Recollections of a chaperon

came between him and his midnight dreams

Ellen returned to her cottage, where she still continued to reside, devoting great part of her liberal jointure to the assistance of her father, and to the advancement of her brothers in their various professions. The eldest was active and industrious, and was, through her means, enabled to become a partner, though but to a small amount, in the concern.

The first year of Ellen’s widowhood had more than expired, and she again visited her sister and Mr. Allenham. She had changed her mourning, and etiquette no longer required that she should persevere in her seclusion.

She now accompanied the Allenhams when they dined at Coverdale Park, and all who met her were struck by her beauty and attracted by her manners. Though her countenance still retained its habitually pensive expression, a smile would now occasionally light up her features, and he must have been a cold critic who could perceive any fault in the perfection of her loveliness.

One day when they arrived at Coverdale Park, Ellen found herself greeted with a bow of profound respect, and a smile of recognition, by a tall, distinguished looking man, of whom she had not the slightest recollection. She acknowledged his salutation in the polite, half-doubting manner which is usual on such an occasion. Lady Coverdale immediately introduced him as Mr. Hamilton, and added that he had returned from a solitary ride last year, quite enchanted with her noble boy, who had so fearlessly brought him his hat, under the very feet of his horse.

Ellen remembered the circumstance, and the name of Hamilton fell on her ear as being connected with a romantic history, not common in these unchivalrous days.

Mr. Hamilton, when scarcely twenty, had taken his only sister to Naples for the recovery of her health. After having watched her gradual decline with tender and almost feminine attention, he had committed to the grave the remains of his only near relation, and found himself, without any tie, alone in a foreign land, at the moment when Buonaparte’s invasion of Italy had awakened the love of liberty, which though slumbering, was not totally extinguished in the souls of a few of her sons. With the true English spirit which considers as brethren those engaged in the struggle for freedom, he felt warmly for that lovely land—

On several occasions he fought as a volunteer among the Italians, whom, in the enthusiasm of youth, he venerated as the descendants of the ancient Romans, passing over in his imagination the many centuries during which the national character had been degraded by submission to foreign powers. He forgot that the natives of the soil had for ages past allowed themselves to be mastered and controlled by hireling troops of strangers, and hoped that if once restored to independence, they would rise regenerate from their ashes.

He had formed an ardent friendship with a young Italian, Count Adolfo Melandrini, who was in command of a small squadron of troops. He acted as a sort of aide-de-camp to his friend, and fought by his side with all the generous impetuosity of his character. The star of Buonaparte, however, was in the ascendant: neither Melandrini’s nor young Hamilton’s heroism could do more than rouse the spirit of those immediately around them.

Many of the states had been compelled to purchase an armistice by the sacrifice of their treasures of art. Melandrini’s indignation knew no bounds. His national pride was touched in the tenderest point, and in a skirmish which occurred shortly afterwards between his squadron and the advanced-guard of the French, in which his dispirited men were on the point of yielding, he dashed with headlong desperation into the midst of the enemy’s troops.

Hamilton, who loved his friend with passionate devotion, and regarded him as the one being in whom the spirit of the olden time still survived, watched over his safety with almost religious veneration.

They both performed prodigies of valour; but at length Melandrini sank covered with wounds, and faint from the loss of blood. Hamilton stood over the body of his friend, defending it with the energy of despair, and firmly resolved that while he retained life, it should never fall into the hands of the foe. The troops in the mean time rallied, and, returning to the charge, drove back the enemy. Hamilton was found still protecting the almost lifeless form of the Italian chief, which he never quitted for a moment, but bore in his own arms back to the entrenchments. His efforts to save his friend were, however, unavailing: Melandrini had found the death he sought, and only survived long enough to express his gratitude to Hamilton, whose gallant feat was soon noised abroad, and reached the ears of many who were not personally acquainted with him.

The surrender of Mantua put an end to all idea of further resistance. Italy allowed herself quietly to be plundered of all her most precious and holy ornaments, even including the famous image of our Lady of Loretto, and Hamilton, in disgust abandoning the wretched land, returned to his own free and happy country. His paternal estates were considerable, and he resolved to devote himself in private to the welfare of those who were dependant upon him, and in public to the preservation of that liberty which he believed to be the basis of all that ennobles man. He distinguished himself in parliament, at first, perhaps, by too great vehemence, on the liberal side; but his own clear head and maturer judgment soon tempered what might have been extravagant in his enthusiasm, and at the age of nine-and-twenty he was as practically useful a member of society, as he had originally been a romantic advocate of liberty.

Ellen, who long ago had accidentally heard the history of his achievements, looked on him with a certain degree of respect, as the hero who, to her girlish imagination, had realised the stories of Paladins of old. It was with pleasure, therefore, that she found herself seated by him at dinner.

His appearance and his address did not disappoint her. His flashing eye seemed formed “to threaten and command;” his athletic form might well, single-handed, have kept at bay a host of common men; while she could imagine that from those expressive lips might flow streams of eloquence to sway the listening senate. Still he was peculiarly simple and straight-forward: with all his fame about him he had a frank manner, as though what was said by him, carried with it no more weight than if it had been uttered by the most undistinguished individual in the room. Yet every thing he said was well said; all showed reflection, reading, sound judgment, and refined taste. He was, in all respects, so superior to any one with whom Ellen had ever yet been thrown, that he appeared to her a being of another order.

The enthusiasm which we have described as being a leading feature of his character, although tempered by judgment in political matters, was still all there; and the impression produced by the first sight of Ellen in her weeds, was not weakened by further acquaintance. The lightning of her smile, when usurping the place of her usually pensive expression, reminded him of the days of youthful romance, when he and his friend Melandrini used to study Petrarch together, and reading of the “lampeggiar del angelico riso,” would picture to themselves what must have been that Laura, who could render the poet,

He now thought, if she had resembled Ellen, there was nothing to marvel at in the poets’s long and hopeless devotion.

During the two years which she had passed in retirement, she had read a great deal; and the education which she had thus given herself had tended more to cultivate her mind than all the accomplishments with which governesses cram the common run of young ladies. The more he saw of her, the more he became convinced that the qualities of her head and heart fully corresponded with the loveliness of her person.

Lord and Lady Coverdale found their most agreeable friend, Mr. Hamilton, vastly more willing to prolong his visit than usual. He seemed much struck with the excellence of Mr. Allenham’s opinions upon the subject of the poor laws, and he frequently walked to the parsonage, to discuss the subject with him.

The eagerness with which Mr. Hamilton accepted their invitation to repeat his visit made them begin to suspect that the youthful widow had more to say to the attractions of the parsonage than Mr. Allenham and the poor laws. Still, though he evidently admired Mrs. Cresford, there was nothing which could justify any reports. He was so afraid of alarming her by any indiscreet avowal of his preference, that he continued merely to seek the society of the family in general.

Caroline, however, who was not so very delicate upon such subjects as her sister, could refrain no longer.

“Well, Ellen! I suppose, now you have been seven months out of your weeds, I may venture to say that Mr. Hamilton admires you? and it is my belief, though I am not apt to place much reliance on men in general, it is my belief he intends to propose to you.”

“Oh no, Caroline! he has never said any thing like it.” But Ellen’s heart beat quicker, and the colour mounted in her cheeks.

“Yes, yes! you think so too! You are blushing ten times more than when poor Mr. Cresford proposed.” (Caroline always disliked Mr. Cresford, for she was exceedingly afraid of him.)

“Hush, Caroline! Do not speak so of my poor husband! He was very fond of me; and nothing in the world should ever induce me to do any thing that was the least disrespectful towards his memory.”

“Well, but you are not bound to remain a widow, from the age of three-and-twenty, for evermore!”

“I am not out of mourning yet, Caroline.”

No more passed; but this conversation made Ellen appear more conscious, and less at her ease in Mr. Hamilton’s presence, than she had previously done. From this sign he gathered hope.

The remarks of friends, the quizzing of acquaintances, the reports of the world, greatly accelerate matters when there already exists a real preference, though they often completely nip a slight one in its bud. There is a particular moment at which they fan the flame, and a previous one at which they blow it out.

CHAPTER V.

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.

CHAPTER VI.

The last few words of the ceremony were quickly hurried over. Ellen was supported into the vestry, where she quickly recovered; and the circumstance of a bride’s fainting was not an event of such rare occurrence as to excite much surprise.

Mr. Hamilton’s place was situated in a lovely country on the borders of Sussex and Surrey. Hanging woods, extensive oak copses mixed with birch, sandy lanes, hedges which are enlivened by large hollies with their glossy leaves and their red berries—wild patches of heath, studded with juniper bushes—fern and innumerable wild flowers in the shaws and dingles—banks blue with violets, and dells yellow with primroses, are the characteristics of that most enjoyable part of England.

Belhanger, which was the name of his place, was in the Elizabethan style. A spacious hall, in which was an immense fire-place, surmounted by the antlers of some patriarchal stag, communicated with a large, low, oak dining-room, and through some smaller apartments to a drawing-room, which was hung with tapestry, and adorned with beautiful oak carving; the crossings of the beams in the ceiling were ornamented with wooden rosettes, in the most antique taste, while the rest of the room was provided with all the essentials requisite for modern comfort. A broad and massive staircase of black oak led, as is usual with buildings of that period, to a gallery on the upper floor, which extended the whole length of the south front, and which, with its two fire-places, and its innumerable windows of all shapes and sizes, admitting every ray of sun, was one of the most delightful winter apartments imaginable.

The exterior of the mansion was as irregular as the most ardent lover of the picturesque could desire. It was built of grey-stone, and composed of gable-ends of every possible angle. As its name indicated, it was built upon the side of a hill, which had originally been covered with hanging woods. The woods had been partially cleared away near the house, and a sloping lawn led down to the small but romantic deer-park in the valley.

Ellen thought Belhanger the very beau ideal of an English manorial house, and, if she had not been too much in love, and too happy in the affections of such a man as Mr. Hamilton, to find room in her heart for emotions that were not connected with him, she would have thought the possession of such a place as Belhanger an additional pleasure.

The poor people, too, were a more primæval race than those who have not lived in that part of the world would expect to find at so short a distance from the metropolis. The bright blue smock-frocks which are there the common dress of the men, and the red cloaks which the women still wear, gave a picturesque appearance to the peasant congregation as they trooped out of church, and wound down the steep road, by the beech-crowned knoll.

Ellen was charmed with all she saw, but, perhaps, she would have been equally charmed had her home been less perfect in itself, for she had that within which would have made a cottage appear to her a palace—a desert a paradise.

The judicious kindness of Mr. Hamilton to her children, the eldest of whom was now six years old, gave him still another claim on her affections and her gratitude. He counselled with her on the best course of education, the proper method of training a boy’s mind, and entered into the subject with all a father’s eagerness and anxiety. Ellen rejoiced that she had given her son such a protector, and looked forward to his making, under such guidance, a useful and an exemplary member of society.

Mr. Hamilton found in Ellen new charms, new virtues, each succeeding day. She was one of those shrinking and sensitive creatures who cannot put forth half their powers of pleasing except in the intimacy of domestic life, and under the fostering hand of kindness. Before her first marriage she had been but a child, a timid frightened child—while the wife of Mr. Cresford, although adored by himself, he had been so fearful of her appearing too attractive in the eyes of others, that she had acquired the habit of trying to glide through life unobserved, in order to avoid any ebullitions of jealousy on his part, rather than of attempting to shine as an agreeable person. She was astonished and delighted when she saw her husband’s expressive eyes follow her as she spoke, and gleam on her with kindly pride when others seemed to admire her.

Life was to her a new state of existence: not that she had hitherto been an unhappy person; she had always repeated to herself how much cause she had for gratitude: but the inward dancing of the heart she had never before experienced, and she often said to her husband, “Algernon, you make me too happy. This cannot last; something must happen: I do not deserve to be so blessed above the rest of womankind.”

He would reply with a smile, “Do you fancy, Ellen, you are the only woman whose husband loves her?”

“No, but I am the only woman in the world who am loved by you. Am I not?” she added, with a playful glance of entire confidence in his devotion.

When parliament met, they repaired to London, and she then moved in a sphere vastly more elevated than that to which she had been introduced as Mrs. Cresford. But she had so much native grace and dignity, that she did not appear to be transplanted into a new soil, but rather to be now restored to that which was natural and congenial to her.

She had the rapture of hearing her husband spoken of with respect, and of seeing him treated with deference, by every one. By his own party he was looked up to as one of its most influential members, more from the weight of his personal character than from that of his property and situation, although they also were of considerable importance. By his opponents he was considered as the one fair man, who, though decided in his own opinions, was ready to render justice to the uprightness of those who differed from him. There can be no condition of life happier than that of Ellen at this moment, none more respectable in the scale of human beings, than that of the wife of an Englishman of unblemished reputation, who holds a distinguished position in the senate of that nation whose laws and constitution have been the admiration, and the model, of nearly every civilised country in both hemispheres.

Ellen again became a mother, and the birth of a little girl, if possible, cemented more strongly the bond of union between herself, her husband, and her children.

Nearly two years had now elapsed since she had become the happy wife of Mr. Hamilton; and he had for nearly two years enjoyed the society of the lovely and devoted woman for whom his affection daily increased, as her valuable qualities continually opened upon him. She was adored by all around. The poor showered blessings upon her name whenever it was mentioned,—their richer neighbours had nothing but acts and words of kindness to record of her. Her eldest brother took every opportunity that his avocations allowed him, to run down to Belhanger. Her father, when with Mr. Hamilton, seemed to lose his captiousness; for there is a magic in very high breeding which renders any ebullition of temper almost impracticable. Matilda, who was become a fine showy girl, often passed some time with her sister Ellen, and had profited much by her example and advice.

Mr. and Mrs. Allenham were at this moment in the house; Lord and Lady Coverdale, and their daughter, had just arrived, and some other persons, political friends of Mr. Hamilton’s.

Lady Coverdale had been telling Ellen she thought her the most fortunate woman in the world; she had been speaking of Mr. Hamilton, whom she had known from his infancy, in terms which even Ellen thought worthy of the theme, and had been saying how happy she should esteem herself if she could ever see her daughter blessed with such a husband, and possessed of such a home; Algernon’s friends had been gaily complimenting him upon his good taste, and his good fortune, and declaring they had sufficient discrimination to appreciate such a woman, if they could only have the good fortune to meet with any one at all resembling Mrs. Hamilton, when one morning at breakfast Ellen received a letter from her brother, enclosing one directed to her as Mrs. Cresford, and addressed to the house in London which she had formerly inhabited.

The post-mark was foreign, and there was something in a letter addressed to her by that name, which struck her as being so strange that she did not open it, but folding it again in her brother’s envelope, she waited till she could retire to peruse its contents. She continued to perform her part of hostess at the breakfast-table, and told herself it must be a begging letter, from some one, perhaps, who had known Mr. Cresford at Verdun.

Still the letter haunted her, and she could scarcely smile at the gay jests which passed round the breakfast-table, or listen to the news and gossip contained in the correspondence of the other members of the society. The outside was so covered with post-marks, and various directions, that she had not remarked in what sort of hand the name was written, and she quietly took it out of the envelope, just to see if it did look like a begging letter. Her former name always made her shudder, she could not tell why, and she had often reproached herself for the feeling, as an unkind and ungrateful one towards the memory of him who was gone. It was that strange instinct which had made her so quickly put this letter aside, and it was with an unaccountable trepidation that she again drew it forth to examine the hand-writing. She looked and looked again, till her eyes swam. It was very like the writing which was only too familiar to her. It was,—it must be his writing,—she could not be mistaken; only it was impossible.—quite impossible. Yet it might contain his last behests, which had, from some cause, never been delivered before. She could not open it. She hastily concealed it, and turning deadly pale, she sat, scarcely conscious of what passed around her, till the last person had been helped to his last cup of tea.

She longed to know the contents, but there came a sickness over her heart, which made her postpone the dreaded moment. At length the company rose one by one, and straggled towards the windows. She summoned all her might, and walked steadily to the door—she sought her own boudoir, and seating herself upon the sofa, she again unfolded the envelope, she again gazed on the outside—she had not yet courage to break the seal.

There was something dreadful in thus receiving the dying injunctions of one husband, one who had loved her, too, so passionately, in reading the ebullitions of his vehement affection, when she was the adoring wife of another. She felt as though he were about to speak to her from the grave.

She looked at the post-marks. There were upon it, in various coloured inks, Gratz, Vienna, Dresden, Magdeburg, Hamburgh. No Verdun post-mark! How strange! Wonder, terror, conquered all other feelings—she tore open the seal—it was indeed his own hand-writing!—the date, Gratz, June 1808—What could it mean? She looked at the end—it was his own, very own name!—it was addressed to her! It began, “My beloved wife, my own Ellen!” She could read no more; the letter dropped from her hand, and she fainted on the floor.

She was in this state, when Mr. Hamilton, alarmed by her paleness at breakfast, sought her in her boudoir. He raised her from the ground, and calling her maid, soon succeeded in restoring her to herself—To herself? No! She could never again be what she had been!

She gazed around with wild and haggard eyes; then motioning the maid to leave the room, and watching with agonized fear till the double doors were both closed, she screamed rather than said,—

“He is alive! he is alive! I am not your wife, Algernon! I am not yours!” and she threw herself into his arms, she clung to him, she clasped her arms around his neck, with desperate energy, as if she thought thus to rivet the tie she felt was severed.

“Ellen! dearest Ellen! my own gentle Ellen, are you raving? You must be ill! What is the matter? You really frighten me!” he added, attempting to smile.

“Look there, Algernon! there it lies! I have only read the first line, and would to heaven I had died! Oh! if I could but die now, with my head on your bosom,—your arms around me,—my eyes fixed on yours! Dearest, dearest Algernon! I love you better than any thing else in the whole world—better, ten thousand times better than myself! Words cannot express the thousandth part of the agonizing love I feel for you! and it is all a crime! Look there! read that!” and she pressed her hands against her eyeballs, as if to exclude light and consciousness.

This burst of passion was so unlike his retiring Ellen, whose affection, though evinced by every action of her life, implied by all she said, had still seemed frightened back into her heart, if in any moment of tenderness she was called upon to couch it into actual language, that Mr. Hamilton was lost in astonishment! In dread and wonder he took the letter in his hand—he saw the beginning—he looked at the date—he staggered to a chair, and exclaiming, “Merciful Heaven!” he too remained stupified, unable to utter, and scarcely to think, or to comprehend the extent of the misfortune which had befallen them.

At length reason in some measure resumed its sway, and he suggested, “May it not be a forgery? Are you sure it is his hand?” A momentary light flashed athwart her mind; she seized the paper, and they sat down together to the perusal of that letter, on which their fates so completely hung!

CHAPTER VII.

It was with difficulty that Algernon and Ellen could fix their eyes upon the paper; every thing swam before them. They read in silence the following letter—with what feelings may be better imagined than described.

Ellen and Algernon spoke not—moved not. They sat transfixed—they did not venture to raise their eyes to each other. Neither could entertain any doubt of the authenticity of the letter. It would be folly, worse than folly, to utter what neither could believe. They who had been all the world to each other—they whose love had been so pure that angels might have looked down from heaven and smiled upon it—what were they now? They dared not think.

At length Ellen murmured in a low and almost choked voice—

“Is he my husband, Algernon? Does the law say he is my husband?”

“Ellen, do not make me speak my own doom.”

“It is enough,” she said, “and my child is—” she paused for a moment, and after a short struggle, continued,—“is illegitimate!”

He was silent.

“Oh, merciful Heaven!” she screamed, “it cannot be true,” and she started from her seat with a wild look of hope. “It is a dream! Tell me so, Algernon, my own Algernon, my husband, tell me so. Speak to me!” and she threw herself on her knees at his feet, with clasped hands, and beseeching eyes, looking up in his face.

He lifted her from the ground, and whispered,—“We can fly, Ellen. There are other lands than this. There are countries where we may be beyond the reach of British laws, where we may have the clear blue sky of heaven above us, where Nature pours forth her treasures to man with a bounteous hand; where we may live in freedom from the trammels of human institutions, but bound by the most sacred ties—our own vows of eternal constancy, which surely have been registered above.”

“Live with you, as your mistress! No, never, Algernon!” and she drew up her slender form to its full height, and stood the very personification of female purity and dignity. “Never, Algernon! Any thing would be more tolerable than to have you cease to respect me.”

She seemed to have regained her self-command. An almost supernatural strength for a moment inspired her.

“Now what is to be done? What is it our duty to do? But oh! the shame, the dreadful shame, of being exposed to the world as having lived for two years in sin.”

At this moment the voices of the children were heard in the passage; they flung open the door, and came bounding joyously into the room with the wild flowers they had gathered in their walk. The sight of them softened and overcame the mother,—she burst into a flood of tears.

“They are his children,” she exclaimed, “and he will take them from me. I know he will—whichever way I turn fresh horrors surround me!”

The poor little things, astonished at their reception, stood aghast. Mr. Hamilton hastily bade them leave their mother, told them she was not well, and hurried them out of the room.

“Ellen, dearest Ellen,” he said, and approached her. He took her hand, when she started away.

“You must not touch me, Algernon! It is a crime. You say yourself I am his wife, and he is coming home. Algernon,” she said, in a clear, low, sepulchral voice, speaking very slowly, “I cannot be forced to live with him again. No law can compel me to do that. Tell me the law,—let me know the truth.”

“I cannot say exactly; we will inquire. Compose yourself; let us do nothing rashly. Perhaps he may never return,—perhaps he may not live to return; we do not know.”

“But I am not your wife?”

“This letter may still be a forgery.”

“No, no, it is too true! and I am not your wife,” she repeated, with the accent of utter hopelessness.

He stood in silence; he could not say she was. He endured agony equal to her’s, except that he did not feel the guilt and the remorse which were added to all her other sufferings. They remained silent till she could endure it no longer. “Algernon, no law can be so cruel as to separate us: it is impossible. After all, we were lawfully married in a church: no one forbade the banns,—no one answered the awful adjuration, ‘Let him now speak, or ever after hold his peace.’ Yes, we must be lawfully married. We are, are we not? Say so, my own Algernon, my husband?” and she wound herself round him, and looked up in his face with all the winning tenderness she could put into those melting eyes. “I am your wife, your wedded wife, am I not, dearest?” and she tried to smile, a sweet, sad, heart-rending smile.

This was too much for poor Hamilton. He took her in his arms, he pressed her to his bosom. “You are my own Ellen, my life, my love, the joy of my heart; without you life would be intolerable.”

“I am your wife, dearest; say so,—in pity say so!”

“Yes, yes, you are! In spite of ordinances, human and divine, you are; you shall be my wife!”

“No,” she said, slowly shaking her head—“no! if you speak so, then I am not your wife.”

She gradually relaxed her hold, her arms dropped by her side, and she sank into a chair.

He looked on her for a few moments with a fixed gaze of despair, then striking his forehead he rushed out of the room, darted down the stairs, out of the house, and plunged into the most retired part of the park, where he wildly paced the ground, beating his bosom, and almost dashing his head against the trees.

When Ellen saw him hurry from her presence she gave one shriek.

“He is gone!” she cried; “gone—I have lost him for ever!”

In the mean time, the maid, who had heard her master quit the apartment, came to inquire how her mistress felt after her attack of faintness. She was terrified when she saw her countenance. However, her entrance had in some measure the effect of forcing Ellen to rouse herself. She begged her maid to leave her, assuring her she was quite recovered. She rose, and staggered to the window to prevent meeting the eyes of the faithful Stanmore, who had lived with her from the time she first married.

Stanmore respectfully retired, but she was so much alarmed at the state in which she found her mistress, that she went to Mrs. Allenham’s room, to tell her that she feared Mrs. Hamilton was seriously indisposed.

Caroline hastened to her sister, and found her dissolved in tears, which at length flowed copiously. To all Caroline’s questions she answered only by continued weeping, and sobs which succeeded each other so quickly that she could not have uttered, if she had wished to do so.

The fresh air had in some measure restored Mr. Hamilton. He had recovered the powers of his mind. He had reflected that many unforeseen accidents might still prevent the return of Mr. Cresford; that the idea of his being alive, if once noised abroad, would throw a shade over their future lives, even should it eventually prove an unfounded notion. He persuaded himself once more it might be a trick for the purpose of extorting money upon the supposition that he would attempt to bribe the first husband to silence. He was not acquainted with Mr. Cresford’s hand-writing, and his hopes revived. At all events, the report once circulated could not be crushed, and he hastened back to the house, if possible, to calm Ellen, and to bind her to secrecy.

He entered her boudoir just as Mrs. Allenham was trying to extract from her the cause of her distress, when Ellen, springing from her seat, rushed into Algernon’s arms, exclaiming,

“You are not gone for ever. Thank God, I see you again!”

Mrs. Allenham looked on in surprise. Could it be that Ellen and her husband had quarrelled? They whose conjugal felicity had become almost proverbial? Such scenes never occurred between herself and Mr. Allenham! Ellen was as good-tempered as she was; and though Mr. Hamilton was a more high-flown romantic sort of man than Mr. Allenham—not so religious perhaps—not so much in the habit of regulating his feelings by the exact measure of duty, still he was an excellent man, and a good-tempered man. What could it all mean?

However, she felt she could be of little service, and that as Ellen had some one with her who would take care of her, should she again feel unwell, she left them together.

“Compose yourself, dearest Ellen,” Mr. Hamilton said, in a soothing tone; “I have much to say, and you must listen attentively to my arguments.”

“Any thing to hear your voice—to still look upon you,” and she seated herself opposite to him, and fixed her eyes upon him, as if she would drink in every word which fell from his lips, and indelibly fix in her mind every lineament of that face which she was soon no more to see.

“Listen to me. There is a possibility that this letter may not be authentic.”

She shook her head sorrowfully. He continued,

“All things are possible. Then there is more than a possibility, that, if alive, he whose name I cannot bring myself to speak, may never reach England. His health seems to be impaired,—he may sink under his sufferings. If he should never return, why should we have wilfully proclaimed to the world our disgrace?—for disgrace it will be in the eyes of the world, though no guilt is ours.”

“But we should be guilty now, knowing what we do know.”

“We are not quite sure: let us wait for confirmation before we breathe one word concerning this letter to any living being. Remember, that if we were to learn the next day that the poor prisoner had fallen a victim to his miseries, that he was at rest, though we might then be lawfully united, our child, our innocent child, would, by our own imprudence, be proved illegitimate.”

Ellen’s countenance changed: she listened with a persuaded air. Mr. Hamilton resumed,

“We must, for her sake, hide for the present all we feel; we must, if possible, assume a calm exterior, and trust to Providence for the issue.”

“I wish I knew what was right. And yet what you tell me must be so. But I cannot,—I cannot show my face to-day; I am sure if I did, I should betray all.” After a pause, she added, “I will tell you what you must do, Algernon, though it breaks my heart to say so:—you must either allow me to pay my father a visit, or you must yourself go away for a time,—make a tour,—visit the lakes,—go to Scotland. We must not live together, till this dreadful mystery is cleared up, till our fate is ascertained one way or another.”

“What! leave the company we have staying in the house? Impossible, without exciting such observations.”

“They will be gone in three days, and then—then—Yes, it is better to be miserable only, than to be miserable and guilty also!”

“If it is your wish, Ellen, I will leave you. It is best I should be the one to go: if you were to quit this roof it would feel more like a real and final separation.”

“My fainting fit will be an excuse for my not appearing to-day. Indeed I do feel so ill. I could not bear my part in society. To-morrow I will try to do as you wish. I will strive, for the sake of my poor little Agnes.”

The whole of that day was spent by the wretched Ellen in a state of stupefaction. The misfortune which had befallen her was too great and too overwhelming to be completely comprehended. Her overstrained nerves could bear no more, and she sat in a state of comparative calmness. She expressed no wish to see her children, no desire for any thing, and Mrs. Allenham bade the maid remain in the adjoining apartment.

She returned to the company herself, and informed them of her sister’s sudden indisposition. She tried, with all the tact of which she was mistress, to extract from Lady Coverdale whether Mr. Hamilton had ever been subject to starts of temper, but she elicited nothing from her, but a recapitulation of his virtues.

CHAPTER VIII.