Chapter IV (1)

Numerous were the cards and invitations now left at Mr. Hamilton's door; and the world, in its most tempting form, was indeed spread before Caroline, although, perhaps, compared with the constant routine of pleasure pursued by some young ladies who attend 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 entreaties of his friends, and very often those of his daughter. A dinner-party and a ball he would sometimes permit Caroline to attend in one day, but the flying from house to house, to 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 previous night ringing in her ears. Those who were eager to condemn Mrs. Hamilton whenever they could, declared it was the greatest inconsistency to take Emmeline to the Opera, and permit her to appear so often in company at home, and yet in other matters he so strict; why could she not bring her out at once, instead of only tantalizing her? but Mrs. Hamilton could never do anything like anybody 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 kept quite 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 excluded from Mr. Hamilton's visiting list, did everything 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 those whom they wished to wound. Such petty malice demanded not a second thought from minds so well-regulated as those of Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton. Mrs. Hamilton, indeed, turned their ill-natured remarks to advantage, for instead 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 Ellen, her prayers for guidance had not been unheeded. Perhaps her conduct, with regard to the former, might have appeared inconsistent; but she felt no ill-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 difference between the age of the sisters, Emmeline was so 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 seclusion 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 confidence in her parents was such, that she ever submitted to their wishes with cheerfulness. Mrs. Hamilton knew and sympathised 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 joy 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 gratification in her power, and endeavouring 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 parents still wished her to bestow on the completion of her education. With all the innocence and quiet of a young child she enjoyed the select parties given by her mother with the same zest, but with the poetic feelings of dawning youth. She absolutely revelled in the Opera, and there her mother generally accompanied her once a week. An artist might have found a pleasing study in the contemplation of that young, bright face, as she sat entranced, every sense absorbed in the music 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 uncontrolled 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 manners 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 almost 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 detailed in former pages will readily believe. Her health still continued so delicate as frequently to occasion her aunt some anxiety. Through the winter, strange to say, she had not suffered, but the spring brought on, at intervals, those depressing feelings of languor which Mrs. Hamilton hoped had been entirely 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 suspect from her quiet and controlled manner, and her apparently inanimate though beautiful features, that she was as enthusiastic 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 sorrowing heart, and she saw with regret, that in her niece's present state of health, even that pleasure must be denied her, for the very exertion attendant on it was too much. Ellen never 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 her 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 even at home, certainly gave matter for observation to those 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 happened 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 life 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--those 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 irritable, 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 becoming pettish and ill-tempered, enervated and repining; we dare not confess such feelings, for our looks proclaim not failing health, and who would believe us? when the very struggle for cheerfulness fills the eye with tears, the heart with heaviness, and we feel provoked at our peevishness, and angry that we are so 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 indeed is it when such trials befall us in early youth, when liveliness and buoyancy are expected, and any departure therefrom is imagined to proceed from causes very opposite to the truth. 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 accomplished.

It is in the quick perception of character, in the adaptation of our words to those whom we address, that in domestic circles 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 disagreeable, 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. Hamilton 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 therefore none with whom she could sympathise. 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 involuntarily loved, even by those who, considering her a saint at first, shrunk in dread from her society, and it was this that rendered 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 Caroline's impatient summons, and left to Ellen the task of fastening her lady's jewels.

Whenever nothing occurred to prevent it, Ellen was generally 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 manners of her niece, and, without noticing, she endeavoured 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 endeavoured to remove any such impression, by smiling cheerfully as she replied in the affirmative.

"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 banishing 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 irritable and ill-tempered I often feel."

"Because you are not very well, my love, and yet you do not feel 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 quite sure that my Ellen sometimes wishes she were not so completely prohibited such amusements."

"I thought I had succeeded better in concealing those wishes," replied 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 book 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 moment 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 obstacles of failing health, she perseveringly 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 individuals these memoirs of the Hamilton family must embrace, will not permit us to linger on the scenes of gaiety in which Caroline now mingled, and which afforded her, perhaps, too many opportunities for the prosecution of her schemes; Miss Grahame's task was no longer difficult. 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 confidant 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, departing 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 was the harm of a little innocent flirtation? Annie would repeatedly urge, if she fancied a doubt 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 character 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 enjoyment, 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 grateful, and loved her more for those little arts and kindnesses with which she ever endeavoured to draw him from his reserve, and chain him to her side. Could that noble spirit imagine she only acted thus to afford 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, Mrs. Hamilton's eyes might have been opened; but her behaviour 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 observable, 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 intention 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 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. Hamilton had done so, and as we know, never approved of Caroline'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 character 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 sufficient chastisement. Could the noble, the honourable, 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 Viscount, 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 sincerely 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, all 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 so also, by her laborious efforts to fan the newly ignited spark into a name, and never once permit Caroline to look into herself; and she took so many opportunities of speaking of those 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 confide 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 features, or rather their expression, that did not please, and scarcely satisfied Mrs. Hamilton's penetration. Intimate as he was with Grahame, friendly as he had become with her husband, she could not overcome the feeling of repugance with which she more than once found herself unconsciously regarding 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 impossible, it was indefinable; but there was a casual glance of that dark eye, a curl of that handsome mouth, a momentary knitting of the 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 feelings 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 towards him.

That mother's fears were not unfounded. Lord Alphingham loved Caroline, but the love of a libertine is not true affection, 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 Continent, gay, and courted, in whatever country he resided, winning 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 himself quite as much, if not more, an object of universal attraction in his native land than he had been on the Continent. He was now about thirty, and perfect indeed in his vocation. The freshness, _naïveté_, 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 Grahame, 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 forbidding 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 already caused him to determine in his own mind to make Caroline his wife, with or without her mother's approval; and he amused 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 severity, 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, _nolens volens_ on the part of her parents, and he acted accordingly.

As opposite as were the characters, so was the conduct of Caroline's two noble suitors. St. Eval, spite of the encouragement he received, yet shrunk from paying any marked attention either to Caroline or her parents. It was by degrees he became 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 enamoured 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 attractive 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 family during the greater part of the London season; but as it is not our task to enter into Caroline's gaieties, we here may be permitted to mention Mrs. Greville's departure with her delicate 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 endeavour 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 himself, for it gave him more liberty. She wrote to her son, imploring 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 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 he 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 relative of his father, and it was from this he had determined, he told 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 favourite residence of his mother and sister to be sold--but so it was. The generous feelings of his early childhood had been completely blunted, and to himself alone he intended to appropriate that fortune, when a portion would yet have removed many 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 consider, that if he "cut a dash" at college, with the _éclat_ 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 exclaimed, in passion, as she endeavoured 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. "Child 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, 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 that moment would she have died. She continued 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 condemn 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 honour, 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! reject not my advice, Alfred! 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? No; he could see his mother at his feet, but he could not meet the ridicule of the world. He raised her hastily, 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 care 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 not look forward to his reformation, still, to feel he loved 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 infancy, 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. Hamilton'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 forgotten 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 sufficient of itself to produce this agitation. And you, too, Herbert," 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 favourite pursuits, and left Oxford at such a busy time, merely to see us before we leave? This is kind, indeed."

"I left Percy to work for me," answered Herbert, endeavouring to hide emotion under the veil of gaiety. "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 honour of my college been at stake. You must not imagine me so entirely devoted to my hooks, dear Mrs. Greville, 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. Greville, 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 Ellen? Indeed, I cannot allow that."

The remark quickly produced a general conversation, and Herbert for the first time addressed Mary. A strange, unconquerable 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 other 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 Greville 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 separation he knew an earthly idol; he discovered that he was not so completely the servant of his Maker as he had hoped, and sometimes believed. But in the doubts and fears which shadowed his exalted mind, he sought the footstool of his God. His cry for assistance was not unheeded. Peace and comfort 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 interminable 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 recognised 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 feelings; to understand each other. He knew the day his father intended going to Dover, and the evening previous, much to the astonishment of his 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 accompanying 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 restrained, for she knew, however resignation might be, nay, was felt, it was a bitter pang to that gentle girl to leave her native land, and the friends she so much loved; but recalling her promise, with a strong effort she checked her own sorrow, and endeavoured 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. Hamilton, acting the part of a brother to the favourite _protégeé_ of his much-loved mother, listened to her plans, counselled and improved 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 the antiquities of Dover, its ancient castle among the first, and with Mr. Hamilton as a cicerone, it was a day of pleasure to all, though, perhaps, a degree of melancholy might have pervaded the party in the evening, for the recollection would come, that by noon on the morrow, Mrs. Greville and Mary would bid them farewell. 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 opportunity appeared to present itself.

The vessel did not leave Dover till an hour before noon, and breakfast having been despatched by half-past nine, Mrs. Greville persuaded her daughter to take a gentle walk in the intervening time. Herbert instantly offered to escort her. Emmeline 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 your companion," he said, fixing his large expressive eyes mournfully upon her, and speaking in a tone of such melancholy 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, dear Mary; let us in fancy transport ourselves at least for one 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."

Playfully he granted the desired forgiveness, and they departed on their walk. For some little time they walked in silence. Before they were aware of it, a gentle ascent conducted 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 floating 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 confusion 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 meadow, 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, "I 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 but think I might return to them, the pang of leaving would lose one half its bitterness. I know this is a weak and perhaps sinful feeling; but in vain I have lately striven to bow resignedly to my Maker's will, even should His call meet me, as I sometimes 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, I feel it, and on this subject from our infancy we have felt alike; to you alone have I 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 eye 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 be. 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 as these can never never fly. The friends of my youth will be no longer near me, strangers alone will surround me; but even as the hand of my Heavenly Father is marked in every scene, however far apart, so is that hand, that love extended to me wherever 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.