One other mode of vengeance Cresford was determined to pursue, namely, to call out Mr. Hamilton. He returned to the hotel, and there he sat down to write a challenge couched in language such as he thought must goad any man to give him the satisfaction for which he pined.
Having from the red-book ascertained the direction to Mr. Hamilton’s place, he sent it by the post, for there was no one to whom he could apply on this emergency. He had not yet communicated with any of the partners of his house; he had seen no one except Henry Wareham; he felt that all living beings were his foes, and he therefore could not bring himself to have recourse to any of those who formerly called themselves his friends. He fancied he should only thereby expose himself to meeting with fresh unkindness and want of sympathy.
When he had despatched his letter to Hamilton, he sent for his children into the room where he was sitting. They came pale and frightened. He tried to talk to them. He strove to adapt his conversation to their age. He asked them how they liked London, whether they had walked in the streets, and told them they should go to Kensington Gardens; but his eye was wild, his manner fierce and hurried, and they scarcely ventured to answer him. He soon sent them back to their attendant, his feelings rather embittered than softened by the interview.
When he was able to fix his mind to the consideration of any subject, he became aware that he ought to arrange something more proper and more advantageous for them than their present mode of life, and he resolved, provided he did not fall by the hand of Hamilton, to take a small house in the immediate vicinity of London, where they might reside with their bonne, who had been with them for some time, and where they might also have the advantage of masters.
He impatiently awaited Hamilton’s answer. It came; and in the first rage of disappointment he tore it into a thousand fragments. Hamilton distinctly and positively refused to meet Mr. Cresford, and told him that no taunts, no insults, should ever induce him to do so.
Cresford threw himself into a chaise, and in half an hour was on the Portsmouth road. When he arrived within sight of Belhanger, he gave a second letter to a messenger, and desired it to be instantly delivered to Mr. Hamilton. In this he branded him with the name of coward, and he flattered himself it was such as must secure to him the revenge he coveted.
Dismissing his chaise, he approached the scene of Ellen’s former happiness, and prowled around the precincts with redoubled feelings of jealousy. The loveliness of the place excited his envy—the venerable-looking manor house, the old oaks, the deer! Yet from these things he gleaned a momentary consolation. Perhaps it was the splendour of the connection that tempted her! But, oh no! the expression of her countenance, when she said her whole heart, soul, and affections were Algernon’s! Those words sounded again in his ears, and he longed to find himself in mortal struggle with the man of whom she could so speak.
He hurried back to the inn, hoping his last letter must have provoked an answer consonant to his wishes. He found an envelope containing his own despatch unopened.
There was no further redress to be sought; and he had but to retrace his steps to London, if possible more infuriated than before.
Algernon had not trusted himself to read this second letter. He had resolved that no earthly power should tempt him to lift his hand against her husband: he was determined to commit no act that would place a barrier between himself and Ellen, which neither time nor change of circumstances could remove. Cresford was mortal, as well as himself or Ellen; and if, although he might wait till extreme old age, there was a possibility of their ever being reunited, no act of his should have rendered their reunion impracticable.
Cresford returned to London, and he quickly put into execution the plan for the establishment of his children. It was necessary to enter into something like an arrangement with his partners. As yet he had taken no measures towards resuming his place among them; he had made himself known to none of his old acquaintances; he had communicated with no one, except those we have already mentioned.
But money now became necessary to him. He revisited the house, and begged he might be immediately put in possession of his share of the receipts. His place of residence became known, and many left their names for him at the hotel; but even with the few whom he occasionally saw, he preserved a moody silence—to none did he speak of his misfortunes or of his intentions.
The only person whose house he frequented, was an old bachelor who had been a friend of the family, who was his godfather, and who had taken advantage of that sort of connection to lecture him, and to find fault with him, when he was a boy. He had always disliked him, and why he should now be the only person whose society he selected, was one of the strange and unaccountable freaks of a mind ill at ease with itself, to which the spectacle of content and cheerfulness is irksome, while it finds a kind of relief in the contemplation of another equally joyless.
Sir Stephenson Smith had in his youth esteemed himself a man of gallantry. He had never been handsome, but he had thought himself insinuating; and he had been made a fool of by many a fair one of his day. He had always professed to be on his guard against the machinations of the sex; and, as he fancied, had preserved his liberty up to the present day;—that is to say, he had been by turns the tyrant and the slave, of any woman who had art and vice enough to think it worth her while to dupe him. His conversation chiefly turned upon the coldness and the heartlessness of women. To most others it would have been a shocking sight; but Cresford found a strange satisfaction in watching the blind and helpless old man, as he sat in his arm-chair, surrounded by all the luxuries, which to him were of no avail, and receiving, with querulous impatience, the attentions of a bustling nurse, who, through evil report and good report, whether he was cross or not, conscientiously did her duty by him, and quietly performed the offices for which she was hired.
Cresford was one day paying Sir Stephenson his diurnal visit. He had sat for some time in silence; his two hands rested upon his two knees, his eyes looked vacantly, but fixedly, into the fire, when his meditations were broken in upon by the peevish lamentations of the old man.
“There! that tiresome woman has not given me my snuff-box!” and his feeble, palsied hands, strayed over the table in search of the snuff-box which was in his pocket. “She has no feeling for me! she does not care whether I am comfortable or uncomfortable, as long as she gets her money and her perquisites—that is the way of women! Talk of their kindliness! They care for nothing but themselves. They can pretend to care for one, when one is young and handsome—and when one has plenty of money in one’s pocket too; but I never knew one of them who had a grain of feeling! I have been a pretty fellow in my youth, and have had as many women make love to me as my neighbours, but hang me, if any one of them ever loved me for myself. There is this Sarah Purbeck, she cares no more for me——”
“What an infatuation it is,” exclaimed Cresford, “which can make us worship such fickle, heartless creatures! as variable as the weathercock, which changes with every wind that blows! But that time is past—I have awoke from my day-dream—I know what their love is worth now!”
“Ay! and so do I, my boy. I never thought it worth much; and now I know it is worth—nothing at all! However, if I have not given them much of a heart-ache,” he added, laughing a feeble, old, cracked laugh, “they have not given me much of a heart-ache either!”
“Do you think they are capable of loving truly and sincerely? Do you think they can love, though you and I may have lived unloved?”
“Yes; they can love themselves, and their clothes, and their opera-boxes, and, sometimes, some man they ought not to love.”
Cresford bit his lips, and knit his brows, and his fist lay clenched upon the table. A long silence ensued. At length the old man fidgeted about, rang the bell, and asked for his chocolate. He struck his watch: it was five minutes past the hour. He scolded Mrs. Purbeck for her inattention, and when she left the room, he said in a dejected tone—
“It is a sad thing to have nobody to care for one: that woman does not love me. Perhaps, after all, if I had married, I might, in a wife, have found an affectionate nurse.”
“Affection!” exclaimed Cresford—“affection in a wife! Have not I a wife?—and have I met with affection?” He several times paced up and down the apartment, and then hastily took his leave.
These visits did not tend to put him in good humour with human nature, or with womankind: they still more soured and embittered his temper; and when he had put his affairs in train, had resumed his situation as partner, and measures had been taken for Henry Wareham’s withdrawal from a concern in which he found himself frequently and painfully brought in contact with Cresford, he left London, his mind fully made up to pursue his unfortunate wife according to the rigour of the law.
He had ascertained from Mr. M‘Leod that the trial would take place at the assizes of the county in which the second marriage had been celebrated, the very one in which she at present resided. He took up his abode in a neighbouring village. His first care was to obtain the certificate of his own marriage at the cathedral church of ——. He proceeded to procure that of the second marriage at Longbury, for which purpose he sent to the minister of that place, a regular application for the extract from the parish register.
Mr. Allenham had no option—he was obliged to comply; but he was inexpressibly alarmed at the application, and lost no time in informing Captain Wareham of the circumstance, while Caroline wearied herself in conjectures, and hopes, and fears as to what Cresford might meditate.
This communication did not render Captain Wareham more easy and comfortable in his mind; and although the kindness of his heart prompted him to conceal his fears from Ellen, the additional weight of care rendered him more than usually difficult to be pleased. The Allenhams had returned to their own home soon after Ellen’s arrival, and her two poor elder children having been removed, the last few weeks had been passed in melancholy quiet. Still Matilda found her task more than usually difficult, and she was so subdued herself by the misfortunes of her sister, that she had no longer the buoyancy of spirit which enabled her, half gaily, half resolutely, to bear up against the daily worries of her father’s temper. To Ellen he never, on any occasion, spoke with captiousness; but he often appeared annoyed with the little Agnes, who was old enough to toddle about the room, to pull away grandpapa’s toast, to stumble over his foot as it was extended towards the fire, to frighten him lest she might fall against the fender, and to do the hundred things which are charming and attractive to those whose hearts are light, and who can give themselves up to watching the graceful awkwardnesses, the winning espiégleries of infancy, but which are inexpressibly wearisome when the mind is oppressed with deep and serious care.
Ellen saw that her child, her only remaining child, was often troublesome to her father, and she kept it out of the room as much as possible. He was then vexed that the child should not be with them, and his good-nature made him fear he might have hurt Ellen’s feelings.
Cresford having obtained the two certificates, now waited upon Mr. Turnbull, a country gentleman and a magistrate, and producing the two documents, informed him that he wished to indict his wife, Ellen Cresford, for bigamy, and required him to issue a warrant for her apprehension.
Mr. Turnbull, although not personally acquainted with the parties, knew the respectability of their situations, and had heard under what circumstances the second marriage had been contracted. He attempted to dissuade Mr. Cresford from carrying matters to such an extremity; to which Cresford sternly replied, as he had previously done to Mr. M‘Leod’s remonstrances, that he did not apply to him for advice, that he simply waited upon him to demand the performance of his duty as a magistrate—that the case was clearly made out before him, and he was not to counsel, but to act.
Mr. Turnbull, although he did so most unwillingly, had no choice but to grant the desired warrant. It was with a feeling of triumph that Cresford seized the paper, and, bowing to Mr. Turnbull, abruptly quitted him, before he had time to adduce any arguments in favour of delay.
Cresford proceeded to the county town, and delivering the warrant to the constable, desired him to perform his duty.
It so happened, that the constable to whom he addressed himself, was the very Will Pollard who had once lived as gardener with Captain Wareham, and who had known Ellen from her childhood. He had inherited a little money, and had set up for himself, as nurseryman and seedsman. He stood aghast when the paper was placed in his hand, and declared in round terms, that nothing should induce him to be the bearer of such a thing, “to Miss Ellen that was.”
“Take back your paper, sir! If you are for taking the law of her, sir, you must find somebody else—I’ll have nothing to say to it,” and he shoved the paper back to Cresford in no very civil manner.
“You cannot help yourself,” Cresford replied with an exulting calmness. “You must execute a magistrate’s warrant—you cannot help yourself.”
“I a’n’t bound to do such a thing as this?” asked Pollard the gardener, of Simpson the shoemaker, who happened to be present.
“I don’t know what right you have to refuse,” answered Simpson, who was a man of wisdom, and read all the newspapers.
Pollard hesitated. He had not long been established in a concern of his own, he was new in office, and he looked up to Simpson for advice and guidance: after having scratched his head, brushed his hat with his sleeve, and pruned a thriving young shrub considerably more than it required, he said,
“Maybe if ’tis to be done, I may be able to speak kinder to her than another, and she always was partial to me from a child.” So he took the paper and held it doubtingly and distrustfully in his hand. “No,” he said, again scratching his head, “I don’t half like the job; you had better get Mr. Clarke the carpenter, on the left-hand side, to do it for you, sir. He is a constable as well as me.”
“Mr. Pollard, the law must have its course. You know that, as well as I do. You had better take the warrant I have now given you, and bring the person therein mentioned before the magistrate, as the law directs.”
“Well,” said Pollard, “what must be, must be, and it don’t signify argufying. And when is it to be served?”
“To-day, sir! Now!” answered Cresford in a stentorian voice. “I expect to meet you at Mr. Turnbull’s with—with the person specified in that warrant, in your custody. In three hours I shall be there.”
Cresford departed, leaving poor Pollard perplexed and confounded. It went against him sadly to do what was required of him. He turned in his head how he might open the business to Miss Ellen “just easy like, without putting her in a fluster;” and in the first place he resolved to change his dress. “He wasn’t no ways tidy to appear before Captain Wareham and his family. He would look clean and decent at least. He would do nothing as was not respectful by the family.” So Pollard retired to repair his toilette, feeling that he thereby softened the blow which was hanging over poor Ellen.
His wife was surprised to see him all in his Sunday’s best.
“Why, what merry-making are you ever going to, Will?” said she: “is it your club day?”
“No, ’tan’t my club day, woman; you know well enough that a’n’t till next week?”
“Why, in the name of fortune, where are you going to, then? You are not going to Tharford fair, sure!”
“No! I a’n’t going to no fair, nor no merry-making,” and he stood brushing his hat round and round with the sleeve of his coat; “I am going where I have no mind to go.”
“Why, Will, you quite fright me! You can’t have done any thing wrong?”
“No! But I’ve got a warrant to sarve.”
“Why, Lord bless us, this is not the first warrant you have had to sarve! But I never knew you dress yourself out so fine to sarve a warrant before,” and Peggy smiled.
“You would not laugh, if you knew who that warrant was made out for—It’s for my Miss Ellen as you have heard me talk of, many and many’s the time. She’s the one, as I’ve often told you, was as quick up the ladder as I was myself—and such a one as she was to sow seeds! and she could make cuttings almost as well as I could myself! Miss Caroline, she was always for walking in the streets, and looking out for the beaux, but Miss Ellen, she would hoe and rake for me all her play-time, if they would let her.”
“A warrant for her, Will? You are dreaming.”
“No, I a’n’t; But hold you tongue, and mind your business. There’s no good in prating—we must all do what is appointed us.”
Will marched out at the door with a tear called up by his own eloquence gathering in his eye.
He proceeded to Captain Wareham’s. He knocked at the door.
“If you please, James,” said he, “if you please, I want to have a word with Mrs. Hamilton—that is—Mrs. Cres—Miss Ellen that was—my Miss Ellen.”
“Step in, Master Pollard, I’ll tell her directly.”
Pollard stood twirling his hat, and debating within himself how he was to open his business, when James came back, and bade him walk up.
“Mrs. Cresford is alone—she bids us all say Mrs. Cresford now,” he whispered; “she says there’s no use in standing out about a name,—and yet she takes her letters every morning as if she did not half like to touch them.”
Pollard entered the room where Ellen sat, meek and dejected, with little Agnes in her lap playing at the table—she looked up with a faint smile.
“I have not seen you a long time, Pollard; I hear you are become a married man since you left my father.”
“Yes, ma’am, so I am, an’t please you.”
“I hope you are quite comfortable; I should have been to call on you, but I have not been out lately.”
“Thank you, ma’am, all the same for thinking of me. ’Twould be a pride and a pleasure to me, to show you how nice and comfortable I’ve got every thing about me—but——”
“Speak out, Pollard; you are a very old friend: you were a great play-mate of mine in my childhood. If you have any little favour to ask of me, I shall be glad to do my best, though I am not quite so rich now as I once was.” Her eyes dropped, and a paler hue stole over her cheek.
“No, ’tisn’t that, bless your kind heart, ’tisn’t that. I had rather by half ask a favour of you, for I know ’twould be a pleasure to you to grant it. But I’ve got a bit of paper here, ma’am. You see, ma’am, I’m a constable, and they have put this upon me. They say as I must give you this here bit of paper, and I scarce know what will come of it.”
Ellen received the paper from Pollard’s trembling hand, while with the back of the other he brushed off a tear. She still thought some misfortune had befallen his family,—that most likely it was a petition,—and it took her some moments to collect her thoughts so as to comprehend the full purport of the warrant.
The idea that she could be prosecuted for bigamy had never before crossed her imagination. The misfortune of no longer being the wife of Algernon, and the disgrace and shame of having lived with him for two years, had completely occupied her whole soul. She had not been able to imagine any misery beyond this. No one had ever hinted at such a possibility, nor indeed had any one believed that Cresford, however keenly he might himself suffer from the consequences of his own imprudence, would have wreaked his useless vengeance upon his unfortunate wife.
Ellen was thunder-struck! The poor constable begged her pardon, entreated her to believe it was no fault of his; that he was bound to obey the law. “We can’t help ourselves, ma’am; we must do what the law directs,—them as have to execute the laws, and them as have to obey them,—’tis all one for us both.”
Poor Ellen begged him to find her father, and to bid him come to her. She was scared, frightened. She could not be more completely separated from Algernon,—her children were already torn from her. She was, therefore, simply, vaguely frightened.
Captain Wareham came. She gave him the paper. He guessed the purport but too well, and turned deadly pale: “When is this summons to be attended, Pollard?”
“Why, sir, Mr. Cresford said we must meet him at Squire Turnbull’s in three hours from the time he was at my house, and that was at two o’clock, just as I had done dinner.”
“Meet him! Am I to meet Mr. Cresford? Oh, father! any thing but that!”
“Dearest child, there is no avoiding it. You must exert all your strength of mind: you must not give way. Mr. Turnbull is a good sort of man, and there will be no one else present. Cresford is a brute, an unmanly brute! If you could feel half as angry with him as I do, your anger would give you strength to go through the interview.”
“I am too miserable to feel angry, father. Besides, I am sorry for him:—I have made him very unhappy. I know what pain it is to be separated from what one loves, even when one knows one is loved in return. What am I to do, father?” she meekly added.
“The sooner we get this unpleasant business over, the better, my dearest child. Go and put on your things; I will order a chaise immediately.” He hurried Ellen out of the room; he longed to be for a moment freed from her presence; he knew that this summons was the prelude to a prosecution; he knew that the punishment of bigamy might be transportation. Though he had no idea matters would ever be brought to such an extremity, he felt awed and nervous in the extreme, and he paced the apartment in the greatest agitation. Pollard stood still, perplexed and grieved. “Get along, Pollard,” exclaimed Captain Wareham, angrily; “can’t you wait down-stairs? Why do you stand here watching me?” He rang the bell violently, and ordered the hack chaise to be instantly procured.
Captain Wareham kept no carriage. Ellen had strictly conformed to her father’s mode of life: she would not consent to live in splendour upon the money Mr. Hamilton would fain have forced upon her.
The hack chaise came to the door. The lovely, the graceful Ellen, who, as the wife of Mr. Cresford, had been used to all the luxuries of life, and, as the wife of Algernon Hamilton, to all its refinements, ascended the jingling steps, and, rustling through the straw, seated herself at the farther corner of the narrow seat, while the constable of the parish, mounted on the bar before, conveyed her like a common culprit before the magistrate.
CHAPTER XV.
Cosmus, Duke of Florence, had a desperate saying against perfidious or neglecting friends, as if those wrongs were unpardonable. “You shall read,” saith he, “that we are commanded to forgive our enemies, but you never read that we are commanded to forgive our friends.” But yet the spirit of Job was in a better tune: “Shall we,” saith he, “take good at God’s hands, and not be content to take evil also?” and so of friends in proportion. This is certain, that a man that studieth revenge, keeps his own wounds green, which otherwise would heal and do well.—Lord Bacon.
The events of the morning had been so sudden and so bewildering, that Ellen scarcely comprehended what was happening. The knowledge that she was again to be brought into the presence of Cresford, was the one idea that possessed her mind. “What does he want me for? What am I to say to him, father? What is this to lead to?”
“I scarcely know, my child. You have nothing to do but to answer the truth. Your conduct has been irreproachable. You have nothing to blush for.”
“Oh, how I dread meeting those eyes again! Keep close to me, father.”
They arrived. Ellen, pale and trembling, was supported by her father into the hall. They were instantly shown into Mr. Turnbull’s study, where he waited to receive them. He offered Ellen a seat. There was a dignity in her timidity that awed, while it excited compassion; and Mr. Turnbull, though a plain matter-of-fact man, treated her with more polite deference than usually appeared in his manner towards women.
“I believe,” he said, “I must now summon Mr. Cresford, that he may go through the form of his deposition.”
Ellen bowed assent, and trembled through every limb. But she kept her eyes on the ground, and moved not. Cresford entered,—she did not stir.
As he approached the table, he gazed on her, though it was rather in triumph than in love; but her veil was down, her bonnet tied close, her form enveloped in a cloak. The oath was administered. Mr. Turnbull said:—
“I believe, madam, you must for a moment remove your veil, that the complainant may identify you.”
Ellen drew it aside, and turned on him her pale, sad face; but still she raised not her eyes. Cresford advanced a step towards the table, to take the Bible, and to swear that the prisoner was Ellen Cresford, his wife. She instinctively seized her father’s arm, and sheltered herself behind him.
Cresford showed his marriage certificate. The servant who had formerly lived with him, and the clerk of * * * *, were present to prove the celebration of the marriage. He then produced the extract from the Longbury register.
Mr. Turnbull asked Ellen what she had to say in reply. In a faint voice, she answered “Nothing!” She had but one absorbing feeling—that of bringing this painful interview to a close. But Captain Wareham interposed.
“I cannot allow this cruel and unjust statement to be made, without simply mentioning the circumstances under which my daughter’s second marriage was contracted. Mr. Cresford chose to publish an account of his own death—he chose to enact his own funeral—his friends and relations mourned him as dead. Two years and two months after the receipt of the paper containing this account of his decease, my daughter contracted a second marriage. Should any man in justice, in honour, prosecute such a case?”
“Certainly not,” was Mr. Turnbull’s concise reply. He looked at Cresford: “Do you wish me, sir, to proceed?—it is yet time to pause. You will no longer be at liberty to retract. If I make out the commitment, you are bound over to prosecute.”
“I know it, sir! It is my intention so to do.”
“Madam, my duty is a painful one, but I must proceed according to the provisions of the Act!” and Mr. Turnbull drew out the warrant of commitment; at the same time he informed the constable that he would himself attend that evening, with a brother magistrate, to admit her to bail; and that he authorised him to conduct her back to her own house, there to await his arrival, rather than at the county gaol.
“Father, father! I am not to be taken to prison! Impossible! He cannot mean to bring such disgrace upon the mother of his children?”
“My dear madam, I will attend you at your own house: as the presence of two magistrates is necessary, I will bring Sir John Staples with me. Captain Wareham can then give us bail for your appearance at the ensuing assizes.”
“The assizes! Oh! he cannot be in earnest! This is too, too cruel! Drag me before the eyes of the whole county! blazon our misery, and our shame to the world! bring upon us the mockery of the coarse and the unfeeling mob! Oh, Charles! what have I done to deserve this?” She burst into an agony of tears.
“What have you done? Have you not blasted my happiness, broken my heart, and maddened my brain?—and she asks what she has done!” he added, turning round to those present, with a wild and fearful laugh.
Mr. Turnbull hastened to bring the scene to a close, and lost no time in leading poor Ellen back to her hack chaise. He almost turned Cresford from the door, and instantly galloped off himself in search of Sir John Staples, to proceed with him to Captain Wareham’s house, and there to admit Ellen to bail, that, at least, she might thus be spared one painful and ignominious part of what she was doomed to endure.
Ellen threw herself, sobbing and weeping, into the corner of the carriage.
“So I am to be tried, father—tried for bigamy, I suppose! Oh! have mercy Heaven! tried like a common malefactor! placed at the bar, with all the lawyers to look at me; and the dirty mob to laugh, and bandy jests upon me! Oh! I never, never thought of this! And must it be? Is there no escape?”
“Alas! alas! my poor Ellen, I know of none. There is no chance of bringing Cresford to reason; every attempt to do so seems but to incense him. I really think his intellects are affected,—he is scarcely in his right senses.”
“I have done that!” she said, in a dejected tone. “It is not for me to be too hard upon him.” After a pause of some length, she added, “And, father—the punishment?”
“Oh, my child! do not think of that! no jury on earth can find you guilty.”
“But I am guilty, father!—it is true I have committed the crime! I am guilty of bigamy—though it is not my fault.”
“They will not condemn you.”
“But if they should? I should like to know the worst.”
“Why, under aggravated circumstances, the punishment may be transportation for seven years; but they will never pass such a sentence, so think no more of that.”
“I had rather it had been death,” she replied, in a quiet tone of despair. After another pause she asked, “If I were to be transported, would that annul my marriage? Should I be free?”
“No, my love, even that would not annul your marriage.”
“Perhaps it is best so. I am glad it would not: I would not mar his glorious and honourable career in his own country. It is enough to have the ruin of one fellow-creature on one’s conscience.” She spoke no more.
They arrived at home. In less than an hour Mr. Turnbull and Sir John Staples arrived, and with them Lord Besville, whom Mr. Turnbull also called upon, and who became bail, with Captain Wareham, for her appearance at the assizes.
The constable was dismissed. Poor Will Pollard! Never had the law of the land a more unwilling assistant in its execution. When he returned to his cottage late in the evening, he threw down his hat on the table.
“Well,” he muttered to himself, “this has been the worst day’s job that ever I had to do. I would not have such another, no—not to be justice of the peace, and a squire to boot. Why,” he exclaimed in a louder voice, and striking his fist on the table, “why, that fellow had no more business to come back alive, after having sent word he was dead, than I have to bring in my bills twice over! Shame upon him!”
It was some time before Peggy got at the rights of the case.
“So, ’tis her second husband as is her true love. Poor soul! Well, ’tis very hard. Why ’tis almost worse than if it was her husband’s ghost come to haunt her—not that I should any ways like to see the ghost of my first lover Tom Hartrop, as was drowned off Ushant.”
Peggy had been a beauty, and was rather fond of talking of her first, her second, her third, and her tenth lover. Will Pollard was in no mood to listen, and, with a manner unusually surly, bade her, “hold her jaw, and make haste with his supper.”
It was a sorrowful evening at Captain Wareham’s. Ellen retired early to rest, or rather to weep. Captain Wareham sat up late preambulating the small drawing-room, while the measured creaking of his shoes, and periodical stamp of his foot, were heard by Ellen in her apartment above, and by Matilda in hers, as they each passed the greater part of the night in painful watching.
Ellen sat down to write to Algernon for the first time since she had quitted his roof, and resumed the name of Cresford. To him she now looked for succour. The cruelty of Cresford seemed to have widened the breach between them, and to draw her irresistibly towards one whose conduct throughout had been dictated by the very spirit of honour, generosity, and tenderness.
She detailed to him all which had that day taken place. She told him she was to be tried, publicly tried; that she must, in vindication of her own fame, produce every proof that they had received the most authentic accounts of Cresford’s death. She begged him to take every means towards finding a copy of the newspaper containing the official return of the deaths at Verdun. She begged him to inquire for Colonel Eversham, and, if possible, to discover what had been the fate of young Maitland, to whom Cresford had entrusted the letter which was to apprize her of his plan.
“I write to you, Algernon,” she continued, “because I know you will leave nothing unattempted to serve me, and to rescue me from the only one additional misery which can now be heaped upon me—that of being supposed to have sinned knowingly. Perhaps I may always have been too much alive to the opinion of the world. Perhaps one ought to be satisfied with knowing one’s intentions to have been innocent, and it may be nobler to despise the idle gossip of those one neither loves nor esteems; but my error, if it is one, is the safest for woman; and you, who know that I would neither see you, nor correspond with you, till I fancied the two years of my widowhood expired, can alone guess what I feel at thus having my miserable history dragged before the public. I have been stunned, annihilated by the blow. The idea of such a consummation to my earthly woes never crossed my mind before. But now my one only hope is at least to prove I sincerely believed myself free when I gave myself to you,—that I did not wittingly involve you in the misery which attends all in any way connected with me.
“You must secure for me the best lawyer. In short, I trust every thing to you. This will be expensive; it has not been pride, but my deference for that world before whom I am doomed to be degraded, which has hitherto prevented my allowing you to contribute to my support. I know full well that all you have might be mine; I know from my own what your feelings are, and for this cause, for the cause of my honour, I am ready to let you incur whatever expense may be necessary. I write to you at once that not a moment may be lost. The assizes are to be held the 20th of next month. If possible, discover the fate of Maitland.—Adieu! I write no more—but you may communicate with my father. May Heaven preserve you to be a blessing to all who are allowed the happiness of belonging to you!
“Our child—oh, there is still one link which binds us together!—our child is well and lovely.
Ellen.”
Algernon, upon the receipt of this letter, was nearly frantic with rage and indignation. If Cresford longed to find himself hand to hand engaged with his rival, not less did Algernon burn to meet him in mortal strife; but still Cresford would have been safe with him in a desert, so closely did he cling to some distant hope of reunion with Ellen.
Though he was wild with indignation at Cresford’s unmanly and cruel revenge, there was a sense of relief to him in having a definite object to pursue. He had hitherto remained in utter seclusion and inactivity. He feared to injure or to distress her, by any measure he could take, and he had lived the life of an anchorite, wandering among his own woods, far from public business, useless alike to himself and to others. At length he was roused to exertion, and, horrified as he was at the image of his lovely, refined, delicate, shrinking Ellen being exposed to the gaze of a public court, there was a comfort in being actively employed in her behoof. He threw himself into his carriage to fly to London, and there to begin the necessary inquiries.
He first drove to the house of the most eminent lawyer of the day, to secure him as counsel. Cresford had been there before him. He had retained him; and although he was so engaged that he did not attend this circuit, he was effectually prevented from affording Algernon any assistance. He proceeded to another, whose name stood high as a man of overpowering eloquence, when he had justice on his side, although not perhaps equally skilled in making the worse appear the better cause. He found him free, and he was instantly retained.
He next repaired to the newspaper offices, and there having stated the date and the title of the paper of which he was in want, they gave him every hope of soon procuring it.
And now to find Colonel Eversham! He looked in the army-list. He found the name. He proceeded to the Horse Guards. He there learned that Colonel Eversham was with his regiment in Spain, having joined the army under the command of Sir John Moore. He instantly applied to the adjutant-general. He wrote to the military secretary of the commander-in-chief. He explained the case, and implored that leave of absence might be despatched to Colonel Eversham to quit his regiment, and if possible to return to England before the 20th of the ensuing month.
The most difficult point remained. Maitland! He had no clue whereby to discover who or what Maitland was. The army-lists and navy-lists, for the years 1801, 1802, 1803, were turned over and over again. No one appeared whom he could make out to have been a détenu.
At length he thought of applying to the Court Guide, and of personally calling at every house in London inhabited by any one of the name of Maitland. He might by chance discover whether any relative had been a détenu, and thus ascertain his fate.
CHAPTER XVI.
With the guide-book in his hand, Algernon proceeded in his search. It was the time of year when London was very empty, and at many houses he found the family were out of town. On such occasions he ascertained the address of the master of the house, resolving to write his inquiries should other means fail. At one large mercantile house in the city, he found a portly old man, who said a brother of his had a natural son, who had been abroad some years ago, and was now in India, he believed; but “he had been a wild chap, and he did not rightly know what had become of him.” This sounded as if he might be the person in question; but if so, the prospect was most unsatisfactory. Still Algernon was not disheartened. The next house at which he continued his inquiries was that of a widowed lady, in Upper Quebec Street. He knocked at the door. He asked for Mrs. Maitland. He was shown up-stairs into a small, two-windowed drawing-room, very tidy, very clean, and very formal. Not a chair was out of its place; the sofa was against the wall. At one side of the table, with her knitting, sat an oldish lady, very neatly dressed, and with a sweet but melancholy expression of countenance. On the other sat a younger person, evidently her daughter; but pale and faded, and decidedly past the bloom of youth. She was engaged in needlework.
They both rose on the entrance of the stranger, and the elder lady begged him to be seated, with a gentle formality, while she and her daughter resumed their seats, and mildly awaited what he had to say. Their calmness and their politeness made him experience a sensation more akin to awkwardness than was usual to a person so accustomed to the world, and so gifted with a prepossessing manner. Moreover, a sort of intuitive conviction came over him, that he spoke to a widow who had lost her son, whether or no, she might be the parent of him of whom he was in search.
It was with a certain degree of hesitation that he opened his story, and explained, that for reasons which were of the most vital importance to himself and others in whom he was deeply interested, he was anxious to know what had become of a young Mr. Maitland, who had been a détenu at Verdun, and had effected his escape thence in the beginning of the year 1804. He saw the daughter look anxiously at the mother, and drop her work. He saw the mother’s hands shake as she knitted two or three more stitches before she spoke.
His kind heart grieved for the pain he had evidently given, but yet he felt a throb of pleasure as he hoped he had succeeded in discovering the object of his search. Mrs. Maitland laid down her knitting, and taking off her spectacles, replied in a calm voice,—
“My only son was a détenu, sir, and he never returned to me. He was lost in an open boat, off the coast between Antwerp and Bruges.”
The mother slightly clasped her two hands, as they fell quietly on her knee, in the attitude of a person who is meek, and resigned, and accustomed to her sorrow.
He turned to the daughter.
“It gives me infinite pain, madam, to continue to ask questions upon a subject which must be so trying to your mother’s feelings, but if you knew how much the peace and respectability of the person on earth most dear to me is implicated in the replies to my questions, you would pardon me for persisting.”
He then briefly stated his and Ellen’s story to Mrs. and Miss Maitland. They listened with kindness and attention, and told him, in return, that young Maitland had been travelling in France for pleasure, and to see the world; that in a year he would have been of age, when he would have come into a large property which was strictly entailed upon him. That he would then have placed his mother and sister in a situation of comfort and affluence. But the war broke out. He became a détenu. She said that he had often mentioned Mr. Cresford’s name in his letters, and had alluded to the impatience with which he bore his imprisonment. That they had never heard from him, from the time of his making his escape, but that from all they could learn, he had reached Bruges in safety. That he had there waited for some time in hopes of being able to row to some English vessels which were cruising off the coast. That at length he and some companions had one night made a desperate attempt to do so. But the weather was too tempestuous for the small fishing-boat which they had succeeded in unmooring from the shore, especially as it was manned by young men who were not accustomed to the perils of the sea. That only two, out of the five, had survived, having been picked up by the English vessels when the daylight dawned.
The young man having thus perished before he came of age, the mother and sister had continued to live in poverty and seclusion. Care had long since impaired the bloom of his sister, who it seems was some years older than the youth, who had been the hope, the joy, the darling of them both.
The parties had become mutually interested for each other, and Hamilton easily obtained from them a promise of committing to paper their statement of young Maitland’s death, and allowing it to be produced upon the trial. If possible, he would spare them the unpleasantness of being subpœnaed to appear in person.
They parted in kindness, and Algernon returned home, anxiously expecting his answer from the Horse Guards. He was informed that Colonel Eversham’s leave would be granted; that he should be allowed to return to attend at the assizes, and, wind and weather permitting, there was every prospect he would arrive in time. He despatched a letter to Colonel Eversham to inform him of the purpose for which his presence was so necessary, and entreated him to use all diligence in reaching England.
In the course of time, the newspaper was found which contained the account of Cresford’s death, and Algernon felt some satisfaction in reflecting that every thing was now in a fair way to clear his Ellen from any suspicion, or shade of blame. He obeyed her injunctions by communicating only with Captain Wareham. His whole soul was bent as devotedly as hers could be, to the object of making her innocence shine forth untarnished.
The report of the trial which was to take place soon became public, and excited the greatest sensation and interest in the whole neighbourhood. Every one felt for Ellen, and all were anxious to prove their pity and their personal respect for her. Captain Wareham’s humble door was literally besieged with carriages and inquirers. Every one of any note in the vicinity left their names, as a sort of homage to her character.
Lord Besville, who had so kindly come forward at the first moment, offered his carriage to conduct her to the court, when the awful day arrived, and his offer was accepted with thankfulness.
These tokens of approbation, and the support of all around, were some consolation to poor Ellen. She hated notoriety; she had rather have retired into obscurity, and, hoping that her fate was unnoticed and undiscussed, have hid her head in peace and humility: but, if she must be brought before the world, these testimonies of the esteem of her friends and neighbours in some measure soothed her feelings. People are seldom so wretched, that the proofs of sympathy in their fellow-creatures are not agreeable to them. The list of the inquirers is read with interest and gratification, by the sick and by the mourner. No feeling more bitter than that your sufferings, whether mental or bodily, are uncared for.
Ellen had written her wishes to Algernon. She knew that every measure which human zeal and foresight could pursue to clear her fame would be adopted: upon that subject, therefore, she rested in security, and she passed her time schooling her mind to bear the worst and seeking strength and assistance from the one only unfailing source of consolation, under misfortunes such as hers.
She believed her father, when he told her it was next to impossible that, supposing the sentence of transportation should pass, it would be carried into execution; and yet she thought it would be wiser to accustom her mind in some degree to such a possibility, than to allow herself to be so completely taken by surprise as she had been, when first the idea of undergoing a trial had opened upon her. Visions of the hulks, of foreign lands, of being associated with horrible criminals,—a thousand half-defined, ill-understood horrors would visit her. In her dreams she fancied herself torn from her remaining child, a stranger, and an outcast, at Botany Bay; and though, when she woke, and shook off the images conjured up by sleep, she assured herself that such a result was most improbable, she could not be certain that such was impossible. She knew not what farther evidence Cresford might adduce of his having duly warned her of his intentions: her proofs were all negative; and sometimes the anticipations of what might be her future fate were so appalling, that her ardent desire to exercise the virtue of resignation, and her fear of increasing the misery of others, were not strong enough to save her from paroxysms of terror and despondency.
Mrs. Allenham had, upon the first intelligence of what was to take place, hastened to her sister. Captain Wareham was so full of care, and so unhappy, that he rejoiced in the presence of some one who should spare him the task of giving hopes, which, from the despondency of his own nature, he was far from feeling. Ellen would weep by the hour together, with the sympathizing Caroline, who, as usual, was all kindness and gentleness. Matilda, who was younger, and scarcely able to enter into the full and complicated miseries of the case, attempted to inspire Ellen with a proud feeling of disdain for her unjust accusations, and a confident expectation of an honourable acquittal. The three sisters were one day sitting together, and Ellen was bidding Caroline watch tenderly over her little Agnes, if their worst anticipations should be fulfilled, when Caroline could not help saying—
“But, Ellen, if you really believe there is a chance of any thing so dreadful, I almost think, if I were you, I would fly the country with Mr. Hamilton, and your child. You were married to him too, after all.”
“Caroline, I resisted Algernon when he pleaded. If Algernon’s voice, if Algernon’s beseeching countenance, if Algernon’s eyes, failed to persuade me, fear will not! No; my fair fame shall be tarnished by no wilful act of my own.”
“That is right, Ellen!” exclaimed Matilda; “I would die sooner! Respected as you are by everybody now, I would die sooner than be looked down upon!”
“Well, you are quite right; it was very wrong of me to have thought of such a thing. And I, a clergyman’s wife too! But, I am afraid, if Mr. Allenham was to try and persuade me, I should not be so firm as you are.”
“But he is your husband, Caroline.”
“Yes, quite true; and then if he said it, it must be right, whatever it might be.”
Time stole away. Hamilton watched with anxious eyes the vane of the neighbouring church, the smoke of each chimney of the houses opposite. He had arranged everything with Ellen’s counsel, and a fortnight before the day fixed for the trial he went to Falmouth, there to look out for the arrival of every packet, every transport, every fishing vessel, that he might be sure not to miss Colonel Eversham.
The wind had been favourable for conveying the despatches which contained Colonel Eversham’s leave of absence, but it continued in the East, long after Algernon had wished it to veer round. Steam-vessels were not then in use, and every thing depended on the elements.
The morning of the 18th arrived. Colonel Eversham had not yet appeared—Algernon was in despair—but leaving his servant to watch for him, he could no longer remain absent from the spot where his beloved Ellen’s fate was to be decided, and he hastened to ——. On the evening of the 19th he had an interview with Captain Wareham, and was obliged to tell him that Eversham had not yet landed, but that he had Mrs. Maitland’s account of her son’s death, and that their counsel was confident of success. Mrs. Maitland was in the town, that in case her statement was not considered sufficient she, if necessary, might be called into court.
Hamilton was so painfully interested, and so occupied with business, that it was not till the busy streets were quiet, the tumult of the well-filled hotel hushed, and midnight approaching, that he had time to reflect how short a space divided him from Ellen and from his child.
How his heart yearned towards them! how he longed to be allowed to see them! but he determined to do nothing, till the eventful morrow was passed. His counsel should be able to aver, with truth, that they had never met from the time they heard that Cresford was living. He would not even indulge himself by walking before the house, and looking at the exterior of the dwelling which contained his soul’s treasures, lest any one might recognize him, and might fancy he had visited her clandestinely. He passed the night, however, in restless sleeplessness. He sat at the window of his bedroom, and having thrown open the sash, he gazed out upon the clear deep blue, quiet heavens: the busy hum of men had subsided; the streets were deserted; the lights one by one had been extinguished; not a sound was to be heard but the monotonous call of the watchman, pacing his rounds. A gentle breeze just whispered through the poplar trees of a neighbouring garden, and brought with it the refreshing smell which the dews of evening extract from them. It was a season for gentle and holy musings.
“And yet,” he reflected, “how many beings are now enduring the utmost pangs of human anxiety! The culprits in the gaol—their relatives—my poor Ellen—her father, and myself—Cresford too—the wretch whose very name makes my blood boil; he—even he, must suffer! He must feel remorse, repentance—he must have been hurried into this act of unreasonable, useless cruelty, by a sudden impulse of passion. I pity the unfortunate man! Yes, I pity him—for he has lost her! Is not that enough to madden him? Oh! what will the morrow bring to us all? What will be our fate?” His eyes glanced to the heavens; “Whatsoever may be our fates on earth, that placid Heaven, those innumerable stars, those signs of Omnipotence, speak to us of another world, in which happiness must assuredly be my Ellen’s portion, and where I may humbly hope to share in that heavenly joy, which we cannot conceive nor comprehend, but in the truth of which we may firmly place our trust!”
Ellen, meanwhile, was in some measure spared the overwhelming anxiety of that night, by another source of disquiet. Agnes was feverish and unwell: perhaps it was a fortunate occurrence for her, that such was the case; under any circumstances she could not have slept. While sitting by the sick bed of her little girl, her thoughts were drawn away from her own miseries; and when, at length, the child dropped off into a calm and easy sleep, the sense of relief almost resembled joy. But to this succeeded the dreadful thought,
“If I should be torn from her! If this should be my last night of watching over her! If she should be worse to-morrow, and I far away! Imprisoned! alone! and my sick child away from me! It is possible—very possible! and I shall survive this; for I have survived being torn from Algernon, and from my poor George and Caroline!”