Mr. Hamilton had half succeeded in persuading himself the whole thing was a cunning forgery. The story seemed so improbable. No letter had ever arrived from Cresford—no Maitland had ever brought any intelligence of this attempt to escape. Colonel Eversham had seen him carried to the grave—the funeral had taken place at night, by Mr. Cresford’s dying request, he said. How unlikely, whatever might subsequently have been the difficulties of his situation, that if alive, he should really have allowed so much time to elapse without writing to the wife with whom he was so madly in love! These reflections all presented themselves to his mind, and by dinner-time he was able to take his accustomed seat, and to do the honours of his table with tolerable self-possession.
Towards evening Mrs. Allenham was alarmed by a recurrence of Ellen’s faintness: it was immediately after her children had been brought in to wish her good night.
Mrs. Allenham was urgent that a physician should be sent for. Ellen appeared to revive, to express her vehement desire that no one should be summoned. She only wished that her maid should sleep on a sofa in her room, in case she should be worse in the night. Mrs. Allenham thought Mr. Hamilton rather remiss in not sending for medical advice.
“Mr. Allenham,” she thought, “though he does not make such a fuss about his love for me, would never let me be as ill as Ellen is, without sending for all the doctors in the neighbourhood; but different men have different ways, and one must take people as one finds them.”
One thing, however, she resolved upon, that if Ellen was not better the next morning, she would speak her mind openly to Mr. Hamilton, and insist on his having the very best advice.
Ellen was no sooner in her bed than she dropped into a profound slumber, from which she awoke early the next morning, refreshed in body, and with only a vague recollection of the tremendous change which had taken place in her fate. By degrees her actual situation opened upon her.
How dreadful is the waking from a real sound sleep of forgetfulness, after any severe misfortune has befallen us! The temporary oblivion of our sorrows scarcely compensates for the agony of recollection.
She was, however, aware of the necessity of concealing what she felt, if she wished to preserve the illegitimacy of her child from becoming public, while there was yet a hope of its remaining unknown. She passed some time in humble prayer, imploring guidance from above, judgment to know what was right, and strength to execute it.
She rose from prayer in a calmer frame of mind—she felt herself fortified for the task before her— she thought that if Algernon left her at Belhanger alone, there could be no crime in delaying the promulgation of the dreadful secret, for the chance of saving herself and her child from unmerited disgrace.
She went down to breakfast, and she made an attempt to smile in return to the salutations and inquiries of her friends. She was in the act of assuring them she was quite well, when Mr. Hamilton entered the apartment. She started as she heard his well-known turn of the lock, she faltered in her speech as he entered, her paleness was replaced by a vivid glow, which overspread her face, but she turned not her eyes upon him; she studiously avoided meeting his; the first sound of his voice thrilled through her very being.
She took her station at the breakfast-table, upon the same spot where yesterday she had received that fatal intelligence which had so completely broken up her happiness. She took her station as mistress of the mansion to which she had no longer any right. She felt she was an impostor.
Mr. Hamilton, who had the preceding day buoyed himself up with something more of hope than she had done, had passed a night of anxious restlessness. Sleep had not for one moment weighed down his eyelids; and when at length Ellen ventured almost by stealth to take one look at that beloved countenance, her heart was pierced to see it so wan, so haggard.
Their object was to avoid exciting remark. A plan was proposed, and acceded to, of driving to see a fine castle in the neighbourhood, in which was a collection of pictures. Ellen accompanied the ladies in an open carriage, and Mr. Hamilton took the gentlemen across the country on horseback.
While others were engaged in admiring some of the masterpieces of art, Ellen found herself near Mr. Hamilton.
“Algernon, you look very ill,” she said: “it breaks my heart to see you!”
“Can it be otherwise, Ellen? Even you can scarcely know the tortures I endure.”
“We must not speak to each other. I shall lose the self-command I have so struggled to obtain. But I have behaved well, Algernon. I have conducted myself according to your wishes?”
“Yes! yes! May God bless you, dearest and best! I cannot trust myself to say another word.”
He hastened away, and went to the stables, as though to see for the horses and the barouche. Ellen busied herself in examining a picture, of which she did not see one form, and drove back her bursting tears, and stilled the tumult of her soul.
On their way home, Lady Coverdale was eloquent on the beauties of this part of the world, on the charms of Belhanger, and discussed with much interest the plan for the flower-garden which Ellen was making along the terrace in front of the house.
“When your shrubs have grown, and the creepers cover that bowered walk to the left, it will be quite beautiful. Are you not always very impatient at the slow growth of plants? One has to wait so long before one sees any result produced. I think it is a great objection to gardening. However, you are very young, and you may look forward to many years of enjoying your improvements.”
These simple words shot like daggers through Ellen’s heart. She could not reply, and notwithstanding all her efforts to appear at her ease, the conversation flagged. Caroline had seen Ellen speak in a low voice to Mr. Hamilton, while others were engaged with the paintings; she had seen him suddenly leave the room, and perceiving how oppressed Ellen’s spirits were, became thoroughly convinced some serious disagreement had occurred.
“Well,” she thought, “I suppose it will all come right again. Everybody cannot go on so smoothly as dear Mr. Allenham and I do!”
When they returned from their excursion, Ellen retired to her room. She had not the heart, as usual, to repair to the nursery or the school-room. The sight of her two elder children harrowed her soul, from the fear that she possessed them only for a time, that they would be torn from her just when their opening intelligence, their amiable dispositions, had superadded to the instinctive love of a mother, the affection produced by their own good qualities. The sight of her little girl was scarcely less agonising, from the conviction that she must soon be a nameless outcast!
She had again recourse to prayer, and she again rose from her devotions strengthened and resigned.
At that moment a gentle tap at the door was heard, and Algernon entered.
“I must see you, I must speak to you, Ellen! Human nature cannot endure this continued state of effort. Let us unbend for a few short moments. Tell me you love me, and that, let our fate be what it may, your heart, your whole heart, is mine.”
“Oh, Algernon! I have just been praying for strength and resignation, and I thought I had obtained my prayer. Do not speak to me in those tender tones. They melt away my whole soul, and I will, I will be firm. I must no longer allow myself to use such expressions; but I cannot even try not to feel all and more than I ever felt before. Spare my weakness, Algernon, and remember that dearly as I prize your love, I prize your good opinion still more. That is the one thought which enables me to exist, I believe.”
He looked on her with admiration, almost amounting to awe.
“My good opinion! You are as much superior to me, or to any other living being, as the angels of heaven are to the common run of mortals. I adore you, I venerate you, as one of them.” He knelt at her feet. “Speak, and I will obey you. I place myself under your guidance. I will regulate my actions by what you deem calculated to ensure your own peace of mind. I will prove to you that I can equal you at least in self-devotion; though my heart may break, I will not yield to you in that!”
“Get up, Algernon. Do not kneel at my feet. I cannot bear to hear you speak in such a manner. These scenes must not recur. We only agonize each other, and render ourselves unfit for our task. Leave me, dearest; leave me to compose myself!”
“You bid me leave you, and I will do so. But will you not give me your hand?—that dear hand which, after all, was pledged to me at the altar!” He took her unresisting hand. “It was I who placed that ring upon your finger, Ellen; you then swore to me eternal fidelity, you swore to love me ‘till death us did part.’ Can any thing cancel that vow?” And he drew her gently towards him.
“O God! nothing, nothing!” She dashed his hand from her, and rushed to the opposite corner of the room. She glared wildly upon him. “Nothing, nothing can cancel that first dreadful vow! Oh! do not remind me of those words. It was then the vision came over me! He, whom you tell me is my husband, seemed to rise up between us, Algernon! It was a forewarning of what was to happen! I ought to have obeyed the warning—I should have stopped before”—her voice faltered, but she continued in a tone of unutterable sweetness—“before those words made me the happiest woman in the whole world!” She hid her face with her hands, and burst into tears.
“Bless you for what you have just said, my own Ellen!”
“Do not call me your own Ellen; I am not—can never be! In mercy leave me—this agony is not to be endured!”
Slowly and reluctantly he withdrew: he stood for a few moments at the door, and then he closed it, and she remained alone.
She had prayed for strength, and she found it. She did not weep, but meekly sat, patient and uncomplaining. The hour for dressing arrived, and she mechanically proceeded with her toilet. Her maid had prepared the dress, the ornaments she thought she would wear. Mechanically she sate before the looking-glass, mechanically she arranged her ringlets round her face; she placed in her hair the ornamental comb her maid presented to her, fastened her ear-rings, held out her arm to have her bracelets clasped, and, when she was dressed, wondered at herself for having tricked herself out in all these gewgaws.
“How strange,” she thought, “that I should have been able thus to deck this wretched form!” But such is the force of habit: it does not come into any body’s head to leave off the feathers, the diamonds, the flowers with which they are in the habit of adorning themselves, though the heart beneath may be breaking—and yet it seems a mockery!
Before dinner Lady Coverdale begged that the children might be sent for, and little Agnes appeared in a beautiful cap which Miss Coverdale had embroidered for her. The beauty of the child’s eyes was discussed.
“If Agnes grows up according to this promise, Mrs. Hamilton”—(Ellen started at the name)—“you will have a pleasant task in acting as her chaperon.”
Ellen almost sank at the prospect which was thus brought before her. She could not answer, but, hastily turning away, stirred the fire with great energy, at the same time exclaiming, “How hot it is!”
They went to dinner; she was seated at the head of the table, opposite to Mr. Hamilton. She felt a sort of melancholy pleasure in being, as it were, forced to appear as his wife; but never did two such bursting hearts pass calmly through an evening of society.
Another day succeeded, and it was spent in the same struggle. On the third the Coverdales departed, thinking that, for so happy a couple, they were the most fashionably cool they had ever seen; the Allenhams, fearing that Mr. Hamilton, charming as he was, must have an odd corner of temper, for, as to Ellen, they knew her too well to imagine for a moment that she could be in fault.
They all drove from the door, and the wretched couple were left alone with their love and their misery.
“And now you must leave me, Algernon; we must not remain here alone, and I even doubt whether I ought to remain under your roof.”
“Oh, Ellen! one would think you wished to believe we were severed, for ever severed! There is still hope.”
“None for me! I know that hand-writing too well.”
“Must I go to-day?”
“To-day, if you value my peace, and the little remnant of honour I may yet hope to preserve.”
“This is hard, this is cruel; but you shall have an approving conscience, my own Ellen; and if your conscience will be easier when I am gone, I will not linger: I will order every thing for my journey, and I will go at dusk to-night. Till then, you will let me be with you; till then, I may look on your face—I may listen to your voice—I may breathe the same air with you!”
He flew to order his departure, and in another instant was by her side.
There was a melancholy satisfaction in being together, and yet, when they were so, they could not speak: what could they say that was not fraught with wretchedness?
“I must see our children, Ellen.”
He had been in the habit of calling all the children “our;” but the little word, which from the force of habit escaped him, struck daggers to the hearts of both. The two elder were his children who might soon be at home to claim them.
They all three came, and poor Hamilton devoured them with kisses. The little Agnes was just old enough to know him, and to hold out her arms to him with a smile of joy. They could neither of them endure this long; they could not talk to the children—they could not play with them—they could not listen to their prattle, and they were soon sent away.
Strange to say, these last few hours, whose flight they so much dreaded, hung heavy. They wished to arrest the course of time, and yet they knew not how to pass it. They strolled into the garden: every thing there spoke of hope and promise; every thing within their own bosoms boded unheard-of wretchedness.
They had several times paced in silence round the sheltered parterre, when Ellen turned deadly pale, and stopped for a few moments.
“You must lean on me, Ellen! You must take my arm.”
Her feebleness compelled her to do so, and once more he had the happiness of feeling that lovely form rest on him for support.
Neither spoke again. Both hearts were too full for utterance. In silence they bent their course homeward. They again returned to the drawing-room. They once more sat down there together. They could not bring themselves to quit each other for a moment,—to lose one instant of these few precious hours; and yet to each, the presence of the other was oppressive. This state of misery and gêne was worse than that occasioned by the presence of others.
They could not, at such a moment, speak on indifferent subjects; and if they alluded to their own situation, it must lead to passionate bursts of feeling, which she considered as criminal, and which he also dreaded for her sake.
At length the hour of departure came. The carriage was announced—and he went up-stairs alone once more to give his parting blessing to the children. He returned to her.
“I think we may correspond,” she said, “there can be nothing wrong in that, till our fate is quite decided.”
“Oh yes, yes; you must write every day,” he replied. “I shall find out some retired spot in Wales, and I shall remain there in utter seclusion till your mind is made easy by hearing no more. In three months you will conclude it was only a forgery?”
She shook her head. “I know the writing.”
“In six months? In a year, you will—name some time—set some term to my banishment!”
“We will write—I am not capable of knowing or understanding what is right in your presence. You must leave me, Algernon, or I think I shall die, now, at your feet!”
“And are we to part thus?”
She stood like a marble statue, as cold, as pale, as motionless.
“Are we to part thus? Impossible!” and he snatched her to his bosom, and imprinted on her lips one kiss of deep, fervent, unalterable love.
He tore himself away, and plunging into the carriage, in a few moments was borne far from the scene of all his happiness.
When she heard the sound of the wheels, she made a desperate rush to the window, and remained fixed there to listen for their sound, and to fancy she still heard it, long after it was possible to do so.
CHAPTER IX.
He was gone—quite gone—and slowly and wearily she dragged herself back to the sofa, and gave free vent to all the agony which had been eating away her very being.
She was thus drowned in tears, when the footman entered the room, upon some pretence of closing the shutters, or of making up the fire. The servants could not but perceive that something unusual was going on, and their curiosity was excited by the mysterious looks of their master and mistress, and by the sudden departure of the former. Ellen, to avoid the inquiring gaze of the footman, hastily retired to her boudoir, whither she had no sooner retreated than her anxious maid peeped in to see if she might want any thing.
Pleading a violent head-ache, she bade her say she should not require any dinner, and assured her that nothing but entire quiet could relieve the pain under which she was suffering. The faithful creature would prescribe all the nostrums that ever were invented for head-aches, and poor Ellen thought she never should be allowed to weep in peace. At length she was relieved from the troublesome attentions both of the inquisitive and of the kind-hearted, and was left to her own sad thoughts.
She accused herself of not having sufficiently valued the one last morning she had passed with him. She remembered a thousand things she meant to say—a thousand things she ought to have said. She thought she had been cold, she thought she had been unkind, and yet she reproached herself for having allowed him to take that one farewell kiss; for she felt and knew she was not his wife. She could not deceive herself into a momentary belief that the letter was an imposture. She knew that her lawful husband was alive, and that every feeling of her soul was therefore criminal. Still, though she scarcely indulged a hope of ever being re-united to Algernon, she had not the courage to declare the truth. She wished, if possible, to preserve her reputation, and her child’s position in the world.
She now had leisure to reflect upon the line of conduct it behoved her to adopt, and she came to the conclusion, that, provided she received no further communication from Mr. Cresford, and that there seemed no fear of open exposure, the only mode of preserving her fair name, and her virtue at the same time, was to induce Mr. Hamilton to consent to an amicable separation on the score of incompatibility of temper.
This was her best hope! How dreadful the other alternative! to be claimed by the indignant Cresford, to be held up to the eyes of the world as a base culprit, guilty of the crime of bigamy! It was almost too degrading to contemplate.
Some days had now elapsed; she had every morning received the letters with a sickening dread which almost paralysed her. With fear and horror she had hastily turned over the exterior of every letter, and, with inexpressible relief, she had found none that bore the dreaded foreign post-mark. Each morning brought a long epistle from Algernon, written in the spirit of the highest, purest, most devoted affection.
These were some balm to her heart. These were treasured up and perused over and over again. But she was an altered creature—all around wondered at the change. The children found that mamma could only kiss them, and weep over them, and they became thoughtful and subdued in her presence. The poor people wondered their bounteous lady no longer came among them. She could not do so. She dreaded the eyes of her fellow-creatures—their very blessings were painful to her—she felt as if she had obtained them under false pretences. All that had given her pleasure in this lovely place, this delightful country, now only filled her with regret, when she thought that the next day might find her an exile from this Paradise. Every walk, every tree, every view, every spot she visited, reminded her of him whom she no longer ventured to call husband, and with whom she had no hope of ever seeing them again.
Two or three weeks had now slowly dragged their weary length away, and no fresh intelligence had arrived. It was nearly a month since she had received the first, and she almost began to think he found it impossible to make his escape. The friendly governor might be removed. The mental aberration might, from over-excitement, have returned. She felt wicked in, for a moment, anticipating such a circumstance with any thing approaching to satisfaction; and yet the horror of another, and still more appalling, solution of the difficulty, that he had succeeded in his petition, and that he was on his way home, filled her with dismay, which almost bewildered her senses.
One morning when she, as usual, received with trembling hands the packet of letters, she perceived one from her brother with an enclosure. With dizzy eyes she tore open the cover, and within found another, with the same dreaded post-mark of Gratz. Despair gave her courage to open it. It was indeed from Cresford, and be there told her the governor had proved his kindest friend; that the Emperor had listened favourably to his petition, and that he had every prospect of being able to commence his journey to England in a few days,—that as the time approached he felt ten thousand fears pass through his bosom. How much might have happened since he left his home. His Ellen, to whom he was now writing in the fulness of his heart, might possibly be gathered to the dead. His children! were they still in existence? “Oh, my dearest wife,” he continued, “you can form no conception of the distracted and confused state of my mind when I think of the changes that may have taken place among you. Of one thing I believe I may rest assured, though my own wayward disposition has sometimes been prone to unreasonable bursts of—jealousy, shall I say?—no, rather sensitiveness,—for you will do me the justice to confess I never was jealous of any individual,—of one thing I may rest assured, that I shall find you pure, true, and virtuous as I left you. The knowledge of your virtue has been my only consolation,—that conviction alone has supported me through all my misfortunes. In one short month I shall be at home, my Ellen, never, never again to part from you.”
This confirmation of what she most dreaded came upon her with almost as great a shock as the first announcement of her misery. Yet she felt ungrateful at making such a return for all the affection expressed by Cresford, affection which had stood the test of time, which had been his guiding principle in absence, imprisonment, even in madness.
The next moment she fancied that by such emotions she wronged Algernon, her own adored Algernon, who was for ever torn from her, and doomed to sufferings equal to her own.
In another month Cresford said he should be at home. The time had nearly elapsed: he might arrive any day. There was not a moment to be lost!
In her distraction she almost forgot to open the daily letter of Mr. Hamilton. It breathed of hope! He had always been more sanguine than herself, and in this he pleaded strongly to be allowed to return. He argued that the protracted silence almost proved, beyond a doubt, that the whole had been a false alarm.
She placed the dear letter next her heart, and, hastily gathering together the rest of her correspondence which had been cast aside, was preparing to arrange all things for her instant departure, when her attention was arrested by a second epistle from her brother Henry. She knew the worst; she had no more to fear, and she perused it with a desperate calmness.
Henry began by saying that he, and all the other partners, had been much distressed by a communication they had received of so strange a character that he scarcely liked to disturb her mind by reporting it; that yet, as he had forwarded to her by the same post a letter which appeared to come from the same quarter as the one they had received, and as, if he mistook not, he had some time ago sent her another with a similar direction and post-mark, perhaps she might be prepared for what he was going to tell her.
The fact was they had received a letter purporting to come from Mr. Cresford, and full of incomprehensible allusions to an escape from Verdun, and to a mock funeral; that they scarcely knew whether to consider it a forgery or not; that he grieved to say those who were most conversant with his hand-writing seemed most persuaded of its authenticity; that they were all in the greatest perplexity, but, upon the whole, agreed it was best to keep the circumstance secret for the present.
He dreaded to think what her feelings must be; that for himself, he was firmly convinced it was an imposture from first to last,—that he remembered how circumstantial had been Colonel Eversham’s account of the funeral of poor Cresford, performed by torch-light, according to his own particular request, and attended by Colonel Eversham himself, by Captain Morton, and several more of the détenus who were on parole. “And do you not remember his dwelling upon the awful circumstance, that in one short week from the time Captain Morton had acted as chief mourner at Cresford’s interment, he was himself committed to the grave? Do not worry yourself, therefore, my dearest sister. Depend upon it, it is a trick, with the view of extorting money; but I thought it would not be right to leave you in ignorance of the unpleasant doubt.
“I should have been myself the bearer of this strange despatch, but I am unavoidably detained in town to-day by business. I will be with you soon after you receive this.”
“It is all true,” she thought to herself, “and it is all known. It must now be published abroad; there is no escape!” and she looked wildly around her. This was no moment for deliberation or indecision.
She commanded post horses to be instantly sent for; she summoned her maid; she desired the nurses, the children, the bonne, to prepare instantly for a sudden journey, and she sat down to write the appalling news to Algernon, to dash all the hopes which he had fostered, to doom him also to a future as blank and cheerless as her own.
She began, “I have scarcely the power to write what I am now compelled to impart to you. In a few more hours I shall have left this beloved home; in a few more hours I shall be an outcast from this blessed place, where I have lived as your most happy, and your honoured wife. Thank you, Algernon, for the unutterable happiness I have for two years enjoyed: thank you for all your love, all your tenderness.
“I am going to my father. Poor man! he little knows the shame and misery which await the decline of his life; he who so valued the opinion of the world! Oh, Algernon, I am doomed to bring a curse on all who are connected with me! I shall bring his grey hairs with sorrow to the grave; I have cast a blight over the dignified and prosperous career which awaited you; I have been the bane of that unhappy man whose ungoverned, ill-fated love for me led him to practise the deceit which has worked us all so much woe. My name will be a lasting disgrace to my children,—all of them!
“Algernon! when I think of you, my heart is near breaking; when I think of your return to your desolate home, when I know how you will miss me,—for I judge too well from my own, what your feelings will be,—when I think how you will miss the children, too! Heavens, I have just ordered the nurse to prepare herself and Agnes for our sad journey!—But what right have I to do so? She is your child, Algernon, and shall I deprive you of that one consolation? Shall I deprive her of an honourable station to drag her with me into shame and degradation? No! my wretchedness can scarcely know increase, and you shall be greeted on your return by her smiles, her out-stretched arms, her lovely attempts to prattle. I leave you that precious legacy. She will remind you of her who loves you still with tenfold fervour, though it is now a crime to do so.
“There is a sort of pleasure in sacrificing something to you: you shall keep her and cherish her. I expect my brother every moment: he and the other members of the house have likewise received communications from Gratz. I cannot add another word—I cannot sign myself,—for, oh! what name do I now bear?”
She hastily sealed her letter, and, without giving herself time to retract, she flew up-stairs, and told the nurse that she and Agnes were to remain at Belhanger—that only George and Caroline were to accompany her. The nurse was astonished at the sudden change; but her mistress looked so ghastly and so wild, she did not venture any question or any remark. Ellen snatched her child to her heart—kissed it with such vehemence that the terrified creature screamed—then, almost thrusting it again into the nurse’s arms, she rushed out of the room, not daring to trust herself another moment in its sight.
She now hastened into her own apartments, and, without allowing herself time for tender emotions or reminiscences, she began to pack up her papers, her letters, a few favourite books of devotion, some of the many tokens of affection she had received from Algernon, and above all, his picture—that picture which she gazed upon every day, ten times every day, during his absence.
While thus employed, she saw her maid arranging her diamonds, and other jewels, for the journey.
“Do not put up those,” she said in a clear, calm voice; “they must be left here.”
“Dear ma’am, we always take them with us wherever we go; I always think they are safest when they are under my own eye.”
“They must remain, Stanmore,” answered Ellen almost sternly.
“Just as you please, ma’am, certainly,” replied the abigail, whose feelings on the subject of the diamonds were so acute that she could not look with indifference upon any thing that concerned them, although she saw something had certainly happened which greatly discomposed her mistress, and was really tenderly attached to her.
“Would you please to leave all the trinkets, ma’am?” she added with rather a mortified, injured accent.
“No, Stanmore; I must take these rings, these bracelets, all these things—they were all given to me by dear friends.”
“I am sure, ma’am, I should have thought you might have wished what Mr. Hamilton had given you to go along with us.”
“Say no more, Stanmore; I cannot bear it.—Only make haste,—all possible haste!—I must go to my father to-day.”
“Dear me! I beg your pardon, ma’am; but is Captain Wareham ill?”
“No—Yes—I am not sure—I believe he is pretty well.”
Ellen left the room, having secured the few articles she much valued; and having told Stanmore to carry the diamonds to the housekeeper, and bid her give them to Mr. Hamilton when he returned.
“How strange!” said Mrs. Stanmore to herself. “Master and mistress must have quarrelled desperately, somehow or another. And to think how loving they did seem to be till just at last! Well, they say such violent love is too hot to hold. I shall think of that when next Mr. Perkins says a civil word to me, and give him a civil word in return, for all he is not the man of my heart; for it’s my belief all the love should be on the man’s side. How well my poor mistress and Mr. Cresford went on, though he was so queer; and now she has got a husband she loves, this is the end of it all! Ah! it does not do to make too much of the men. If one has a man one does not care for, one has one’s wits about one, to know how to manage him.”
While Mrs. Stanmore was making these sage reflections (in which there is much deserving attention from the young and inexperienced), Ellen, who could not sit still, and who was afraid to trust herself with her child, wandered like an unquiet spirit about the house, longing to visit every well-known room, and to bid each a sad adieu; but she met servants in every direction carrying trunks and imperials in all the bustle of departure.
She took refuge in her boudoir, from which the few things she meant to carry with her were already removed. She looked round in silence and in calmness. There was not an object which did not remind her of some act of kindness of Algernon’s. A tap at the door startled her from the abstraction in which she stood.
Mrs. Topham, the stately housekeeper, made her appearance.
“If you please, ma’am, I come for orders during your absence. If you thought, ma’am, you should be away some little time, the furniture in the chintz-room wants washing sadly, and perhaps, ma’am, it would be a good opportunity to get it calendered.”
“Do just as you please, Mrs. Topham. I cannot attend to those things at this moment.”
“Certainly, ma’am, I would not trouble you for the world; but Miss Mason wished to know whether you would have them go on with master’s neckcloths, or whether you wished the table-linen to be put in hand immediately at the school.”
“Oh yes, Mrs. Topham.”
“What, the table-linen? or the neckcloths, did you mean, ma’am?”
“Either: it matters little! Mr. Hamilton will be at home in a few days, and he will tell you. I am very ill, Mrs. Topham. I cannot—I cannot answer you.” And tears for the first time that morning flowed from her eyes.
There is nothing so strange as the causes which open the flood-gates of woe. The vexation of being troubled with these trifles, and the feeling that she had no longer a right to regulate them, that it would no longer be her care to see to all these little household details, melted her to tears, when all the deep and overwhelming bearings of the case had not produced an inclination to weep.
Mrs. Topham departed, surprised, grieved, and a little offended.
“She never knew her mistress in such a way before. She had always behaved so considerate to her, and spoken in such a kind and feeling way, she was sure there was something wrong, and that her mistress had something upon her mind.”
Ellen now thought she would once more see his study. She should there be safe from intrusion, and she would look at every thing, and fix it so firmly in her memory, that it should serve as a sort of picture to which her mind’s eye might at any time recur. She marked every chair and table, the very pattern of the cornice, the mouldings on the book-cases, the carving of the chimney-piece. She touched all the papers, the parliamentary reports which crowded the table, and which might have been touched by him.
At this moment a chaise drove up to the door, and her brother Henry leaped out of it. In another moment Ellen was in his arms, and clinging to him in the full abandonment of long pent-up sorrow, which at length is allowed free vent. There was a degree of relief in the presence of one to whom she might unburthen her whole soul, from whom she need have no secrets, and with whom she need be under no restraint.
This weakness, however, was not of long duration. She quickly shook it off, and rousing herself, she uttered in a firm, though hurrying, manner:—
“We must be gone directly, Henry. You will take me to my father’s; you will go with me, dear brother, will you not?”
“Where is Hamilton?” he answered.
“He has not been here since I received the first packet you enclosed me. We parted then!” She pressed her hand for a moment tightly upon her eye-balls.
“Do you then consider the case so hopeless, my poor dear sister?”
“Alas! I have from the very first, although he would scarcely believe me.”
“Oh, dreadful! dreadful! What is to be done?”
“I must go to my father, and I must leave the rest to Providence. I have not wittingly done wrong, so I hope God will assist me to bear that with which it is pleasure to visit me!”
“My poor, poor Ellen!”
“Do not pity me, Henry! I have prayed for strength, and hitherto I have been mercifully supported. Do not pity me, or I shall not be able to go through what must be done this day.”
“Ellen! By Heavens you are the most high-minded, courageous, and noble, as well as the gentlest and loveliest creature I ever saw! Whatever the result may be, you are certainly doing what is right. I am ready to accompany you.”
“Every thing is prepared, Henry. I have only one task left, that of bidding adieu to my baby—my little Agnes!”
“Do you leave her behind you?”
“I cannot rob Algernon of that which will remind him of me, and yet give him pleasure, instead of pain. Neither will I heap more shame and disgrace on my child’s head than is unavoidable.”
Ellen left him, and with a slow and heavy step she for the last time mounted the oak staircase. She went to the nursery, and solemnly taking the child away, she carried it into the room which was her own. Bolting all the doors, she knelt as she held the infant in her arms, and offered up for it prayers as fervent and as pure as ever ascended to the throne of grace. Then kissing its eyes, its forehead, its lips,
“May the God of mercy bless thee, my babe! may He bless thee with virtue, principle, rectitude! whatever may be thy fate in this world, may He bring thee to that place where the wicked cease from troubling, where the weary are at rest!”
She rose from her knees, and carried the child back to the nurse. In a calm and steady voice, she bade her, as she valued her peace of mind here and hereafter, to do her duty by the infant; and begging God to bless them both, she steadily went down the stairs, and without looking to the right or to the left, passed through the hall. When she reached the door, she paused, and turning round, she saw the servants who, half wonder, half sympathy, had collected at the different doors, and were pressing forward. She tried to speak—her voice failed her; she made another effort, and at length uttered,—
“You have all done your duties by me, and may God reward you for it!”
A burst of tears and sobs, they scarcely themselves knew wherefore, was all the answer they could make.
Henry supported her into the carriage. Her elder children and their attendants entered the other, and she was rapidly conveyed from a spot where she had endured the two extremes, of mortal bliss and mortal woe.
CHAPTER X.
How did poor Hamilton meanwhile pass the time of his weary exile? It would have been wretchedness to him to have been recognised, to have been obliged to answer the usual inquiries after his wife and children, with which a married man is invariably greeted; to endure all the common courtesies of life. Yet his acquaintance was so general, his name so well known, from having on many occasions borne a prominent part in politics, and from having lived much in the world, that he could scarcely find a spot where he would not be exposed to them.
He therefore, under an assumed name, retired to the most desolate fishing village he could find in the neighbourhood of M——, and passed his days wandering upon the shore, and mixing with none but the fishers, who plied their dangerous trade upon the wild Welsh coast.
Every morning he walked into the town, and claimed his letters at the post-office, then hurried to the shore, there to feast upon the lines traced by his beloved Ellen’s hand. The enthusiastic turn of mind, which we at first described him as possessing, enabled him, better perhaps than another man, to endure the life of abnegation of self, which he here led. His passion was of so pure, so refined a character, that in sober truth, he had rather sit alone on a sea-girt rock, and think of her whom he worshipped with so holy a love, than be in the society of any other living being, however lovely, however fascinating.
Weeks however elapsed, and even his highly wrought nature was beginning to tire of this protracted uncertainty. He formed a thousand desperate plans; he nearly convinced himself that they were both sacrificing their happiness to a frivolous punctilio; that Mr. Cresford never would return—that if he did, still in the eye of Heaven she was his, not Cresford’s wife, and that there would be no guilt in their flying to the uttermost parts of the earth, and there existing for each other alone.
But although he might think such thoughts, he never ventured to commit them to paper when writing to her. He never again proposed their living together, if their union was not sanctioned by the laws. There was a spotless lofty purity about her that he dared not outrage by word, or look. He knew also, that even supposing he should succeed in persuading her to fly with him, still, that with her disposition, her religious principles, she could never find happiness in his devotion, if remorse was an inmate of her bosom. He had courage to endure all ills, rather than to meet her reproachful eye;—to feel he had caused that innocent heart to know the pangs of a wounded conscience;—to feel that her religion, which was now her only source of consolation, had, through his means, been converted into a source of terror. The romantic adventures and feelings of his own early life did not lead to his experiencing the same orthodox scruples himself, but the enthusiastic devotedness of his disposition made him respect them, even while he thought them over-strained.
His despair, therefore, when he received Ellen’s last communication, knew no bounds. It destroyed his only hope. He paced the shore. It was a stormy morning, as if in accordance with his feelings: the sea-gull, with its wide-spread wings, gleaming white against the lead-coloured clouds, screamed as it passed over his head. The surf was wildly beating against the beach. The fisher vessels which had been out all night were striving to regain the land, before the threatening storm burst upon them. He looked upon the little boats as they neared the shore with an emotion of envy.—“Perhaps,” he thought, “perhaps the next few waves may swallow up the brave fellows, who are there exerting themselves to preserve life. They know not for what a miserable possession they are struggling. They know not what may await them if they escape the present danger! Blighted affections, ruined hopes, the torture of losing those they love, or of seeing them exist in wretchedness, may bring them to regret they had not now sunk, secure from experiencing any more of the sufferings human nature is heir to. Would I were in one of those boats! It would be no sin of mine if the waves were to close over it.”
The wives and mothers of the fishermen, who were inured to the venturous life of their relatives, proceeded with their ordinary toil. They had so often seen them weather a storm in safety, that they felt little alarm at what would have struck others as awful. One young woman, however, stole forth alone; her loose cloak shivered in the wind; the wild gust brought with it the spray and dashed it in her face, but still her eyes were strained to catch a glimpse of one frail bark. She knew not that her bonnet was blown back, that her dishevelled hair streamed upon the blast. She gradually drew nearer to the spot where Algernon stood in his desperate musing.
She was a stranger: a girl from the midland counties, who had married one of the hardy young fishermen of this secluded village, and she was not yet accustomed to let the blast howl unheeded round her dwelling, while he she loved was on the wide salt sea.
She approached Algernon. In her loneliness she felt safer when near a fellow-creature.
“Do you think there is any danger, sir?” she said in a hesitating voice.
“The storm seems to be gathering,” he answered; “but most likely you have more experience than I have.”
“I have not been here long,” she said, “and those great waves, with foamy tops, always terrify me sadly.”
“Are you anxious for any one at sea, my good girl?”
“My husband, sir, is in one of those boats.”
“And does he love you? Do you love him, and are you lawfully married?”
“Oh, sir! to be sure we are!” and she drew back abashed, and half angry.
“Then—then you are not to be pitied. In life or in death you are his. You are bound together by the ties of love and of duty, of religion and of law! He will return to you, my girl. See, the boats are getting nearer every moment: they will beat the storm—you will be reunited. You need not weep.”
He darted away among the rocks, and sought the little room in the single ale-house, which had been his home for the last month.
His first impulse was to return to Belhanger—to revisit the spot which breathed of her, and having once more beheld the precious child which she had left there as a pledge of her affection for him, to send her with the nurse to rejoin her mother at Captain Wareham’s. His resolution was no sooner taken than it was executed.
Ellen and her brother had ere this arrived at the end of their journey. They reached Captain Wareham’s just as he, Matilda, and the Allenhams, who were at this moment paying him their annual visit, were seated at their dessert. They were surprised at hearing an unusual bustle in the house, and still more so when Ellen, leaning on her brother, entered the apartment. They all pressed round to greet her. Matilda, with youthful delight at this agreeable surprise, Caroline and her husband with kindness, Captain Wareham with some kindness but more annoyance, which annoyance was, however, in some degree tempered by the respect he had felt for Ellen, ever since she had made so good a marriage as he considered that to Mr. Hamilton.
“Well, my dear Ellen, this is really very good of you to take us so by surprise, but you certainly do take us by surprise. I do not know how in the world we are to lodge you, and the dinner is just gone. And you too, Henry?” (annoyance was rapidly preponderating) “I do not know what we can do with you. And I suppose Hamilton is of the party; you might have given one a line. I should have thought, Ellen, you must have remembered how inconvenient this kind of thing is in a small establishment.”
By this time Ellen had sunk in a chair, and Caroline began to be alarmed at her paleness, and at the altered expression of her countenance. The children had just landed from their vehicle, and their voices were heard in the passage.
“Mercy on us! and the children, too!” exclaimed poor Captain Wareham, in a tone of despair, annoyance having thoroughly mastered the vague respect inspired by the superior style of all which surrounded the Hamiltons. “Well, this certainly is rather inconsiderate, Ellen; but when people make great matches they grow fine, and you seem quite to forget your poor old father’s means are not quite so ample as Mr. Hamilton’s.”
He turned round, but started at the ghastly appearance of Ellen. Henry had suffered agonies for his sister, and had tried to lead his father aside, that he might briefly explain to him the case, without proclaiming it to the whole household. Ellen answered with the composure of despair.
“You must let me stay in this house, father—I do not care where—only I must have the shelter of your paternal roof.”
“I can go to the inn perfectly well, dear father,” added Henry.
“And Ellen can have her old room,” interposed Matilda; “little Caroline can sleep with me, and George can sleep on the sofa in Mr. Allenham’s dressing-room; and now it is all arranged, so don’t you be cross, papa. Ellen looks quite ill, and I dare say she is faint for want of something to eat, so leave it all to me, and don’t make a fuss, that’s all, papa,” and she gave her father a playful tap on the cheek. She was a high-spirited, warm-hearted, ingenuous girl, in many respects the precise opposite of her sisters. If her father was cross, her spirit rose; and she consequently possessed that sort of control over him which the most decided, positive, and wilful, generally obtains over the less resolute temper, whatever may be their relative positions. She was also an excellent manager, always had cold meat in the house, and was never at a loss for an expedient on any emergency.
Caroline was exceedingly uneasy at the appearance of Ellen, and remembered her fainting fits when she had been last at Belhanger. Her look of settled grief, coupled with the absence of Mr. Hamilton, made her fear that, notwithstanding the affection which had formerly subsisted between them, their quarrel must have been a serious one, and that her unannounced arrival must mean that they were separated. She found, also, that only the two Cresford children accompanied her; and this served to confirm her fears.
Even Captain Wareham began to be alarmed at the subdued yet resolute manner of Ellen; and looked from one to the other, perplexed, amazed, and annoyed.
“I suppose you want something to eat, Ellen?”
“No, father! I could not touch any thing.”
“And the children must have supper.”
“Matilda, you will give them some tea, poor little things?” she answered, turning towards Matilda.
“I could not eat a mouthful either,” said Henry, “so do not get any thing for me, father. I wish you would just step this way, I want to consult you which inn I had best go to.”
“My dear boy, it is very chilly to-night, and you may just as well consult me here by the fire.”
“Ellen,” added Henry, “would you not be better up-stairs on the sofa? Ellen is not well, father, and we must take great care of her!”
“You do not seem well indeed, Ellen. Why, you look ten years older, girl, than when I saw you last!”
Ellen had risen from her seat, and was mechanically obeying Henry in walking up-stairs, when he said,
“Do give Ellen your arm, Allenham, she is faint and weak. I have some things to arrange, and will follow you presently.”
Captain Wareham, whose parental tenderness had been awakened by the expression of suffering in Ellen’s face, was following also, when Henry laid his hand upon his arm, and forcibly detained him. He closed the door after them. Captain Wareham turned round.
“What does all this mean, Henry? Really it is very disagreeable, and you quite frighten me; I wish you would not be so odd and mysterious.”
“Listen to me, father. I scarcely know how to break to you the news I have to impart.”
“Speak, for Heaven’s sake. I always hate being kept in suspense.”
“Cresford is alive! alive, and coming home, as he thinks, to the arms of his beloved wife!”
“Impossible, Henry! you are jesting;” and Captain Wareham attempted to smile; but he dropped powerless into his chair, and clasped his hands, adding, “If this is a jest, it is a cruel one!”
Henry then, in a few words, gave him an outline of the case, and told him that Ellen and he had agreed, that until Cresford arrived, and that the truth was past all hope of concealment, it was best to treat it as an amicable separation on the score of temper. Henry had advised Ellen not even to confide the truth to Mrs. Allenham; for amiable and kind-hearted as she was, still she was not free from an inclination to gossip, and she would never be able to prevent such a secret from escaping her lips, to some of her old and dear friends in her native place.
Captain Wareham, whose good heart and high feeling of honour rendered him, in fact, an estimable man, approved of all that his unfortunate daughter had done; and was cut to the soul when he looked forward to the miserable fate which probably awaited her.
“And when Cresford does return, Henry, how will he conduct himself? I dread his violence!”
“I dare say he will make her a liberal allowance,” answered Henry; “for he was always noble about money; but at the same time I cannot help fearing he will take the children from her. In common justice, he cannot visit upon her, farther than that, the consequences of his own rash imposture.”
“I hope not; but you were too young when he went to France, to know the full violence of his character—the vehemence of his ungoverned passions. But we must go to my poor, poor unhappy child.”
Her sisters had been all kindness to Ellen, though Matilda, in her thoughtless fondness, had asked a thousand painful questions concerning Mr. Hamilton, her pet Agnes, &c.; but Caroline, who was quite persuaded she understood the whole case perfectly, discreetly avoided every thing that led to such subjects, till Matilda went to see to her hospitable arrangements for their accommodation, and they were left alone.
“Dearest Ellen!” Caroline then said, “I was afraid it would come to this, when I left you a month ago. Who would ever have thought that Mr. Hamilton could have turned out so ill, for I am sure you could never have been the one to blame; nobody ever saw you out of temper in your life.”
Ellen looked up.
“Breathe not a word against him, Caroline: he is the most perfect, the most faultless of human beings! I always thought my happiness was too great to last, and it has proved so. May Heaven, in its mercy, protect and bless him!”
“Ah, you always were a gentle, forgiving creature!” answered Mrs. Allenham.