CHAPTER V.

What voice is this, thou evening gale, That mingles with thy rising wail, And as it passes sadly seems The faint return of youthful dreams.

JOANNA BAILLIE.

Mr. Hamilton’s manner became more and more marked, and before the expiration of his second visit to Lord Coverdale’s, be one day took courage and spoke his sentiments to Ellen.

She received his avowal with all the confusion of a girl who, for the first time, hears expressions of love addressed to her. It was that now, for the first time, she felt the passion herself. She could not deny her preference, and he was made happy by hearing from her own lips that she esteemed him, that she believed she could be happy as his wife.

But she persisted in a resolution to see him no more till the two years of her widowhood had expired, and till then not even to correspond with him. He thought her delicacy rather over-strained—he thought her almost prudish—but a man does not love or value a woman the less for erring on the side of decorum, especially when he is confident he has undivided possession of her heart; and the speaking eyes, the trembling hand, the faltering voice, all assured him that such was the case.

She made him promise to confide to no one their engagement, and he tore himself away, to get through the four months which intervened as best he might. He almost repented having spoken to her at all, and at moments doubted whether the delightful certainty of being loved quite compensated for the loss of her society.

She, on her part, half repented of her decision in banishing him, and quite repented of her prohibition to correspond. Her affection for him increased rapidly in absence. This is frequently the case with women. When in the presence of the person they love, reserve and modesty prevent their freely giving way to what they feel, but in absence they dwell without fear on every word and look, and the imagination supplies food to the feelings.

Ellen consulted with herself whether she should impart what had occurred to her sister, and, upon the whole, she thought it best to do so. It seemed unkind to conceal such an important circumstance from one who took so tender an interest in all that concerned her, and, moreover, she should have some one to whom she could expatiate upon the perfections of Mr. Hamilton.

Caroline was half angry at not having been at once let into the secret, but she was so pleased at the prospect of her sister’s enjoying such happiness as she now knew, that she soon got over her little vexation.

As Ellen expected, she proved an invaluable confidante in one respect; she listened with delight to any tale of love; but in another respect she rendered the task she had imposed upon herself more difficult, as she was constantly arguing with Ellen upon the over-strained delicacy of sending Mr. Hamilton away for the next few months. But the more Ellen longed to break it, the more firmly she adhered to her determination. She accused herself of ingratitude towards him who was the father of her children, in feeling so very happy as she did, and she resolved to pay this tribute of respect to his memory.

The four months elapsed. Ellen had remained all this time with her sister, and it was to Longbury that Mr. Hamilton returned when the time of his probation was over.

If Ellen’s passion had increased in absence, Mr. Hamilton’s had not cooled, and never were two people more thoroughly attached, more romantically in love, and what, in the long run, conduces still more to lasting happiness, more entirely suited in disposition, than Ellen and her future husband.

Their approaching marriage was now declared, and Lady Coverdale rallied Mr. Hamilton upon his thirst for information concerning the poor laws.

Captain Wareham, who was an affectionate father, although an irritable man, rejoiced in the bright prospects of his daughter, and he was much gratified by the connection. Mr. Hamilton’s situation in life was such as to render his alliance eligible to any one, in however high a station; and to a man who had been reduced by poverty below his original position in the scale of society, it was peculiarly satisfactory.

The marriage was to take place at Longbury, and after the delays necessary for settlements, &c. the day was fixed. Mr. Allenham performed the ceremony. Her father gave her away. There was no pomp; Ellen wished to have the whole quiet and unostentatious. Deeply as she was attached to Mr. Hamilton—confident as she was in his love for her—much as her reason, as well as her heart, approved of the step she was about to take,—a vague dread came over her as the day approached. Sounds as of other days were ringing in her ears. At times she almost fancied she heard the cathedral bells of her native place, the chime of the Minster clock striking the quarters.

Who has not, without any concatenation of ideas which he can trace, when dropping asleep perhaps, or when plunged in a dreamy reverie, felt as it were the vibration of well-known sounds, and with effort roused himself to the recollection that he was far away from the home which was thus brought to his mind?

On the eventful morning, the full deep swell of the cathedral bells, which rang out so sonorously on the morning of her first marriage, seemed to make themselves heard through the merry peal of the three or four tinkling bells which were all the boast of Longbury church.

As Mr. Allenham pronounced the words, “Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder,” that sound again rang in her ears—a mist came over her eyes—she fancied it was Mr. Cresford’s hand in which her’s was placed, and she fainted in her husband’s arms.