Home Influence Part 35

Engrossed with thought how to arrive at the truth, for which she ardently longed, she entered the library, when the prayer-bell rung, with her children; quite forgetting, till she had taken the place at the reading-desk, which, in the absence of her husband and sons, she always occupied herself, that she had intended to desire Ellen to resume her usual place by Emmeline, wishing to spare her any additional suffering the first night of Edward's return, and to prevent any painful feeling on his part. It was an oversight, but it vexed her exceedingly. She looked hastily round, in the hope of being in time, but Ellen was already in her place, though she had evidently shrunk still more into the recess of the lower window, as if longing for its ma.s.sive curtains to hide her, and her face was buried in her hands. Mrs. Hamilton would have been still more grieved, if she had seen, as Ellis did, the beseeching, humble look, which, as they entered, Ellen had fixed upon her, and that her pale lips had quivered with the half-uttered supplication, which she failed in courage to fully p.r.o.nounce. Edward appeared too wrapped in his own thoughts to notice it then; and as his aunt's gentle but impressive voice fell on his fear, the words, the room, the whole scene so recalled the happy, and comparatively innocent past, that it was with difficulty he could restrain his feelings, till the att.i.tude of kneeling permitted them full vent in tears, actual tears, when he had thought he could never weep again. The contrast of his past and present self, rendered the one more brightly happy, the other more intensely dark than the actual reality. The unchecked faults and pa.s.sions of his early childhood had been the sole cause of his present errors; but, while under the gentle control of his aunt and uncle, and Mr. Howard, he had not known these faults, and, therefore, believed they had all come since. He longed intensely to confide all his errors, all his remorse, to Mr. Howard, whom he still so dearly loved; but he knew he had not courage to confess, and yet hated himself for his cowardice.

Only too well accustomed to control, he banished every trace of tears (from all save the eye rendered even more than usually penetrating from anxiety), as he arose, and became aware, for the first time, that Ellen was not where he was accustomed to see her. He kissed her fondly as she hurriedly approached him; but perceiving she left the room with merely a faint good-night to the rest of the family, and no embrace, as usual, from Mrs. Hamilton, he darted forward, seized his aunt's hand, and exclaimed--

"What is the matter with Ellen, aunt Emmeline? Why is she so changed, and why is your manner to her so cold and distant? and why did she kneel apart, as if unworthy to join us even in prayers? Tell me, for pity's sake!"

"Not to-night, my dear Edward. It is a long tale, and a painful one, and I rely on _you_ to help me, that Ellen and myself may be again as we have been. It is as much pain to me as to her that we are not.

To-morrow, I promise you, you shall know all. You have had excitement enough for to-day, and after your exhausting voyage must need rest. Do not fancy this an evasion of your request; I have longed for your return to influence Ellen, almost as much as for the happiness of seeing you again."

Edward was compelled to be satisfied and retire; but though he did feel sufficient physical exhaustion, for the comfort of his room to be unusually luxurious, his sleep was restless and disturbed by frightful dreams, in which, however varied the position, it always seemed that he was in danger, and Ellen sacrificing herself to save him.

On retiring for the night, Mrs. Hamilton discovered a note on her dressing-table. She thought she knew the writing, but from tremulousness it was so nearly illegible, that it was with great difficulty she deciphered the following words:

"I am so conscious I ought not to address you, know so well that I have no right to ask any favor from you, when I have given you so much trouble and pain, that I could not have asked it, if you had not been so very, very kind this morning. Oh!

aunt Emmeline, if indeed you can feel any pity for me, do not, pray, do not tell Edward the real reason of my banishment from Oakwood; tell him I have been very wicked--have refused to evince any real repentance--but do not tell him what I have done. He is ill, unhappy at having to resign his profession even for a few months. Oh! spare him the misery of knowing my sin. I know I deserve nothing but severity from you--I have no right to ask this--but, oh! if you have ever loved me, do not refuse it. If you would but grant it, would but say, before I go, that in time you will forgive me, it would be such comfort to the miserable--ELLEN."

Mrs. Hamilton's eyes filled with tears; the word "_your_" had evidently been written originally, but partially erased, and "_the_" subst.i.tuted in its stead, and she could not read the utter desolation of one so young, which that simple incident betrayed, without increase of pain; yet to grant her request was impossible. It puzzled her--for why should she so persist in the wish expressed from the beginning, that Edward should not know it? unless, indeed--and her heart bounded with the hope--that she feared it would urge him to confess himself the cause, and her sacrifice be useless. She locked up the note, which she would not read again, fearing its deep humility, its earnest supplication, would turn her from her purpose, and in praying fervently for guidance and fitful sleep her night pa.s.sed.

For some time after breakfast the following morning, Edward and his aunt were alone together in the library. It was with the utmost difficulty, he suppressed, sufficiently to conceal, the fearful agitation which thrilled through every nerve as he listened to the tale he had demanded.

He could not doubt the use to which that money had been applied. His sister's silence alone would have confirmed it; but in that hour of madness--for what else is pa.s.sion unrestrained by principle or feeling?--he was only conscious of anger, fierce anger against the unhappy girl who had borne so much for him. He had utterly forgotten the desperate words he had written. He had never received the intended relief. Till within a week, a short week of his return, he had been in Harding's power, and as Ellen's devotion had saved him nothing, what could it weigh against the maddening conviction, that if he had one spark of honor remaining, he _must_ confess that he had caused her sin?

Instead of saving, she had betrayed him; and he left his aunt to seek Ellen, so evidently disturbed and heated, and the interview itself had been so little satisfactory in softening him, as, she had hoped to win him to confession at once, for she had purposely spoken as indulgently of error and difficulty as she could, without betraying her strengthened suspicions, that if she had known how to do so, she would have forbidden his seeing Ellen till he was more calm.

Unhappily, too, it was that part of the day when Ellis was always most engaged, and she was not even in her own room, so that there was no check on Edward's violence. The control he had exercised while with his aunt but increased pa.s.sion when it was removed. He poured forth the bitterest reproaches--asked how she could dare hope relief so obtained, would ever have been allowed to reach him?--what had she done but betrayed him? for how could he be such a dishonored coward as to let her leave Oakwood because she would not speak? and why had she not spoken?--why not betrayed him at once, and not decoyed him home to disgrace and misery? Pa.s.sion had so maddened him that he neither knew what he said himself, nor heard her imploring entreaties not to betray himself and she never would. She clung to his knees as she kneeled before him, for she was too powerless to stand, reiterating her supplication in a tone that ought to have recalled him to his better self, but that better self had been too long silenced, and infuriated at her convulsive efforts to detain him, he struck her with sufficient force to make her, more by the agony of a blow from him, than the pain itself, loose her hold at once, and darted from the room.

The hall door was open, and he rushed through it unseen into the park, flying he neither knew where nor cared, but plunging into the wildest parts. How he arrived at one particular spot he knew not, for it was one which of all others, in that moment of excitement, he would gladly have avoided. It was a small glade in the midst of the wood, shelving down to the water's edge, where he and Percy, with the a.s.sistance of Robert, had been permitted to erect a miniature boat-house, and where Edward had kept a complete flotilla of tiny vessels. There were the trees, the glade, the boat-house still, aye, and the vessels, in such beautiful repair and keeping, that it brought back the past so vividly, so overpoweringly, from the voiceless proof which it was of the affectionate remembrance with which he and his favorite tastes had been regarded, even in his absence, that he could not bear it. He flung himself full length on the greensward, and as thought after thought came back upon him, bringing Ellen before him, self-sacrificing, devoted, always interposing between him and anger, as she had done from the first hour they had been inmates of Oakwood, the thought of that craven blow, those mad reproaches, was insupportable; and he sobbed for nearly an hour in that one spot, longing that some chance would but bring Mr.

Howard to him, that he might relieve that fearful remorse at once; but utterly unable to seek him of himself.

Edward's disposition, like his mother's, was naturally much too good for the determined pursuit of evil. His errors had actually been much less grave, than from Harding's artful representations he imagined them. He never indulged in pa.s.sion without its being followed by the most agonized remorse; but from having pertinaciously banished the religion which his aunt had so tried to instill, and been taught by Harding to scoff at the only safe guide for youth, as for every age, G.o.d's holy word, he had nothing whereon to lean, either as a comfort in his remorse, a hope for amendment, or strength for self-conquest; and terrible indeed might have been the consequences of Harding's fatal influence, if the influence of a home of love had not been still stronger.

Two hours after he had quitted his aunt, he rejoined the family, tranquil, but bearing such evident traces of a mental struggle, at least so Mrs. Hamilton fancied, for no one else noticed it, that she still hoped she did not exactly know what, for she failed in courage to ask the issue of his interview with Ellen. She contented herself with desiring Emmeline to tell her cousin to bring her work or drawing, and join them, and she was so surprised, when Emmeline brought back word that Ellen had said she had much rather not, that she sought her herself.

Ellen's cheeks, in general so pale, were crimson, her eyes in consequence unnaturally brilliant, and she looked altogether so unlike herself, that her aunt was more anxious than ever; nor did her manner when asked why she refused to join them, when Edward had so lately returned, tend to decrease the feeling.

"Emmeline did not say _you_ desired it, or I should have known better than disobey," was her reply, and it was scarcely disrespectful; the tone seemed that of a spirit, crushed and goaded to the utmost, and so utterly unable to contend more, though every nerve was quivering with pain. Mrs. Hamilton felt bitter pain that Ellen at length did indeed shrink from her; that the disregard of her entreaty concerning her brother appeared so to have wounded, that it had shaken the affection which no other suffering had had power to move.

"I do not _desire_ it, Ellen, though I wish it," she replied, mildly; "you are of course at liberty to act as you please, though I should have thought it most natural that, not having been with Edward so long, you should wish to be with him as much as possible now he is at home."

"He will not wish it; he hates me, spurns me, as I knew he would, if he knew my sin! To-day I was to have gone to Seldon Grange; let me go at once! then neither he, nor you, nor any one need be tormented with me any more, and you will all be happy again; let me go, aunt Emmeline; what should I stay for?"

"If you wish it, Ellen, you shall go next week. I did not imagine that under any circ.u.mstances, you could have expressed a desire to leave me, or suppose that it would make me particularly happy to send you away."

"Why should it not? you must hate me, too, or--or you would not have refused the only--only favor I asked you before I went," answered poor Ellen, and the voice, which had been unnaturally clear, was choked for the moment with sobs, which she resolutely forced back. Mrs. Hamilton could scarcely bear it; taking her ice-cold hands in both hers, she said, almost tenderly--

"You have reason to condemn me as harsh and cruel Ellen; but time will perhaps explain the motives of my conduct, as I trust and pray it will solve the mystery of yours; you are not well enough to be left long alone, and Ellis is so much engaged to-day that I do wish you to be with me, independent of your brother's society. If you so much prefer remaining here, I will stay with you, though of course, as Edward has been away from us so long, I should wish to be with him also."

It was almost the first time Mrs. Hamilton had ever had recourse in the management of her family to any thing that was not perfectly straightforward; and though her present motives would have hallowed much deeper stratagems, her pure mind shrunk from her own words. She wished Ellen to be constantly in Edward's presence, that he might not be able to evade the impulse of feeling and honor, which the sight of such suffering, she thought, must call forth; she could not bear to enforce this wish as a command, when she had already been, as she felt--if Ellen's silence were indeed self-devotion, not guilt--so cruelly and so unnecessarily severe. Ellen made neither reply nor resistance, but, taking up her work, accompanied her aunt to the usual morning-room, from which many a burst of happy laughter, and joyous tones were echoing.

Caroline and Emmeline were so full of enjoyment at Edward's return, had so many things to ask and tell, were so perfectly unsuspicious as to his having any concern with his sister's fault, that if they did once or twice think him less lively and joyous, than when he left home, they attributed it simply, to his not having yet recovered the exhausting voyage and his wounds. Miss Harcourt, just as unsuspicious, secretly accused Ellen as the cause of his occasional abstraction: her conduct was not likely to pa.s.s unfelt by one so upright, so honorable, and if he had been harsh with her, as from Ellen's fearfully shrinking manner, and complete silence when they were together, she fancied, she thought it was so deserved, that she had no pity for her whatever.

The day pa.s.sed briskly and happily enough, in _seeming_ to Mrs. Hamilton and Edward, in reality to all the other members of the party--but one.

The great subject of regret was Mr. Howard's absence, he might be back at the rectory that evening, and Emmeline was sure he would come to see Edward directly. As the hours waned, Ellen became sensible of a sharp and most unusual pain darting through her temples, and gradually extending over her forehead and head, till she could scarcely move her eyes. It had come at first so suddenly, and lasting so short a time, that she could scarcely define what it was, or why she should have felt so suddenly sick and faint; but it increased, till there was no difficulty in tracing it, and before prayer-time, had become such fearful agony, that, if she had not been inured to pain of all kinds, and endowed with extraordinary fort.i.tude and control, she must more than once have betrayed it by either giving way to faintness, or screaming aloud. She had overheard Mrs. Hamilton desire Robert to request Mr.

Maitland to come to Oakwood as soon as he could, and not hearing the reply that he was not expected home till late at night, expected him every moment, and thought he would give her something to relieve it, without her complaining.

Edward had asked his cousins for some music, and then to please Emmeline, had sketched the order of their engagement with the pirates, and no one noticed her, for Mrs. Hamilton's heart was sinking with disappointed hope, as the hours pa.s.sed, and there was no sign to prove that her surmise was correct, and if it were, that the truth would be obtained.

The prayer-bell rang, and as they rose, Edward's eyes, for the first time since she had joined them, sought and fixed themselves on his sister's face. The paroxysm of pain had for a few minutes subsided, as it had done alternately with violence all day, but it had left her so ghastly pale, that he started in actual terror. It might have been fancy, but he thought there was the trace of his cowardly blow on her pale forehead, raised, and black, and such a feeling of agony and remorse rushed over him, that it was with difficulty he restrained himself from catching her in his arms, and beseeching her forgiveness before them all; but there was no time then, and they proceeded to the library. Every step Ellen took appeared to bring back that fearful pain, till as she sat down, and then knelt in her place, she was sensible of nothing else.

The service was over; and as Mrs. Hamilton rose from the private prayer, with which each individual concluded his devotions, her nephew stood before her, white as marble, but with an expression of fixed resolution, which made her heart bound up with hope, at the very moment it turned sick and faint with terror.

Several of the lower domestics had quitted the library before Edward regained voice, and his first word, or rather action, was to desire those that remained to stay.

"My sister has been disgraced, exposed before you all" he exclaimed, in a tone of misery and determination, that so startled Miss Harcourt and his cousins, they gazed at him bewildered, "and before you all must be her exculpation. It was less for her sin than her silence, and for the increased guilt which that appeared to conceal, you tell me, she has been so severely treated. Aunt Emmeline, I am the cause of her silence--I was the tempter to her sin--I have deceived my commander, deceived my officers, deceived you all--and instead of being what you believe me, am a gambler and a villain. She has saved me again and again from discovery and disgrace, and but for her sin and its consequences would have saved me now. But what has sin ever done but to betray and render wretched? Take Ellen back to your love and care, aunt Emmeline, and tell my uncle, tell Sir Edward the wretch I am!"

For a full minute after these unexpected, startling words there was silence, for none could speak, not even Emmeline, whose first thought was only joy, that Ellen's silence was not so guilty as it seemed.

Edward had crossed his arms on the reading-desk, and buried his face upon them. The instantaneous change of sentiment which his confession excited toward Ellen in those most prejudiced can scarcely be described; but Mrs. Hamilton, now that the words she had longed for, prayed for, had been spoken, had scarcely strength to move. Address Edward she could not, though she felt far more pity toward him than anger; she looked toward Ellen, who still remained kneeling, though Ellis stood close by her, evidently trying to rouse her, and with a step far more hurried, more agitated than her children or household had ever seen, she traversed the long room, and stood beside her niece.

"Ellen," she said, as she tried to remove the hands which clasped the burning forehead, as if their rooted pressure could alone still that agonizing pain, "my own darling, devoted Ellen! look up, and forgive me all the misery I have caused you. Speak to me, my child! there is nothing to conceal now, all shall be forgiven--Edward's errors, difficulties, all for your sake, and he will not, I know he will not, cause you wretchedness again; look up, my poor child; speak to me, tell me you forgive me."

Ellen unclasped her hands from her forehead, and looked up in Mrs.

Hamilton's face. Her lips moved as if to speak, but in a moment an expression of agony flitted over her face, a cry broke from her of such fearful physical pain, that it thrilled through the hearts of all who heard, and consciousness deserted her at the same moment that Mr.

Maitland and Mr. Howard, entered the room together.

CHAPTER IX.

ILLNESS AND REMORSE.

It was indeed a fearful night which followed the close of our last chapter. Illness, sufficient to occasion anxiety, both in Herbert and Ellen, had been often an inmate of Oakwood, but it had merely called for care, and all those kindly sympathies, which render indisposition sometimes an actual blessing, both to those who suffer and those who tend. But illness, appearing to be but the ghastly vehicle of death, clothed in such fearful pain that no control, even of reason and strong will, can check its agonized expression, till at last, reason itself succ.u.mbs beneath it, and bears the mind from the tortured frame, this is a trial of no ordinary suffering, even when such illness has been brought about by what may be termed natural causes. But when it follows, nay, springs from mental anguish, when the sad watchers feel that it might have been averted, that it is the consequence of mistaken treatment, and it comes to the young, to whom such sorrow ought to be a thing unknown, was it marvel that Mrs. Hamilton, as she stood by Ellen's bed, watching the alternations of deathlike insensibility with paroxysms of pain, which nothing could relieve (for it was only the commencement of brain fever), felt as if she had indeed never known grief or anxiety before. She had looked forward to Edward's confession bringing hope and rest to all; that the aching head and strained nerves of her poor Ellen, only needed returning love, and the quietness of a.s.sured forgiveness for herself and Edward, for health and happiness gradually to return; and the shock of such sudden and terrible illness, betraying, as it did, an extent of previous mental suffering, which she had not conceived as possible in one so young, almost unnerved her. But hers was not a character to give way; the anguish she experienced might be read in the almost stern quiet of her face, in her gentle but firm resistance to every persuasion to move from Ellen's bed, not only through that dreadful night, but for the week which followed. The idea of death was absolute agony; none but her G.o.d knew the struggle, day after day, night after night, which she endured, to compel her rebellious spirit to submission to His will, whatever it might be. She knew earth's dearest, most unalloyed happiness could not compare with that of Heaven, if indeed it should be His pleasure to recall her; but the thought _would not_ bring peace. She had no reason to reproach herself, for she had acted only as imperative duty demanded, and it had caused her almost as much misery as Ellen. But yet the thought would not leave her, that her harshness and cruelty had caused all the suffering she beheld. She did not utter those thoughts aloud, she did not dare give words to that deep wretchedness, for she felt her only sustaining strength was in her G.o.d.

The only one who would have read her heart, and given sympathy, strength, comfort, without a word from her, her husband, was far away, and she dared not sink; though there were times when heart and frame felt so utterly exhausted, it seemed at if she must.

Mr. Howard's presence had been an inexpressible relief. "Go to Edward, my dear friend," she had said, as he lingered beside the bed where Ellen had been laid, longing to comfort, but feeling at such a moment it was impossible; "he wants you more than any one else; win him to confide in you, soothe, comfort him; do not let him be out of your sight."

Not understanding her, except that Edward must be naturally grieved at his sister's illness, Mr. Howard sought him, and found him still in the library, almost in the same spot.

"This is a sad welcome for you, Edward," he said, kindly laying his hand on his shoulder, "but do not be too much cut down. Ellen is very young, her const.i.tution, Mr. Maitland a.s.sures us is good, and she may be spared us yet. I came over on purpose to see you, for late as it was when I returned from Exeter, and found you had arrived, I would not defer it till to-morrow."

"You thought you came to see the pupil you so loved," answered Edward, raising his head, and startling Mr. Howard, both by his tone and countenance. "You do not know that I am the cause of my poor sister's suffering, that if she dies, I am her murderer. Oh, Mr. Howard," he continued, suddenly throwing himself in his arms, and bursting into pa.s.sionate tears, "why did I ever leave you? why did I forgot your counsels, your goodness, throw your warning letter to the winds? Hate me if you will, but listen to me--pity me, save me from myself."

Startled as he was, Mr. Howard, well acquainted with the human heart, its errors, as well as its better impulses, knew how to answer this pa.s.sionate appeal, so as to invite its full confidence and soothe at the same time. Edward poured out his whole tale. It is needless to enter upon it here in detail; suffice it, that the artful influence of Harding, by gradually undermining the good impressions of the home he had left, had prepared his pupil for an unlimited indulgence in pleasure, and excitement, at every opportunity which offered. And as the Prince William was cruising off the coast of British America, and constantly touching at one or other of her ports, where Harding, from his seniority and usefulness, and Edward, from his invariable good conduct, were often permitted to go ash.o.r.e, these opportunities, especially when they were looked for and used by one practiced in deceit and wickedness, were often found. It does not require a long period to initiate in gambling. The very compelled restraint, in the intervals of its indulgence, but increased its maddening excitement, and once given up to its blind pursuit, Harding became more than ever necessary to Edward, and of course his power over him increased. But when he tried to make him a sharer and conniver in his own low pleasures, to teach him vice, cautiously as he thought he had worked, he failed; Edward started back appalled, and though unhappily he could not break from him, from that hour he mis...o...b..ed and shrunk away. But he had given an advantage to his fell tutor, the extent of which he knew not himself. Harding was too well versed in art to betray disappointment. He knew when to bring wine to the billiard-table, so to create such a delirium of excitement, that Edward was wholly unconscious of his own actions; and once or twice he led him into scenes, and made him sharer of such vicious pleasures, that secured him as his slave; for when the excitement was over, the agony of remorse, the misery, lest his confiding captain should suspect him other than he seemed, made him cling to Harding's promises of secrecy, as his only refuge, even while he loathed the man himself. It was easy to make such a disposition believe that he had, in some moment of excitement, done something which, if known, would expel him the Navy; Edward could never recall what, but he believed him, and became desperate. Harding told him it was downright folly to think about it so seriously. It was only known to him, and he would not betray him. But Edward writhed beneath his power; perpetually he called on him for pecuniary help, and when he had none, told him he must write home for it, or win it at the billiard-table, or he knew the consequences; and Edward, though again and again he had resolved he would not touch a ball or cue (and the remorse had been such, that he would no doubt have kept the resolve, had it not been for dread of betrayal), rather than write home, would madly seek the first opportunity, and play, and win perhaps enough, all but a few pounds, to satisfy his tormentor, and for these he would appeal to his sister, and receive them, as we know; never asking, and so never hearing, the heavy price of individual suffering at which they were obtained.

The seven or eight months which had elapsed before his last fatal appeal, had been occasioned by the ship being out at sea. Sir Edward had mentioned to Mr. Hamilton, that Edward's excellent conduct on board had given him a longer holiday on sh.o.r.e, when they were off New-York, to which place he had been dispatched on business to the President, than most of his companions. Edward thought himself safe, for Harding had been unusually quiet; but the very day they neared land, he told him he must have some cash, sneered at the trifling sum Edward had by him, told him if he chose to let him try for it fairly, they should have a chance at billiards for it; but if that failed, he must pump his rich relations for it, for have it he must. Trusting to his luck, for he had often won, even with Harding, he rushed to the table, played, and as might be expected, left off, owing his tormentor fifty pounds. Harding's fiendish triumph, and his declaration that he must trouble him for a check to that amount, signed by the great millionaire, Arthur Hamilton, Esq., goaded him to madness. He drank down a large draught of brandy, and deliberately sought another table and another opponent, and won back fifteen; but it was the last day of his stay on sh.o.r.e, as his enslaver knew, and it was the wretchedness, the misery of this heavy debt to the crafty, merciless betrayer of his youthful freshness and innocence, who had solemnly sworn if he did not pay it by the next letters from his home, he would inform against him, and he knew the consequences, which had urged that fearful letter to Ellen, from which all her suffering had sprung. Edward was much too young and ignorant of the world's ways to know that Harding no more dared execute his threat against him, than he could put his own head in the lion's mouth. His remorse was too deep, his loathing of his changed self too unfeigned, to believe that his errors were not of the heinous, fatal nature which Harding taught him to suppose them; and the anguish of a naturally fine, n.o.ble, independent spirit may be imagined. All his poor mother's lessons of his uncle's excessive sternness, and determined pitilessness, toward the faults of those less firm and worthy than himself, returned to him, completely banishing his own experience of that same uncle's excessive kindness.

The one feeling had been insensibly instilled in his boyhood, from as long as he could remember, till the age of twelve; the other was but the experience of eighteen short months. Oh, if parents would but think and tremble at the vast importance of the first lessons which reach the understanding of the young beings committed to their care! Let them impress TRUTH, not prejudice, and they are safe. Once fix a false impression, and they know not, and it is well, perhaps, they do not, the misery that tiny seed may sow.

Mr. Howard listened with such earnest, heartfelt sympathy, such deep commiseration, that his young penitent told him every error, every feeling, without the smallest reserve; and in the long conversation which followed, he felt more comforted, more hopeful of himself, than he had done for long, long months. He told with such a burst of remorseful agony, his cruelty to his devoted sister, that Mr. Howard could scarcely hear it unmoved, for on that subject there seemed indeed no comfort; and he himself, though he would not add to Edward's misery by confessing it, felt more painfully self-reproached for his severity toward her than his conduct as a minister had ever excited before.

"Be with me, or rather let me be with you, as much as you can," was Edward's mournful appeal, as their long interview closed; "I have no dependence on myself--a weak, miserable coward! longing to forsake the path of evil, and having neither power nor energy to do so. I know you will tell me, pray--trust. If I had not prayed, I could not have confessed--but it will not, I know it will not last."

"It will, while enduring this heavy trial of your poor sister's terrible illness, and G.o.d's infinite mercy may so strengthen you in the furnace of affliction, as to last in returning joy! Despair, and you must fall; trust, and you will hope and struggle--despite of pain or occasional relapses. Your faults are great, but not so great as Harding represented them--not so heavy but that you can conquer and redeem them, and be yet all we have believed you, all that you hoped for in yourself."