The Mothers Recompense, Volume II. | Page 5

us has been for years so still,--a voice that brings with it the gush of
memory! Past days flit before us; feelings, thoughts, hopes, we deemed
were dead, all rise again, summoned by that secret witchery, the
well-remembered though long silent voice. Let years, long, lingering,
saddening years drag on their chain, let youth have given place to
manhood, manhood to age, still will it be the same--the voice we once
have loved, and deemed to us for ever still--oh, time, and grief, and
blighted hope will be forgotten, and youth, in its undimmed and joyous
beauty, its glow of generous feelings, its bright anticipations, all, all
again be ours.
"Mother; yes, now indeed may I call you mother!" exclaimed Edward,
when the agitation of this sudden meeting had subsided, and he found
himself seated on a sofa between his aunt and sister, clasping the hand
of the former and twining his arm caressingly round the latter. "Now
indeed may I indulge in the joy it is to behold you both again; now may

I stand forth unshrinkingly to meet my uncle's glance, no guilt, or
shame, or fear has cast its mist upon my heart. This was your gift," he
drew a small Bible from his bosom. "I read it, first, because it had been
yours, because it was dear to you, and then came other and holier
thoughts, and I bowed down before the God you worshipped, and
implored His aid to find strength, and He heard me."
Mrs. Hamilton pressed his hand, but spoke not, and after a brief silence,
Edward, changing his tone and his subject, launched at once, with all
his natural liveliness, into a hurried tale of his voyage to England. An
unusually quick passage gave him and all the youngsters the
opportunity they desired, of returning to their various homes quite
unexpectedly. The vessel had only arrived off Plymouth the previous
night, or rather morning, for it was two o'clock; by noon the ship was
dismantled, the crew dismissed, leave of absence being granted to all.
And for the first time in his life, he laughingly declared he fancied
being the captain's favourite very annoying, as his presence and
assistance were requested at a time when his heart was at Oakwood;
however, he was released at last, procured a horse, and galloped away.
His disasters were not, however, over; his horse fell lame, as if, Edward
said, he felt a seaman was not a fit master for him. He was necessitated
to leave the poor animal to the care of a cottager, and proceed on foot,
avoiding the village, for fear of being recognised before he desired; he
exercised his memory by going through the lanes, and reached
Oakwood by a private entrance. Astonished at seeing the rooms, by the
windows of which he passed, deserted, he began to fear the family were
all in London; but the well-known sound of his aunt's voice drew him
to the library, just as he was seeking the main entrance to have his
doubts solved. He stood for a few minutes gazing on the two beings
who, more vividly than any others, had haunted his dreams by night
and visions by day; he had wished to meet them first, and alone, and his
wish was granted.
Wrapped in her happy feelings, it was her brother's arm around her, her
brother's voice she heard, Ellen listened to him in trembling eagerness,
scarcely venturing to breathe, lest that dear voice should be still, lest
the hand she clasped should fade away, and she should wake and find it

but a dream of bliss--Edward could not really have returned; and Mrs.
Hamilton felt emotion so powerfully swelling within, as she gazed once
more on the brave preserver of her husband, the child of her sister, her
very image, that it was with difficulty she could ask those many
questions which affection and interest prompted.
Edward had scarcely, however, finished his tale, before the sound of
many and eager voices, the joyous laugh, and other signs of youthful
hilarity, announced the return of the party from their excursion. Nor
was it long before Emmeline's voice, as usual, sounded in loud
laughing accents for her mother, without whose sympathy no pleasure
was complete.
"Do not disturb yourselves yet, my dear children," Mrs. Hamilton said,
as she rose, knowing well how many, many things the long-separated
orphans must have mutually to tell, and penetrating with that ready
sympathy--the offspring of true kindness--their wish for a short time to
remain alone together. "You shall not be summoned to join us till tea is
quite ready, and if you wish it, Edward," she added, with a smile, "you
shall have the pleasure of startling your uncle and cousins as agreeably
as you did us. I will