She complied, and Percy and Mr. Grahame joining them, the conversation extended to more general topics.
"Nay, Allan, dear, do not tease your sister," was Miss Fortesene"s gentle remonstrance, as Allan endeavoured, somewhat roughly, to draw Minnie from her side, where, however, she clung with a pertinacity no persuasion or reproach could shake.
"She will hurt Ellen," replied the boy, st.u.r.dily, "and she has no right to take her place by you."
"But she may stand here too, there is room for us both," interrupted the little Ellen, though she did not offer to give up her place in her aunt"s lap to her cousin.
"Go away, Allan, I choose to stand here, and aunt Ellen says I may," was Minnie"s somewhat impatient rejoinder, as she tried to push her brother away, though her pretty little features expressed no ill-temper on the occasion, for she laughed as she spoke.
"Aunt Ellen promised to dance with me," retorted Allan, "and so I will not go away unless she comes too."
"With me, with me!" exclaimed Lord Manvers, bounding forward to join the group. "She promised three months ago to dance with me."
"And how often have I not performed that promise, Master Charlie?"
replied Ellen, laughing, "even more often with you than with Allan, so I must give him the preference first."
Her good-natured smiles, the voice which betrayed such real interest in all that pleased her little companions, banished every appearance of discontent. The magic power of affection and sympathy rendered every little pleader satisfied and pleased; and, after performing her promise with Allan, she put the final seal to his enjoyment by confiding the little bashful Ellen to his especial care; a charge, which Myrvin declared, caused his son to hold himself up two inches higher than he had done yet.
"Ellen, if you do not make yourself as great and deservedly a favourite with my children as with your brother"s and Emmeline"s, I shall never forgive you," said the Earl St. Eval, who had been watching Miss Fortescue"s cheerful gambols with the children for the last half hour, in extreme amus.e.m.e.nt, and now joined her.
"Am I not so already, Eugene?" she said, smiling that peculiar smile of quiet happiness which was now natural to her countenance. "I should be sorry if I thought they did not love me equally; for believe me, with the sole exception of my little namesake and G.o.dchild, my nephews and nieces are all equally dear to me. I have no right to make an exception even in favour of my little Ellen, but Edward has so often called her mine, and even Lilla has promised to share her maternal rights with me, that I really cannot help it. Your children do not see so much of me as Emmeline"s, and that is the reason perhaps they are not quite so free with me; but believe mo, dear St. Eval, it will not be my fault if they do not love me."
"I do believe you," replied the Earl, warmly. "I have but one regret, Ellen, when I see you loving and beloved by so many little creatures."
"And what may that be?"
"That they are not some of them your own, my dear girl. I cannot tell you how I regret the fact, of which each year the more and more convinces me, that you are determined ever to remain single. There are very few in my list of female friends so fitted to adorn the marriage state, very few who would make a better mother, and I cannot but regret there are none on whom you seem inclined to bestow those endearing and invaluable qualities."
"Regret it then no more, my dear St. Eval," replied Ellen, calmly, yet with feeling. "I thank you for that high opinion which I believe you entertain of me, too flattering as it may be; but cease to regret that I have determined to live an old maid"s life. To me, believe me, it has no terrors. To single women the opportunities of doing good, of making others happy, are more frequent than those granted to mothers and wives; and while such is the case, is it not our own fault if we are not happy?
I own that the life of solitude which an old maid"s includes, may, if the heart be so inclined, be equally productive of selfishness, moroseness of temper, and obstinacy in opinion and judgment, but most fervently I trust such will never be my attributes. It can never be while my beloved aunt and uncle are spared to me, which I trust they will be for many, many years longer; and even should they be removed before I antic.i.p.ate, I have so many to love me, so many to dearly love, that I can have no time, no room for selfishness."
"Do not mistake me, Ellen," St. Eval replied, earnestly; "I do not wish to see you married because I dread your becoming like some single women; with your principles such can never be. Your society--your influence over the minds of our children--is far too precious to be lightly wished removed, as it would be were you to marry. It is for your own sake, dearest Ellen, I regret it, and for the sake of him you might select, that you, who are so fitted to enjoy and to fulfil them, can never know the pleasures attendant on the duties of a happy wife and mother; that by a husband and child, the dearest ties of earth, you will go down to the grave unloved."
"You are right, St. Eval, they are the dearest ties on earth; but pleasures, the pleasures of affection, too, are yet left to us, who may never know them. Think you not, that to feel it is my place to cheer and soothe the declining years of those dear and tender guardians of my infancy must bring with it enjoyment--to see myself welcomed by smiles of love and words of kindness by all my brothers and sisters--to see their children flock around me as I enter, each seeking to be the first to obtain my smile or kiss--to know myself of service to my fellow-creatures, I mean not in my own rank, but those beneath me--to feel conscious that in every event of life, particularly in sickness or in sorrow, if those I so love require my presence, or I feel I may give them comfort or sympathy, at least I may fly to them, for I shall have no tie, no dearer or more imperious duty to keep me from them--are not these considerations enough to render a single life indeed one of happiness, St. Eval? Even from this calm, unruffled stream of life can I not gather flowers?"
"You would gather them wherever you were placed, my dear and n.o.ble-minded Ellen," said the Earl, with a warmth that caused her eye to glisten. "You are right: with a disposition such as yours, I have no need to regret you have so steadfastly refused every offer of marriage.
My girls shall come to you in that age when they think matrimony is the only chance of happiness, and you shall teach them felicity dwells not so much in outward circ.u.mstances as in the temper of the mind. Perhaps, after all, Ellen, you are happier as it is. You might not find such a husband as I would wish you, and I should be sorry to see your maternal cares rewarded as were poor Mrs. Greville"s."
"I rather think, in the blessedness of the present the past is entirely forgotten," observed Ellen, thoughtfully. "There are cares and sorrows attendant on the happiest lot; but if a mother does her duty, in my opinion she seldom fails to obtain her recompense, however long deferred."
"You are right, my Ellen," said Mrs. Hamilton, who had been listening to the conversation some little time un.o.bserved. "There are many sorrows and many cares inseparable from maternal love, but they are forgotten, or only remembered to enhance the sweetness of the recompense that ever follows. Do you not think, to see my children, as I do now around me, walking in that path which alone can lead to eternal life, and leading their offspring with them, bringing up so tenderly, so fondly their children as heirs of immortality, and yet lavishing on me, as on their father, the love and duty of former years--is not this a precious recompense for all which for them I may have done or borne? Even as I watched the departing moments of my Herbert, as I marked the triumphant and joyful flight of his pure spirit to his heavenly home,--even then was I not rewarded? I saw the fruit of those lessons I had been permitted through grace to inculcate; his last breath blessed me, and was not that enough? Oh, my beloved children, let no difficulties deter you, no temptation, no selfish suffering prevent your training up the lovely infants now gambolling around you, in the way that they should go;--solemn is the charge, awful the responsibility, but sweeter far than words can give it, the reward which either in life or death will then be yours."
"Ah, could we perform our parts as you have yours, dearest mother, then indeed might we hope it," exclaimed the Countess St. Eval and Mrs.
Myrvin at the same moment, as they drew closer to their mother, the eyes of both glistening with emotion as they spoke.
"And if we do reap the happiness of which you spoke, to whom shall we owe it, mother?" demanded Percy, feelingly; for he too, attracted by his mother"s emotion, had joined the group. "Whose care, under G.o.d"s blessing, has made us as we are, and taught us, not only by precept but example, how to conduct ourselves and our children? yours and my father"s; and if indeed in after years our children look up to us and bless us as we do you, oh, my mother, the remembrance of you will mingle with that blessedness, and render it yet purer."
"Truly have you spoken, my son," said Mr. Hamilton, whose little companions had about half an hour before been transported to their nursery. "While sharing with your dear mother the happiness arising from your conduct, my children, often and often has the remembrance of my mother entered my heart to chasten and enhance those feelings. Grat.i.tude to her, reverence of her memory, have mingled with the present joy, and so will it be with you. Your parents may have descended to the grave before your children can be to you what you have been to us, but we shall be remembered. Long, long may you feel as you think on your mother, my beloved children, and teach your offspring to venerate her memory, that the path of the just is indeed as a shining light, which shineth more and more unto the perfect day."
THE END.