there last summer, were you not ?" 1
" We were. They are one of the happiest couples I know, j
and their estate is most beautiful. Florence declares that, *
were Sir Walter Scott still living, she intended to have made
him take her for a heroine, her husband for a hero, and trans-
port them some centuries back, to figure on that same romantio
estate in some very exciting scenes."
" Had he killed Cameron's first love, and rendered him des-
perate, and made Florence some consoling spirit, to remove his
despair, instead of making him so unromantically enabled to
conquer his passion, because unreturned? Why I could make
as good a story as Sir Walter himself; if she will reward me
liberally, I will set about it."
'^ It will never do, Lord Belmont, it is much too common*
\
THE mothee's KECOMFENSE. 495
place," said Mrs. Percy Hamilton, smiling. " It is a very im-
proper question, I allow, but who was Sir Walter's first love V*
" Do you not know ? A certain friend of yours whom I
torment, by declaring she is invulnerable to the little god's
arrows," he answered, joyously.
" She may be invulnerable to Cupid, but certainly not to
any other kind of love," remarked Lady St. Eval, as she smil-
ingly pointed out to Mrs. Percy's notice Miss Fortescue, sur-
rounded by a group of children, and bearing on her expressive
countenance unanswerable evidences of her interest in the hap-
piness of all around her."
" And is it possible, after loving her he could love another?"
she exclaimed, in unfeigned astonishment.
^ Disagreeably unromantic, Louisa, is it not ?" said Lord
Delmont, laughing heartily ; " but what was the poor man tc
do 7 Ellen was inexorable, and refused to bestow on him any
thing but her friendship."
"Which he truly values," interrupted Lady St. Eval.
"You must allow, Louisa, he was wise, however free from
romance ; the character of Florence, in many points, very much
resembles Ellen's. She is one of the very few whom I do not
wonder at his choosing, after what had passed. Do you know,
Edward, Flora Cameron marries in the spring?"
" I heard something about it ; tell me who to.
She complied, and Percy and Mr. Grahame joining them,
the conversation extended to more general topics.
"Nay, Allan, dear, do not tease your sister," was Miss
Fortescue's gentle remonstrance, as Allan endeavored, some-
what roughly, to draw Minnie from her side, where, however,
she clung with a pertinacity no persuasion or reproach could
shake.
" She will hurt Ellen," replied the boy, sturdily, " and she
has no right to take her place by you."
" But she may stand here too, there is room for us both ;'*
interrupted the little Ellen, though she did not offer to give
up her place in her aunt's lap to her cousin.
" Go away, Allan, I choose to stand here, and aunt Ellen
says I may," was Minnie's somewhat impatient rejoinder, as
she tried to push her brother away, though her pretty little
features expressed no ill-temper on the occasion, for she laughed
as she spoke.
" Aunt Ellen promised to dance with me," retorted AUan^
and 80 I will not go aw&y unless she cornea too?^
496 THE mother's EECOMPENSlfi.
" With me, with me !" exclaimed Lord Manvers, loiindi3ij
forward to join the group. She promised three months ago to
dance with me."
" And how often have I not performed that promise, Mas-
ter Charlie ?" replied Ellen, laughing, " even more often with
you than with Allan, so I must give him the preference first."
Her good-natured smiles, the voice which betrayed sucli
real interest in all that pleased her little companions, banished
every appearance of discontent. The magic power of aflfection
and sympathy rendered every little pleader satisfied and
pleased; and, after performing her promise with Allan, she
put the final seal to his enjoyment by confiding the little bash-
ful Ellen to his especial care ; a charge which, Myrvin de-
clared, caused his son to hold himself up two inches highex
than he had done yet.
" Ellen, if you do no* make yourself as great and deservedly
a favorite with my children as with your brother's and Emme-
line*s, I shall never forgive you," said the Earl St. Eval, who
had been watching Miss Fortescue's cheerful gambols with the
children for the last half hour, in extreme amusement, and now
joined her.
" Am I not so already, Eugene ?" she said, smiling that
peculiar smile of quiet happiness which was now natural to her
countenance. " I should be sorry if I thought they did not
love me equally ; for believe me, with the sole exception of
my little namesake and godchild, my nephews and nieces are
all equally dear to me. I have no right to make an exception
even in favor of my little Ellen, but Edward has so often
called her mine, and even Lilla has promised to share her
maternal rights with me, that I really cannot help it. Yonr
children do not see so much of me as Emmeline's, and that is
the reason perhaps they are not quite so free with me ; but
believe me, dear St. Eval, it will not be my fault if they do
not love me."
" I do believe you," replied the Earl, warmly. I have but
one regret, Ellen, when I see you loving and beloved by so
many little creatures."
" And what may that be ?"
" That they are not some of them your own, my dear girl,
I cannot tell you how I regret the fact, of which each year
the more and more convinces me, that you are determined
ever to remain Bingle. TVi^x^ ^x^ ^ret ^ few in my list of female
friends so fitted to adoiii t\i^ ixi^tt\^^^& ^XaKfe^^^^T^l^ss^^^ia
TUis mother's recompense. 497
wi^ld make a better motlier, and I cannot but regret there
aro none on whom you seem inclined to bestow those endear-
ing and invaluable qualities."
" Regret it then no more, my dear St. Eval," replied Ellen,
calmjy. yet with feeling ; " I thank you for that high opinion
which I believe you entertain of me, too flattering as it may
be ; but cease to regret that I have determined to live an
old maid's life. To me, believe me, it has no terrors. To
single women the opportunities of doing good, of making
others happy, are more frequent than those granted to mothers
and wives ; and while such is the case, is it not our own fault
if we are not happy? I own that the life of solitude which an
old maid's includes, may, if the heart be so inclined, be equally
productive of selfishness, moroseness of temper, and obstinacy
in opinion and judgment, but most fervently I trust such
will never be my attributes. It can never be while my
beloved aunt and uncle are spared to me, which I trust they
will be for many, many years longer ; and even should they
be removed before I anticipate, I have so many to love me,
so many to dearly love, that I can have no time, no room for
selfishness."
" Do not mistake me, Ellen," St. Eval replied, earnestly ;
" I do not wish to see you married because I dread your be-
coming like some single women ; with your principles such can
never be. Your society, your influence over the minds of our
children is far too precious to be lightly wished removed, as
it would be were you to marry. It is for your own sake,
dearest Ellen, I regret it, and for the sake of him you might
select, that you, who are so fitted to enjoy and to fulfil them,
can never know the pleasures attendant on the duties of a
happy wife and mother ; that by a husband and child, the
dearest ties on earth, you will go down to the grave unloved."
" You are right, St. Eval, they are the dearest ties on earth ;
but pleasures, the pleasures of affection, too, are yet left to us,
who may never know them. Think you not, that to feel it is
my place to cheer and soothe the declining years of those dear
and tender guardians of my infancy, must bring with it enjoy-
ment to see myself welcomed by smiles of love and words of
kindness by all my brothers and sisters to see their children
flock around me as I enter, each seeking to be the first to ob-
tain my smile or kiss to know myself of service to my fellow-
creatures, I mean not in my own rank, but tlio^ek \i^\i^'^\jQ.^a\a
^'to feel conscious that in every e^ent oi Y^Sa^ ^^xNIvs^qSk^
498 THE mother's recompense.
in sickness or sorrow, if those I so love requirij my pr*
sence, or I feel I may give them comfort or sympathy, at leasf
I may fly to them, for I shall have no tie, no dearer or more
imperious duty to keep me from them are not these consi-
derations enough to render a single life indeed one of hap-
piness, St. Eval ? Even from this calm, unruffled stream of
life can I not gather flowers 1"
" You would gather them wherever you were placed, my
dear and noble-minded, Ellen," said the Earl, with a warmth
that caused her eyes to glisten. " You are right ; with a dis-
position such as yours, I have no need to regret you have so
steadfastly refused every oflfer of marriage. My girls shall
come to you in that age when they think matrimony is the
only chance of happiness, and you shall teach them felicity
dwells not so much in outward circumstances as in the temper
of the mind. Perhaps, after all, Ellen, you are happier as it
is. You might not find such a husband as I would wish you,
and I should be sorry to see your maternal cares rewarded as
were poor Mrs. Greville's."
" I rather think in the blessedness of the present the past
is entirely forgotten," observed Ellen, thoughtfully. " There
are cares and sorrows attendant on the happiest lot ; but if a
mother does her duty, in my opinion she seldom fails to oh
tain her recompense, however long deferred."
" You are right my Ellen," said Mrs. Hamilton, who had
been listening to the conversation some little time unobserved.
" There are many sorrows and many cares inseparable from
maternal love, but they are forgotten, utterly forgotten, or only
remembered to enhance the sweetness of the recompense that
ever follows. Do you not think to see my children, as I do
now around me, walking in that path which alone can lead to
eternal life, and leading their offspring with them, bringing up
so tenderly, so fondly, their children as heirs of immortality,
and yet lavishing on me, as on their father, the love and duty
of former years ? Is not this a precious recompense for all
which for them I may have done or borne ? Even as I watched
the departing moments of my Herbert, as I marked the
triumphant and joyful flight of his pure spirit to his heavenly
home, even then was I not rewarded ? I saw the fruit of
those lessons I had been permitted through grace to inculcate ;
his last breath blessed me, and was not that enough ? Oh,
nay beloved children, let no difficulties deter you, no tempta-
tion, no selfish suffering prevent your training up the lovely
\
THE mother's recompense. 499
infants now gambolling around you in the way that they should
go ; solemn is the charge, awful the responsibility, but sweeter
far than words can give it, the reward which either in life oi
death will then be yours."
" Ah, could we perform our parts as you have yours, dear-
est mother, then indeed might we hope it," exclaimed the
Countess St. Eval and Mrs. Myrvin, at the same moment, as
they drew closer to their mother, the eyes of both glistening
with emotion as they spoke.
And if we do reap the happiness of which you spoke, to
whom shall we owe it, mother ?" demanded Percy, feelingly ;
for he too, attracted by his mother's emotion, had joined the
group. " Whose care, under God's blessing, has made us as
we are, and taught us, not only by precept but example, how
to conduct ourselves and our children ^yoars and my father's ;
and if indeed in after years our children look up to us and
bless us as we do you, oh, my mother, the remembrance of
you will mingle with that blessedness, and render it yet
purer."
" Truly have you spoken, my son," said Mr. Hamilton, whose
little companions had about half an hour before been trans-
ported to their nursery. "While sharing with your dear
mother the happiness arising from your conduct, my children,
often and often has the remembrance of my mother entered
my heart to chasten and enhance those feelings. Gratitude to
to her, reverence of her memory, have mingled with the pres-
ent joy, and so will it be with you. Your parents may have
descended to the grave before your children can be to you
what you have been to us, but we shall be remembered ; long,
long may you feel as you think on your mother, my beloved,
children, and teach your offspring to venerate her memory ;
that the path of the just is indeed as a shining light, which
shineth more and more unto the perfect day."