The following story will, the author trusts, sufficiently illustrate its title to require but few words in the way of preface. She is only anxious to impress two facts on the minds of her readers. The one—that having been brought before the public principally as the author of Jewish works, and as an explainer of the Hebrew Faith, some Christian mothers might fear that the present Work has the same tendency, and hesitate to place it in the hands of their children. She, therefore, begs to assure them, that as a simple domestic story, the characters in which are all Christians, believing in and practicing that religion, all doctrinal points have been most carefully avoided, the author seeking only to illustrate the spirit of true piety, and the virtues always designated as the Christian virtues thence proceeding. Her sole aim, with regard to Religion, has been to incite a train of serious and loving thought toward God and man, especially toward those with whom He has linked us in the precious ties of parent and child, brother and sister, master and pupil.
The second point she is desirous to bring forward is her belief, that in childhood and youth the spoken sentiment is one of the safest guides to individual character; and that if, therefore, she have written more conversation than may appear absolutely necessary for the elucidation of "Home Influence," or the interest of the narrative, it is from no wish to be diffuse, but merely to illustrate her own belief. Sentiment is the vehicle of THOUGHT, and THOUGHT the origin of ACTION. Children and youth have very seldom the power to evince character by action, and scarcely if ever understand the mystery of thought; and therefore their unrestrained conversation may often greatly aid parents and teachers in acquiring a correct idea of their natural disposition, and in giving hints for the mode of education each may demand.
Leaving the beaten track of works written for the young, the author's aim has been to assist in the education of the HEART, believing that of infinitely greater importance than the mere instruction of the MIND, for the bright awakening of the latter, depends far more on the happy influences of the former than is generally supposed.
The moral of the following story the author acknowledges is addressed to mothers only, for on them so much of the responsibility of Home Influence devolves. On them, more than on any other, depends the well-doing and happiness, or the error and grief, not of childhood alone, but of the far more dangerous period of youth. A Preface is not the place to enter on their mission. The author's only wish is to aid by the thoughts, which in some young mothers, anxious and eager to perform their office, her story may excite. To daughters also, she hopes it may not be found entirely useless, for on them rests so much of the happiness of home, in the simple thought of, and attention to those little things which so bless and invigorate domestic life. Opportunities to evince the more striking virtues woman may never have, but for the cultivation and performance of the lesser, they are called upon each day.
Clapton, January, 1847.
Grace Aguilar was born at Hackney, June 2d, 1816. She was the eldest child and only daughter of Emanuel Aguilar, one of those merchants descended from the Jews of Spain, who, almost within the memory of man, fled from persecution in that country, and sought and found an asylum in England.
The delicate frame and feeble health observable in Grace Aguilar throughout her life displayed itself from infancy; from the age of three years, she was almost constantly under the care of some physician, and, by their advice, annually spending the summer months by the sea, in the hope of rousing and strengthening a naturally fragile constitution. This want of physical energy was, however, in direct contrast to her mental powers, which developed early and readily. She learned to read with scarcely any trouble, and, when once that knowledge was gained, her answer, when asked what she would like for a present, was, invariably, "A book," which was read, re-read, and preserved with a care remarkable in so young a child. With the exception of eighteen months passed at school, her mother was her sole instructress, and both parents took equal delight in directing her studies and facilitating her personal inspection of all that was curious and interesting in the various counties of England to which they resorted for her health.
From the early age of seven she commenced keeping a journal, which was continued with scarce any intermission throughout her life. In 1825 she visited Oxford, Cheltenham, Gloucester, Worcester, Ross, and Bath, and though at that time but nine years old, her father took her to Gloucester and Worcester cathedrals, and also to see a porcelain and pin manufactory, &c., the attention and interest she displayed on these occasions affording convincing proof that her mind was alive to appreciate and enjoy what was thus presented to her observation. Before she had completed her twelfth year, she ventured to try her powers in composition, and wrote a little drama, called Gustavus Vasa, never published, and only here recorded as being the first germ of what was afterward to become the ruling passion.
In September, 1828, the family went to reside in Devonshire for the health of Mr. Aguilar, and there a strong admiration for the beauties and wonders of nature manifested itself: she constantly collected shells, stones, sea-weed, mosses, &c., in her daily rambles; and, not satisfied with admiring their beauty, sedulously procured whatever little catechisms or other books on those subjects she could purchase or borrow, eagerly endeavoring, by their study, to increase her knowledge of their nature and properties.
When she had attained the age of fourteen, her father commenced a regular course of instruction for his child, by reading aloud while she was employed in drawing, needle-work, &c. History was selected, that being the study which now most interested her, and the first work chosen was Josephus.
It was while spending a short time at Tavistock, in 1830, that the beauty of the surrounding scenery led her to express her thoughts in verse. Several small pieces soon followed her first essay, and she became extremely fond of this new exercise and enjoyment of her opening powers, yet her mind was so well regulated that she never permitted herself to indulge in original composition until her duties and her studies were all performed.
Grace Aguilar was extremely fond of music; she had learned the piano from infancy, and in 1831 commenced the harp. She sang pleasingly, preferring English songs, and invariably selecting them for the beauty or sentiment of the words; she was also passionately fond of dancing, and her cheerful, lively manners in the society of her young friends would scarcely have led any to imagine how deeply she felt and pondered upon the serious and solemn subjects which afterward formed the labor of her life. She seemed to enjoy all, to enter into all, but a keen observer would detect the hold that sacred and holy principle ever exercised over her lightest act and gayest hour. A sense of duty was apparent in the merest trifle, and her following out of the divine command of obedience to parents was only equaled by the unbounded affection she felt for them. A wish was once expressed by her mother that she should not waltz, and no solicitation could afterward tempt her. Her mother also required her to read sermons, and study religion and the Bible regularly; this was readily submitted to, first as a task, but afterward with much delight; for evidence of which we can not do better than quote her own words, in one of her religious works:
"This formed into a habit, and persevered in for a life, would in time, and without labor or weariness, give the comfort and the knowledge that we seek; each year it would become lighter and more blessed; each year we should discover something we knew not before, and, in the valley of the shadow of death, feel to our heart's core that the Lord our God is Truth."—Women of Israel, vol. ii., p. 43.
Nor did Grace Aguilar only study religion for her own personal observance and profit. She embraced its principles (the principles of all creeds) in a widely-extended and truly liberal sense. She carried her practice of its holy and benevolent precepts into every minutiæ of her daily life, doing all the good her limited means would allow, finding time in the midst of her own studies, and most varied and continual occupations, to work for and instruct her poor neighbors in the country, and, while steadily venerating and adhering to her own faith, neither inquiring nor heeding the religious opinions of the needy whom she succored or consoled. To be permitted to help and comfort she considered a privilege and a pleasure; she left the rest to God; and thus, bestowing and receiving blessings and smiles from all who had the opportunity of knowing her, her young life flowed on in an almost uninterrupted stream of enjoyment, until she had completed her nineteenth year.
Alas! the scene was soon to change, and trials awaited that spirit which, in the midst of sunshine, had so beautifully striven to prepare itself a shelter from the storm. The two brothers of Miss Aguilar, whom she tenderly loved, left the paternal roof to be placed far from their family at school. Her mother's health necessitated a painful and dangerous operation; and from that time, for several years, alternate hopes and fears, through long and dreary watchings beside the sick-bed of that beloved mother, became the portion of her gifted child. But even this depressing and arduous change in the duties of her existence did not suspend her literary pursuits and labors. She profited by all the intervals she could command, and wrote the tale of the "Martyr," the "Spirit of Judaism," and "Israel Defended;" the latter translated from the French at the earnest request of a friend, and printed only for private circulation. The "Magic Wreath," a little poetical work, and the first our authoress ever published, dedicated to the Right Honorable the Countess of Munster, also appeared about this time.
In the spring of 1835, Grace Aguilar was attacked with measles, and never afterward recovered her previous state of health, suffering at intervals with such exhausting feelings of weakness as to become, without any visible disease, really alarming.
The medical attendants recommended entire rest of mind and body; she visited the sea, and seemed a little revived, but anxieties were gathering around her horizon, to which it became evidently impossible her ardent and active mind could remain passive or indifferent, and which recalled every feeling, every energy of her impressible nature into action. Her elder brother, who had long chosen music as his profession, was sent to Germany to pursue his studies; the younger determined upon entering the sea-service. The excitement of these changes, and the parting with both, was highly injurious to their affectionate sister; and her delight, a few months after, at welcoming the sailor boy returned from his first voyage, with all his tales of danger and adventure, and his keen enjoyment of the path of life he had chosen, together with her struggles to do her utmost to share his walks and companionship, contributed yet more to impair her inadequate strength.
The second parting was scarcely over ere her father, who had long shown symptoms of failing health, became the victim of consumption. He breathed his last in her arms; and the daughter, while sorrowing over all she had lost, roused herself once more to the utmost, feeling that she was the sole comforter beside her remaining parent. Soon after, when her brother again returned finding the death of his father he resolved not to make his third voyage as a midshipman, but endeavor to procure some employment sufficiently lucrative to prevent his remaining a burden upon his widowed mother. Long and anxiously did he pursue this object, his sister, whose acquaintance with literary and talented persons had greatly increased, using all her energy and influence in his behalf, and concentrating all the enthusiastic feelings of her nature in inspiring him with patience, comfort, and hope, as often as they failed him under his repeated disappointments. At length his application was taken up by a powerful friend, for her sake; she had the happiness of succeeding, and saw him depart at the very summit of his wishes. Repose, which had been so long necessary, seemed now at hand; but her nerves had been too long and too repeatedly overstrung, and when this task was done the worn and weary spirit could sustain no more, and sank under the labor that had been imposed upon it.
Severe illness followed; and though it yielded, after a time, to skillful remedies and tender care, her excessive languor and severe headaches continued to give her family and friends great uneasiness.
During all these demands upon her time, her thoughts, and her health, however, the ruling passion neither slumbered nor slept. She completed the Jewish Faith, and also prepared Home Influence for the press, though very unfit to have taxed her powers so far. Her medical attendant became urgent for total change of air and scene, and again strongly interdicted all mental exertion; a trip to Frankfort, to visit her elder brother, was therefore decided on. In June, 1847, she set out, and bore the journey without suffering nearly so much as might have been expected. Her hopes were high, her spirits raised; the novelty and interest of her first travels on the Continent gave her, for a very transient period, a gleam, as it were, of strength. For a week or two she appeared to rally; then, again, every exertion became too much for her, every stimulating remedy seemed to exhaust her. She was ordered from Frankfort to try the baths and mineral waters of Schwalbach, but without success. After a stay of six weeks, and persevering with exemplary patience in the treatment prescribed, she was one night seized with alarming convulsive spasms, so terrible that her family removed her the next morning with all speed back to Frankfort, to the house of a family of most kind friends, where every attention and care was lavishly bestowed.
In vain. She took to her bed the very day of her arrival, and never rose from it again; she became daily weaker, and in three weeks from that time her sufferings ceased forever. She was perfectly conscious to within less than two hours before her death, and took an affectionate leave of her mother and brother. Speech had been a matter of difficulty for some time previous, her throat being greatly affected by her malady; but she had, in consequence, learned to use her fingers in the manner of the deaf and dumb, and almost the last time they moved it was to spell upon them, feebly, "Though He slay me, yet will I trust in Him."
She was buried in the cemetery of Frankfort, one side of which is set apart for the people of her faith. The stone which marks the spot bears upon it a butterfly and five stars, emblematic of the soul in heaven, and beneath appears the inscription,
"Give her of the fruit of her hands, and let her own works praise her in the gates."—Prov., ch. xxxi., v. 31.
And thus, 16th of September, 1847, at the early age of thirty-one, Grace Aguilar was laid to rest; the bowl was broken, the silver cord was loosed. Her life was short, and checkered with pain and anxiety, but she strove hard to make it useful and valuable, by employing diligently and faithfully the talents with which she had been endowed. Nor did the serious view with which she ever regarded earthly existence induce her to neglect or despise any occasion of enjoyment, advantage, or sociality which presented itself. Her heart was ever open to receive, her hand to give.
Inasmuch as she succeeded to the satisfaction of her fellow-beings, let them be grateful; inasmuch as she failed, let those who perceive it deny her not the meed of praise for her endeavor to open the path she believed would lead mankind to practical virtue and happiness, and strive to carry out the pure philanthropic principles by which she was actuated, and which she so earnestly endeavored to diffuse.
October, 1849.
In a very beautiful part of Wales, between the northern boundaries of Glamorgan and the southeastern of Carmarthenshire, there stood, some twenty or thirty years ago, a small straggling village. Its locality was so completely concealed that the appearance of a gentleman's carriage, or, in fact, any vehicle superior to a light spring-cart, was of such extremely rare occurence as to be dated, in the annals of Llangwillan, as a remarkable event, providing the simple villagers with amusing wonderment for weeks.
The village was scattered over the side of a steep and rugged hill; and on the east, emerging from a thick hedge of yews and larches, peeped forth the picturesque old church, whose tin-coated spire, glittering in the faintest sunshine, removed all appearance of gloom from the thick trees, and seemed to whisper, whatever darkness lingered round, light was always shining there. The churchyard, which the yews and larches screened, was a complete natural garden, from the lowly cottage flowers, planted by loving hands over many a grassy grave, and so hallowed that not a child would pluck them, however tempted by their luxuriance and beauty. A pretty cottage, whose white walls were covered with jasmine, roses, and honeysuckle, marked the humble residence of the village minister, who though in worldly rank only a poor curate, from his spiritual gifts deserved a much higher grade.
A gurgling stream ran leaping and sparkling over the craggy hill till it formed a deep, wide bed for itself along the road leading to the nearest town, embanked on one side by a tall leafy hedge, and on the other by rich grass and meadow flowers. By the side of this stream groups of village children were continually found, sometimes reaching for some particular flower or insect, or floating pieces of wood with a twig stuck upright within them as tiny fleets; but this amusement had given place the last ten days to the greater excitement of watching the progress of a miniature frigate, the workmanship of a young lad who had only very lately become an inmate of the village. All had been at length completed, sails, ropes, and masts, with a degree of neatness and beauty, showing not only ingenuity but observation; and one lovely summer evening the ceremony of launching took place. For a few minutes she tottered and reeled amid the tiny breakers, then suddenly regained her equilibrium and dashed gallantly along. A loud shout burst from the group, from all save the owner, a beautiful boy of some twelve years, who contented himself with raising his slight figure to its full height, and looking proudly and triumphantly round him. One glance would suffice to satisfy that his rank in life was far superior to that of his companions, and that he condescended from circumstances, not from choice, to mingle with them. So absorbed was the general attention that the very unusual sound of carriage-wheels was unremarked until close beside them, and then so astounding was the sight of a private carriage and the coachman's very simple question if that road led to the village, that all hung back confused. The owner of the little vessel, however, answered proudly and briefly in the affirmative. "And can you direct me, my good boy," inquired a lady, looking from the window, and smiling kindly at the abashed group "to the residence of Mrs. Fortescue, it is out of the village, is it not?"
"Mrs. Fortescue!" repeated the boy eagerly and gladly, and his cap was off his head in a moment, and the bright sunshine streamed on a face of such remarkable beauty, and withal so familiar, that though the lady bent eagerly forward to address him, emotion so choked her voice that the lad was enabled to reply to her inquiry, and direct the coachman to the only inn of the village, and they had driven off before words returned.
The boy looked eagerly after them, then desiring one of his companions to meet the lady at the inn, and guide her to the cottage, caught up his little vessel, and darted off across some fields which led by a shorter cut to the same place.
It was a very humble dwelling, so surrounded by hills that their shadow always seemed to overhang it: yet within, the happy temper of a poor widow and her daughter kept up a perpetual sunshine. Three weeks previous to the evening we have mentioned, a lady and two children had arrived at Llangwillan, unable to proceed farther from the severe indisposition of the former. They were unattended, and the driver only knew that their destination was Swansea; he believed they had been shipwrecked off Pembroke, and that the poor lady was very ill when she commenced her journey, but the curious inquiries of the villagers could elicit nothing more. Mr. Myrvin, with characteristic benevolence, devoted himself to insuring, as far as he could, the comfort of the invalid; had her removed from the inn to Widow Morgan's cottage, confident that there she would at least be nursed with tenderness and care, and so near him as to permit his constant watchfulness. But a very few days too sadly convinced him, not only that her disease was mortal, but that his presence and gentle accents irritated instead of soothed. Ill-temper and self-will seemed to increase with the weakness, which every day rendered her longing to continue her journey more and more futile. It was some days before she could even be persuaded to write to the relative she was about to seek, so determined was she that she would get well; and when the letter was forwarded, and long before an answer could have been received (for twenty years ago there were no railroads to carry on epistolary communication as now), fretfulness and despondency increased physical suffering, by the determined conviction that she was abandoned, her children would be left uncared for. In vain Mr. Myrvin assured her of the impossibility yet to receive a reply, that the direction might not even have been distinct enough, for her memory had failed her in dictating it; she knew she was deserted, she might have deserved it, but her Edward was innocent, and it was very hard on him. As self-will subsided in physical exhaustion, misery increased. A restless torturing remembrance seemed to have taken possession of her, which all the efforts of the earnest clergyman were utterly ineffectual to remove. She would not listen to the peace he proffered, and so painfully did his gentle eloquence appear to irritate instead of calm, that he desisted, earnestly praying, that her sister might answer the letter in person, and by removing anxiety prepare the mind for better thoughts.
One object alone had power to bring something like a smile to that altered but still most beautiful countenance, conquer even irritation, and still create intervals of pleasure—it was her son, the same beautiful boy we have already noticed, and whose likeness to herself was so extraordinary that it would have been almost too feminine a beauty, had it not been for the sparkling animated expression of every feature, and the manly self-possession which characterized his every movement. That he should be his mother's idol was not very surprising, for the indiscreet and lavish indulgence which had been his from birth, had not yet had power to shake his doating fondness for his mother, or interfere with her happiness by the visible display of the faults which her weakness had engendered. Caressingly affectionate, open-hearted, generous, and ever making her his first object, perhaps even a more penetrating mother would have seen nothing to dread but all to love. His uncontrolled passion at the slightest cross, his haughty pride and indomitable will toward all save her, but increased her affection. And when he was with her, which he was very often, considering that a sick close room would have been utterly repugnant to him had it not contained his mother, Mrs. Fortescue was actually happy. But it was a happiness only increasing her intensity of suffering when her son was absent. Hide it from herself as she might, the truth would press upon her that she was dying, and her darling must be left to the care of relations indeed, but utter strangers to him, and unlikely to treat him as she had done. She knew that he had, what strict disciplinarians, as she chose to regard her sister and her husband, would term and treat as serious faults, while she felt them actually virtues; and agony for him in the dread of what he might be called upon to endure, would deluge her pillow with passionate tears, and shake her slight frame as with convulsion.
The day we have mentioned, Edward had been absent longer than usual, and toward evening Mrs. Fortescue awoke from a troubled sleep to brood over these thoughts, till they had produced their usual effect in tears and sobs, the more painful to witness from the increasing physical incapacity to struggle with them.
A little girl, between ten and eleven years old, was seated on a low wooden stool, half concealed by the coarse curtain of the bed, employed in sewing some bright gilt buttons on a blue jacket. It seemed hard work for those small, delicate hands; but she did not look up from her task till roused by the too familiar sound of her mother's suffering, and then, as she raised her head, and flung back the heavy and somewhat disordered ringlets, the impulse seemed to be to spring up and try to soothe, but a mournful expression quickly succeeded, and she sat several minutes without moving. At length, as Mrs. Fortescue's sobs seemed almost to suffocate her, the child gently bent over her, saying, very timidly, "Dear mamma, shall I call widow Morgan, or can I get any thing for you?" and, without waiting for a reply, save the angry negative to the first question, she held a glass of water to her mother's lips and bathed her forehead. After a few minutes Mrs. Fortescue revived sufficiently to inquire where Edward was.
"He has gone down to the stream to launch his little frigate, mamma, and asked me to fasten these buttons on his jacket, to make it look like a sailor's meanwhile; I do not think he will be very long now."
Mrs. Fortescue made no rejoinder, except to utter aloud those thoughts which had caused her previous paroxysm, and her little girl, after a very evident struggle with her own painful timidity, ventured to say:
"But why should you fear so much for Edward, dear mamma? Every body loves him and admires him, so I am sure my aunt and uncle will."
"Your aunt may for my sake, but she will not love or bear with his childish faults as I have done; and your uncle is such a harsh, stern man, that there is little hope for his forbearance with my poor Edward. And he is so frank and bold, he will not know how even to conceal his boyish errors, and he will be punished, and his fine spirit broken, and who will be there to shield and soothe him!"
"I may be able sometimes, mamma, and indeed, indeed, I will whenever I can," replied her child, with affecting earnestness. "I love him so very, very much, and I know he is so much better than I am, that it will be very easy to help him whenever I can."
"Will you promise me, Ellen, will you really promise me to shield him, and save him from harshness whenever it is in your power," exclaimed Mrs. Fortescue, so eagerly, that she half raised herself, and pressed Ellen to her with an appearance of affection so unusual, and a kiss so warm, that that moment never passed from the child's mind, and the promise she gave was registered in her own heart, with a solemnity and firmness of purpose little imagined by her mother, who when she demanded it, conceived neither its actual purport nor extent; she only felt relieved that Edward would have some one by him, to love him and enable him to conceal his errors, if he should commit any.
Had she studied and known the character of Ellen as she did that of her son, that promise would perhaps never have been asked; nor would she so incautiously and mistakenly have laid so great a stress upon concealment, as the only sure means of guarding from blame. From her childhood Mrs. Fortescue had been a creature of passion and impulse, and maternity had unhappily not altered one tittle of her character. In what manner, or at what cost, Ellen might be enabled to keep that promise, never entered her mind. It had never been her wont, even in days of health, to examine or reflect, and present weakness permitted only the morbid indulgence of one exaggerated thought.
For several minutes she lay quite silent, and Ellen resumed her seat and work, her temples throbbing, she knew not why, and a vain longing to throw her arms round her mother's neck, and entreat her only for one more kiss, one other word of love; and the consciousness that she dared not, caused the hot tears to rush into her eyes, and almost blind her, but she would not let them fall, for she had learned long ago, that while Edward's tears only excited soothing and caresses, hers always called forth irritation and reproof.
"Joy, joy! Mother, darling!" exclaimed an eager voice, some minutes afterward, and Edward bounded into the room, and throwing himself by his mother's side, kissed her pale cheek again and again. "Such joy! My ship sailed so beautifully, I quite longed for you to see it, and you will one day when you get well and strong again; and I know you will soon now, for I am sure aunt Emmeline will very soon come, and then, then, you will be so happy, and we shall all be happy again!"
Mrs. Fortescue pressed him closer and closer to her, returning his kisses with such passionate fondness, that tears mingled with them, and fell upon his cheek.
"Don't cry, mamma, dear! indeed, indeed, my aunt will soon come. Do you know I think I have seen her and spoken to her, too?"
"Seen her, Edward? You mean you have dreamed about her, and so fancy you have seen her;" but the eager, anxious look she fixed upon him evinced more hope than her words.
"No, no, mamma; as we were watching my ship, a carriage passed us, and a lady spoke to me, and asked me the way to the cottage where you lived, and I am sure it is aunt Emmeline from her smile."
"It can not be," murmured his mother, sadly; "unless—" and her countenance brightened. "Did she speak to you, Edward, as if she knew you, recognized you, from your likeness to me?"
"No, mamma, there was no time, the carriage drove off again so quickly; but, hush! I am sure I hear her voice down stairs," and he sprung up from the bed and listened eagerly. "Yes, yes, I am right, and she is coming up; no, it's only widow Morgan, but I am sure it is my aunt by your face," he added, impatiently, as Mrs. Morgan tried by signs to beg him to be more cautious, and not to agitate his mother. "Why don't you let her come up?" and springing down the whole flight of stairs in two bounds, he rushed into the little parlor, caught hold of the lady's dress, and exclaimed, "You are my aunt, my own dear aunt; do come up to mamma, she has been wanting you so long, so very long, and you will make her well, dear aunt, will you not?"
"Oh, that I may be allowed to do so, dear boy!" was the painfully agitated reply, and she hastened up the stairs.
But to Edward's grief and astonishment, so little was he conscious of his mother's exhausted state, the sight of his aunt, prepared in some measure as she was, seemed to bring increase of suffering instead of joy. There was a convulsive effort for speech, a passionate return of her sister's embrace, and she fainted. Edward in terror flung himself beside her, entreating her not to look so pale, but to wake and speak to him. Ellen, with a quickness and decision, which even at that moment caused her aunt to look at her with astonishment, applied the usual restoratives, evincing no unusual alarm, and a careless observer might have said, no feeling; but it was only a momentary thought which Mrs. Hamilton could give to Ellen, every feeling was engrossed in the deep emotion with which she gazed on the faded form and altered face of that still beloved though erring one: who, when she had last beheld her, thirteen years previous, was bright, buoyant, lovely as the boy beside them. Her voice yet, more than the proffered remedies, seemed to recall life, and after a brief interval the choking thought found words.
"My father! my father! Oh, Emmeline I know that he is dead! My disobedience, my ingratitude for all his too indulgent love, killed him—I know it did. But did he curse me, Emmeline? did all his love turn to wrath, as it ought to have done? did—"
"Dearest Eleanor," replied Mrs. Hamilton, with earnest tenderness, "dismiss such painful thoughts at once; our poor father did feel your conduct deeply, but he forgave it, would have received your husband, caressed, loved you as before, had you but returned to him; and so loved you to the last moment, that your name was the last word upon his lips. But this is no subject for such youthful auditors," she continued, interrupting herself, as she met Edward's bright eyes fixed wonderingly upon her face, and noticed the excessive paleness of Ellen's cheek. "You look weary, my love," she said, kindly, drawing her niece to her, and affectionately kissing her. "Edward has made his own acquaintance with me, why did you not do so too? But go now into the garden for a little while, I am sure you want fresh air, and I will take your place as nurse mean while. Will you trust me?"
And the kind smile which accompanied her words gave Ellen courage to return her kiss, but she left the room without speaking. Edward required more persuasion; and the moment he was permitted he returned, seated himself on a stool at his aunt's feet, laid his head on her lap, and remained for nearly an hour quite silent, watching with her the calm slumbers which had followed the agitating conversation between them. Mrs. Hamilton was irresistibly attracted toward him, and rather wondered that Ellen should stay away so long. She did not know that Edward had spent almost the whole of that day in the joyous sports natural to his age, and that it had been many weary days and nights since Ellen had quitted her mother's room.
On leaving the cottage, Ellen hastily traversed the little garden, and entered a narrow lane, leading to Mr. Myrvin's dwelling. Her little heart was swelling high within her, and the confinement she had endured, the constant control she exercised for fear she should add to her mother's irritation, combined with the extreme delicacy of natural constitution, had so weakened her, as to render the slightest exertion painful. She had been so often reproved as fretful and ill-tempered, whenever in tears, that she always checked and concealed them. She had been so frequently told that she did not know what affection was, that she was so inanimate and cold, that though she did not understand the actual meaning of the words, she believed she was different to any one else, and was unhappy without knowing why. Compared with her brother, she certainly was neither a pretty nor an engaging child. Weakly from her birth, her residence in India had increased constitutional delicacy, and while to a watchful eye the expression of her countenance denoted constant suffering, the heedless and superficial observer would condemn it as peevishness, and so unnatural to a young child, that nothing but confirmed ill-temper could have produced it. The soft, beautifully-formed black eye was too large for her other features, and the sallowness of her complexion, the heavy tresses of very dark hair, caused her to be remarked as a very plain child, which in reality she was not. Accustomed to hear beauty extolled above every thing else, beholding it in her mother and brother, and imagining it was Edward's great beauty that always made him so beloved and petted, an evil-disposed child would have felt nothing but envy and dislike toward him. But Ellen felt neither. She loved him devotedly; but that any one could love her, now that the only one who ever had—her idolized father—was dead, she thought impossible.
Why her heart and temples beat so quickly as she left her mother's room—why the promise she had so lately made should so cling to her mind, that even her aunt's arrival could not remove it—why she felt so giddy and weak as to render walking painful, the poor child could not have told, but, unable at length to go farther, she sat down on a grassy bank, and believing herself quite alone, cried bitterly. Several minutes passed and she did not look up, till a well-known voice inquired:—
"Dear Ellen, what is the matter? What has happened to grieve you so to-day? won't you tell me?"
"Indeed, indeed, I do not know, dear Arthur; I only feel—feel—as if I had not so much strength as I had a few days ago—and, and I could not help crying."
"You are not well, Ellen," replied her companion, a fine lad of sixteen, and Mr. Myrvin's only son. "You are looking paler than I ever saw you before; let me call my father. You know he is always pleased when he sees you, and he hoped you would have been to us before to-day; come with me to him now."
"No, Arthur, indeed I can not; he will think I have forgotten all he said to me the last time I saw him, and, indeed, I have not—but I—I do not know what is the matter with me to-day."
And, in spite of all her efforts to restrain them, the tears would burst forth afresh; and Arthur, finding all his efforts at consolation ineffectual, contented himself with putting his arm round her and kissing them away. A few minutes afterward his father appeared.
"In tears, my dear Ellen!" he said, kindly; "your mother is not worse, I hope?"
"I do not know, sir," replied the child, as well as her tears would permit; "she has been very ill just now, for her faint was longer than usual."
"Did any thing particular occasion it?"
"I think it was seeing my aunt. Mamma was very much agitated before and afterward."
"Mrs. Hamilton has arrived then! I am rejoiced to hear it," replied Mr. Myrvin, gladly. Then sitting down by Ellen, he took one of her hands in his, and said, kindly, "Something has grieved my little girl this evening; I will not ask what it is, because you may not like to tell me; but you must not imagine evils, Ellen. I know you have done, and are doing, the duty of a good, affectionate child, nursing your suffering mother, bearing with intervals of impatience, which her invalid state occasions, and giving up all your own wishes to sit quietly by her. I have not seen you, my child, but I know those who have, and this has pleased me, and, what is of much more consequence, it proves you have not forgotten all I told you of your Father in Heaven, that even a little child can try to love and serve Him."
"But have you not told me those who are good are always happy?" inquired Ellen; "then I can not be good, though indeed I try to be so, for I do not think I am happy, for I can never laugh and sing and talk as Edward does."
"You are not in such strong health as your brother, my dear little girl, and you have had many things to make you unhappy, which Edward has not. But you must try and remember that even if it please God that sometimes you should be more sorrowful than other children, He loves you notwithstanding. I am sure you have not forgotten the story of Joseph that I told you a few Sundays ago. God so loved him, as to give him the power of foretelling future events, and enabling him to do a great deal of good, but when he was taken away from his father and sold as a slave and cast into prison among cruel strangers, he could not have been very happy, Ellen. Yet still, young as he was, little more than a child in those days, and thrown among those who did not know right from wrong, he remembered all that his father had taught him, and prayed to God, and tried to love and obey Him; and God was pleased with him, and gave him grace to continue good, and at last so blessed him, as to permit him to see his dear father and darling brother again."
"But Joseph was his father's favorite child," was Ellen's sole rejoinder; and the tears which were checked in the eagerness with which she had listened, seemed again ready to burst forth. "He must have been happy when he thought of that."
"I do not think so, my dear Ellen," replied Mr. Myrvin, more moved than he chose to betray, "for being his father's favorite first excited the dislike and envy of his brothers, and caused them to wish to send him away. There was no excuse indeed for their conduct; but perhaps if Joseph had always remained near his father he might have been spoiled by too great indulgence, and never become as good as he afterward was. Perhaps in his solitary prison he might even have regretted that his father had not treated them all alike, as then the angry feelings of his brothers would not have been called forth. So you see, being a favorite will not always make us happy, Ellen. It is indeed very delightful to be loved and caressed, and if we try to do our duty and love as much as we can, even if we are not sure of being loved at first, we may be quite certain that we shall be loved and happy at last. Do you understand me, my child?"
The question was almost needless, for Ellen's large eyes had never moved from his face, and their expression was so full of intelligence and meaning, that the whole countenance seemed lighted up. "Then do you think mamma will recover?" she eagerly exclaimed; "will she ever love me?—oh, if I thought so, I could never, never be naughty again!"
"She will love you, my dear Ellen," replied Mr. Myrvin, now visibly affected, "I can not, I dare not tell you that she will recover to love you on earth, but if indeed it be God's will that she should go to Him, she will look down on you from Heaven and love you far more than she has done yet, for she will know then how much you love her."
"And will she know if I do all she wishes—if I love and help Edward?" asked Ellen, in a low, half-frightened voice; and little did Mr. Myrvin imagine how vividly and how indelibly his reply was registered in the child's memory.
"It is a question none can answer positively, Ellen, but it is my own firm belief, that the beloved ones we have lost are permitted to watch over and love us still, and that they see us, and are often near us, though we can not see them. But even to help Edward," he continued somewhat anxiously, "you must not be tempted—"
He was interrupted by the appearance of a stranger, who addressing him courteously, apologized for his intrusion, and noticing the children, inquired if both were his.
Mr. Myrvin replied that he could only lay claim to one; the little girl was Miss Fortescue.
"And my name is Hamilton, so I think I have an uncle's privilege," was the reply; and Ellen, to her astonishment, received an affectionate embrace from the unknown relative, whom her mother's ill-judged words had taught her actually to dread. Mr. Myrvin gladly welcomed him, and, in the interest of the conversation which followed, forgot the lesson he had been so anxious to impress upon Ellen. Arthur accompanied her to the garden gate, and the gentlemen soon afterward entered the cottage together.
Days merged into weeks, and still Mrs. Fortescue lingered; but her weakness increasing so painfully from alternate fever and exhaustion that to remove her was impossible. It was the first time that Mrs. Hamilton had ever been separated from her children, and there were many disagreeables attendant on nursing a beloved invalid in that confined cottage; and with only those little luxuries and comforts that could be procured (and even these were obtained with difficulty, for the nearest town was twenty miles distant), but not a selfish or repining thought entered Mrs. Hamilton's mind. It was filled with thankfulness, not only that she was permitted thus to tend a sister, whom neither error, nor absence, nor silence could estrange from her heart, but that she was spared long enough for her gentle influence and enduring love to have some effect in changing her train of thought, calming that fearful irritability, and by slow degrees permitting her to look with resignation and penitent hope to that hour which no human effort could avert. That Mr. Myrvin should seek Mrs. Hamilton's society and delight in conversing with her, Mrs. Fortescue considered so perfectly natural, that the conversations which took place in her sick room, whenever she was strong enough to bear them, excited neither surprise nor impatience. Different as she was, willfully as she had always neglected the mild counsels and example of her sister, the years of separation and but too often excited self-reproach had fully awakened her to Mrs. Hamilton's superiority. She had never found any one at all like her—so good and holy, yet so utterly unassuming; and the strong affection, even the deep emotion in one usually so controlled, with which her sister had met her, naturally increased these feelings.
"Ah, you and Emmeline will find much to converse about," had been her address to Mr. Myrvin, on his first introduction to Mrs. Hamilton. "Talk as much as you please, and do not mind me. With Emmeline near me, I can restrain irritability which must have frightened you away. I know she is right. Oh, would to God I had always been like her!" and the suffering betrayed in the last words was a painful contrast with the lightness of her previous tone.
Mr. Myrvin answered soothingly, and for the first time his words were patiently received. From listening listlessly, Mrs. Fortescue, by slow degrees, became interested in the conversations between him and Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton, and so a change in sentiments was gradually wrought, which by any other and harsher method of proceeding would have been sought for in vain.
One evening as Mrs. Hamilton sat watching the faded countenance of her patient, and recalling those days of youth and buoyancy, when it seemed as if neither death nor care could ever have assailed one so bright and lovely, Edward, before he sought his favorite stream, threw his arms round her neck, and pressed his rosy lips on her cheek, as thus to wish her good-by.
"He will repay you for all your care, dearest Emmeline," his mother said, with a heavy sigh, as he left the room; "I know he has what you and your husband will think faults, but, oh, for my sake, do not treat him harshly; his noble spirit will be broken if you do!"