Little Agnes was better in the morning. Ellen’s name was not the first on the list; a common case of burglary was nearly disposed of when she was summoned.
Lord Besville’s carriage, as previously arranged, conveyed her to the court-house. The curious mob gave way, with an expression of pity, as Ellen, assisted by her father, and by Lord Besville, and accompanied by Mr. Turnbull, alighted from the carriage. She was supported through the crowd of black, shabby-genteel, greasy-looking attendants, who are to be found about the purlieus of a court of justice. She had to wait some minutes in the passage, till the thief who had preceded her at the bar was removed. She was then led in, and placed where he had stood.
There was an universal whisper and commotion throughout the assembly, as her graceful form took the place of the coarse, vulgar, brutal figures, which had usually occupied that spot.
A silence of a moment succeeded. She held by the iron bar before her, as if to sustain herself. A request for a chair was heard from every quarter, and in a few seconds she was enabled to seat herself. There was another pause—Mr. Cresford’s lawyer then rose. He felt he had the sense of the court against him—that all instinctive and human feelings must be in favour of the delicate and shrinking creature before them.
She sat shrouded in a wrapping black cloak, her face concealed by a close bonnet and a thick veil. Scarcely any thing was visible except the slender, rounded, swan-like throat, and one white hand which occasionally clutched the iron bar.
Though one of the ablest men in his profession, he had scarcely his usual self-possession when he began; but he soon warmed with his subject. The fact of bigamy was clearly to be proved; and he expatiated upon the feelings of the adoring and deserted husband, and made use of the very interest excited by her appearance, as an argument for the sympathy he deserved, an enhancement of the injury received.
Hamilton had, unobserved, crept into a retired corner. He had heard the eloquent appeal. Accustomed to read the effect produced upon his fellow-creatures by public speaking, he had perceived that the able counsel had affected his audience; that in truth the very interest excited by Ellen did tell against her. He could not bear the situation any longer. He rushed into the street, and paced it up and down in agonized perturbation. He longed to madness that Colonel Eversham should arrive. His evidence was material. He had continued to hope against all reason that he would appear, and he now felt ready to accuse him and the Government, the winds and the waves, of cruelty.
At the close of the case for the prosecution, Ellen for the first time raised her eyes, and saw the large round green table, surrounded by the youthful faces of the lawyers in their powdered wigs. She took one fearful glance at their countenances, to see if, accustomed as they were to make their harvest of the woes and the crimes of their fellow-men, there might not be a lurking expression of levity or mirth among them. She ventured one look at the judge. He was a firm, but a venerable and mild-looking man; and she hoped for justice, tempered with mercy, at his hands. One other look towards the jury. She thought she recognized some faces she remembered in her youth.
“Ah! they will have pity on me,” she thought.
The certificates of the two marriages had been produced—the witnesses were called. At this moment a voice was heard in a loud whisper addressing one of the counsel,
“Colonel Eversham is come!”
Ellen looked up. She saw on the right of the judge’s seat, at the door by which the lawyers, the high sheriff, &c., had free ingress and egress, Algernon’s eager beaming face!
It was the first time she had seen it since they had parted at Belhanger. She gave a faint scream, and uttering his name, fell back in her chair. The assistants who were near at hand quickly lifted up her veil; they took off her bonnet, and in their awkward attentions, they loosened her comb, and her long black hair fell in showers around her. The marble brow, the fringed lids, the pencilled eyebrows, the oval face, the graceful form, caused a sensation of enthusiastic admiration and pity, and tears fell fast from the eyes of the few ladies who had had nerves to attend the trial. They handed smelling-bottles and drops, and in a few moments she revived. Her father was close at hand, and he supported her drooping head, while the tear-drops coursed one another rapidly down his pallid cheeks.
Cresford stood apart, stern and immovable. He had seen the cause of her agitation; he had watched the direction of her eye, and the fiend of jealousy possessed his soul and scared every softer emotion.
The case for the prosecution was quickly closed. Ellen’s counsel rose, relieved by finding there was no further evidence produced against his client than what he was fully prepared to meet, and inspirited by the comfortable assurance that Colonel Eversham was at hand.
Of course he did not attempt to disprove the fact of the two marriages; but in a clear and circumstantial manner he stated the events with which the reader is already well acquainted, and wound up the whole with so touching a description of the sufferings and virtues of the “exemplary lady then writhing under the unmerited disgrace of being placed in the situation in which they beheld her,” that most people present agreed with Will Pollard, that Cresford had no business to be alive. Making a forcible appeal to their feelings, he continued:—
“And when we contemplate such unmerited sufferings, does not every thing that is human in us array itself in her defence? Do we not feel ourselves rather called upon to minister relief than to inflict punishment? Good God, gentlemen, when we see this blameless lady, the victim of an imposture (for although perhaps an excusable one, still it was an imposture, an enacted lie),—when we find her, in consequence of this imposture, deprived of the name to which she was an honour, of the station in society of which she was so bright an ornament,—when we see her torn from her children, and her children bereft of a mother’s watchful care,—when we see her thus doubly widowed, severed from the man to whom in innocence and purity of thought she had given her affections at the altar,—from the man who so well deserves and still possesses those affections, of which, gentlemen, we have even now witnessed such affecting evidence,—can we, can we, I say, contemplate such accumulation of unprecedented distress, and call it guilt? Forbid it reason! Forbid it justice! Forbid it truth! And what, in her sorrows, her privations, her bereavement, what does this injured lady ask? But to live in virtuous singleness and seclusion—to devote her days to her aged father, to her innocent child—the babe from whose bed of sickness she has this day been dragged before you?”
But one feeling prevailed throughout the court. Captain Wareham, Hamilton, Henry Wareham, all felt confident of the result. Every thing that had been stated in favour of Ellen was amply borne out by the newspaper, the account of Maitland’s death, and the evidence of Colonel Eversham, who distinctly detailed each particular concerning the supposed death of Cresford, and also declared he had reported every detail to Mrs. Cresford upon his own return to England, which he effected a short time afterwards.
The judge clearly and concisely summed up the evidence, and told the jury it was for them to decide whether the prisoner was, or was not, guilty of the crime with which she was charged.
The jury retired for a few minutes. To Ellen they appeared an age. The whispered hopes and consolations of those around, fell on her ear, without entering into her mind. She had suffered so much, that she durst not give way to hope.
The jury could not do otherwise than bring in the verdict “guilty” of the crime, though at the same time they recommended the prisoner to mercy. She heard but the first word. A mist came over her eyes, a rushing noise sounded in her ears; she fainted before she had time to hear the sentence of the judge.
He premised that bigamy came under the head of felony, which by the statute 35th of George III. rendered persons liable to the same punishments, pains, and penalties as those who are convicted of grand or petit larceny. Under aggravated circumstances, therefore, the punishment might be transportation for seven years;—but under those of the present case, he commanded the prisoner to be fined one shilling, and to be forthwith discharged.
Though unseen himself, Hamilton’s eyes had been riveted upon her. He instantly darted to her side when he saw her fall. The impulse was uncontrollable. The sentence had passed, and before he had time to think, to feel, to reflect, to calculate, he had taken her from Captain Wareham’s trembling arms, and had carried her into the lobby. She was still insensible, but he supported that beloved form, and the moment was one of rapture!
She faintly opened her eyes, and it was from his voice that she first heard, “You are free, Ellen, you are free!”
“Free?” and she gazed wildly around her. “Free, from him? May I become lawfully your wife?”
Her scattered senses were not yet collected—she scarcely knew what had passed, or where she was. The words “you are free,” sounded in her ear as if the fatal tie was dissolved. He had not the courage to undeceive her, while, under this impression, she leaned weakly and trustingly on his arm.
Captain Wareham was preparing to explain the meaning of his words, when Cresford rushed forward. His eyes flashed fire, and hastily pushing aside all around, he forced his way by her father, he seized her helpless form, and sternly fixing his hand against Algernon’s breast, he forcibly repelled him.
“The law of the land has just pronounced this woman to be my wife, and you—her paramour.”
“Unmanly wretch!” and Hamilton’s dark eye flashed on him with as infuriated a glance as his own, his lip quivered with rage, but he restrained himself. “Say what you will—insult me—strike me—to me you are sacred.” Hamilton drew himself up to his full height, and looked with proud contempt upon Cresford.
Ellen had strength enough to struggle from Cresford’s grasp, and to fling herself into her father’s arms, who implored him to have pity upon his poor worn-out child, and not to make her the subject of a common brawl, in the public sight.
Angry as Cresford was, he felt that he was only exposing himself to the ridicule, as well as to the blame of all around, and turning to Captain Wareham, he said,—
“In your hands—in the hands of her father I am content to leave her. But I owe it to myself, that she should be preserved from one who is avowedly nothing to her. I trust my wife’s honour in your hands, Captain Wareham. When I have seen you and your daughter safely placed in the carriage, which awaits you, I shall depart.”
Sternly folding his arms, and placing himself between Hamilton and Ellen, he watched them into Lord Besville’s carriage.
Hamilton, ever fearful of adding to Ellen’s sufferings, commanded himself, restrained his feelings, and saw her dear form depart, without making a movement to follow or to assist. When the carriage had driven away, Cresford and Hamilton, for one short minute, gazed fixedly on each other; each seemed to wish to look the other dead, but neither spoke. Cresford was not so deprived of all sense of reason, and honour, as to farther insult a man who would not raise his hand against him. Hamilton still maintained his resolution that no provocation should urge him to place an impassable barrier between himself and Ellen.
Each turned on his heel and walked away, with a storm of turbulent and angry passions raging in his bosom. They returned to their respective hotels.
Did Cresford feel the happier for having accomplished his revenge? No! he only felt, if possible, more injured, more miserable, than ever. It is true he had increased the wretchedness of Ellen, but had that afforded his own any alleviation? He had merely given her the occasion of proving how innocently she had contracted her second marriage, and how exemplary had been her conduct, how conscientious and considerate that of his rival, since they had discovered that he was still in existence. He had merely given the world an opportunity of knowing how little share he had in her affections, how dear to her was Hamilton.
Algernon’s mind was scarcely less agitated. The sight of Ellen had distracted him. How were they to drag on their weary lives in hopeless absence? The blank and cheerless prospect before them, never struck him so forcibly as now. The excitement of the last six weeks had kept up his spirits. There was something to be done, something to look to, something to hope, something to fear. He felt it impossible to seek again his solitary home; impossible to pursue any regular fixed course of life, to which there seemed no period, no end, except in the grave. His child, too! his only child was ill. He had a father’s longing to see it; he knew not what to do, or how to act. He would not expose Ellen to another outbreak of Cresford’s passion, and he at length made up his mind, that if the next day his child was going on well, he would leave the neighbourhood, but that, when Cresford had also departed, he would arrange with Captain Wareham that he should occasionally see his little Agnes.
Poor Ellen had reached her home. Exhausted by the overwhelming emotions of the day, she had scarcely feeling left, to comprehend any thing beyond being restored to her child. Caroline, to whose care she had committed her, and Matilda, whom her father had not allowed to attend the trial, received her in their arms, and almost carried her to her child’s bedside.
Little Agnes was better, and Ellen sat close by her, with a vague weak feeling of gratitude to Heaven for re-uniting them. They persuaded her to lay herself on the bed by her side, and in a very few moments she was wrapped in slumber, as calm, as placid as the child’s.
It was late in the evening before she awoke. Caroline and Matilda were both in the room. She started up. “Is it over?” she cried; “is the trial over? or did I only dream it?”
“It is over, all well over, dearest sister, and you are restored to us.”
“Thank you, dear creatures. And my child, she is better; she is sleeping nicely, and quite close to me. Oh, the relief of finding myself among you all, without the fear of those dreadful hulks! Where is my father, my poor father! He has gone through a great deal to-day.”
“He has just stolen out of the room. He has been here, looking at you and Agnes, as you both slept, till the tears streamed down his face.”
“Oh, let me go to him!” She hastened down-stairs, and poor Captain Wareham felt almost happy when he saw a smile, though it was a troubled and an unquiet one, upon Ellen’s lips.
“Oh, father, I scarcely thought I should ever again feel any thing so near akin to joy as this. If you knew how the horrible idea of transportation preyed upon my mind! I did not like to own how much I thought of it. At least, I can look round and feel that from all of you I need not now be parted. Yet mixed with this sensation of joy, which is so strange to me, there comes such a yearning for George and Caroline, my poor dear children, whom I must not see. Oh! if I could kiss them once, if I could look upon them, if I could know they were well! My poor dear innocent children!” She sat down and wept freely, weakly, gently, as a person utterly worn out, body and mind.
Latterly she had not spoken much of her elder children; her mind had been bent to the one point, and the fear of another, still more dreadful misfortune, had prevented her dwelling so much on their absence. But now that her heart, for the first time, gave way to this unwonted feeling of happiness, she longed for their presence, with a passionate desire.
She breathed not Algernon’s name. But when they all retired to rest, and she found herself alone in her chamber, she seated herself in an arm-chair, and covering her eyes with her hands, she yielded herself up to a sort of dreamy but delightful consciousness that she had seen him, heard him; that her eye had met his, that her head had rested on his shoulder, that his voice had sounded in her ear. She dreaded to move, and to rouse herself to the sad prospect that she was to see him no more—that days, months, years, must roll on, and she must meet those eyes, and hear that voice no more!
But this weakness was not to be indulged; she shook it off, and calmed and refreshed her soul with humble and grateful prayer.
CHAPTER XVIII.
The next morning Captain Wareham, at Ellen’s request, wrote a note to Algernon to tell him she was well, and that little Agnes was rapidly recovering, and also to assure him that Ellen’s mind was comparatively at ease. In his answer to Captain Wareham he told him that having heard so satisfactory an account of those in whose welfare his every feeling was centered, he should quit * * *, as he feared his presence in the town might occasion Cresford’s also remaining there, in jealous irritation; but that he trusted, when every thing was quiet, and Cresford (as he flattered himself he would) had resumed his habits of business, he might be allowed to visit his child; that he likewise claimed some pity, and that a father’s heart yearned towards his only child. He said no more. He wished to accustom her to the idea that he must, that he ought to see Agnes, and he hoped by degrees to persuade Ellen to allow him an interview herself.
Cresford, as Hamilton had anticipated, left * * * when he had ascertained his rival’s departure, and he returned to London. He then entered with ardour into the concerns of the house,—peremptorily insisted upon the speedy adjustment of the affairs, which had been rendered perplexed by his return, and resolved that he would make himself a name as the first and greatest of English merchants. If, in private life, he stood in the contemptible position of the discarded, the deserted husband, in the world he would be respected as one of the most leading men in the city. But his mind, weakened, excited, and unsettled by what he had undergone, was not equal to accomplishing all he undertook. His schemes were wild and visionary, and neither added to the stability nor to the consideration of the house.
Henry Wareham, who had lost no time in withdrawing himself, had found little difficulty in gaining admittance into another establishment of equal, if not greater, note; his capital, which, though not large, had increased during the time he had formed one in the Cresford partnership, his character for steadiness and industry, and his clear practical head, making him an acquisition in any concern, while the cause of his retirement from his present business excited an interest in his favour.
There is no want of generous and kind feeling in this country. A case of undeserved misfortune, if once known and understood, rarely fails to create friends and protectors.
Ellen’s ardent desire to see her elder children increased, rather than diminished, with time. The savage wildness of Cresford’s eye and manner filled her with uneasiness for their fate. Henry had ascertained that he had taken for them a small house at Brompton, and that he visited them once or twice a week. The bonne, whom she had placed about them, she knew to be a good creature, although not possessed of much information, nor by any means the person to whom she would willingly have entrusted the complete guidance of their minds and characters. Still she was grateful that he left them under her care, and she rejoiced that he did not habitually live with them, and that consequently they were not exposed to the starts of passion which, even in better days, had been formidable.
She thought if she could once see them, unknown to themselves,—merely see them as they passed by, and ascertain that they looked healthy and happy, that she should feel more contented.
She opened this idea one day to Captain Wareham, who treated it as fanciful and romantic. The irritability of temper, which, during the time of great and serious distress completely subsided, had gradually again grown into a habit. He was too old to alter, and although his heart was most kind, his feelings for Ellen tender, yet in the every-day intercourse of life she could not avoid sometimes perceiving that she brought much trouble and discomfort upon him in the decline of life.
She proposed a visit to Caroline and to Mr. Allenham, who had urged her completing the cure of little Agnes by trying change of air. She knew that the kind-hearted Caroline would willingly agree to any plan which might promise her a moment’s comfort, and, if Mr. Allenham would give his consent, she could not have more respectable sanction and assistance.
Caroline, as she expected, was all good-nature, nor did Mr. Allenham disapprove of the idea. He saw that she was in so restless a state, that she was so possessed with the notion that if her children were sick, she would not be apprised of their illness,—that they might be dying, and she remain in ignorance,—that he really thought it desirable her mind should be relieved upon this subject. One thing he premised,—that she should not make herself known to them. If it ever came to Cresford’s ears, he might secrete them where she would have no means of hearing or knowing about them; and at all events it would be wrong to excite curiosity, useless regrets, or premature sensibilities in the children; still more so to accustom them to mystery and concealment. She saw the reason of his arguments: all she begged was to be allowed to disguise herself in the dress of a common maid-servant, and to walk in the street near which they lived, till she could once see them pass along, healthy and cheerful.
In compliance with her wishes, they all three repaired to London. Ellen and Caroline dressed themselves in the most homely apparel, and Ellen solemnly promised Mr. Allenham to do nothing which might cause herself to be recognised. They entered a shop nearly opposite the dwelling which contained her children. Mrs. Allenham busied herself bargaining for threads, tapes, and ribbons, while Ellen stood near the door, half out of sight, watching with a palpitating heart, and eyes which were almost blinded with intense gazing, the windows, the doors of the house.
After some time the sash was thrown up, and she saw her own little Caroline run into the balcony. The child looked well and blooming; her fair hair hanging down her back in glossy ringlets, her laughing eyes sparkling with gaiety, her cheeks glowing with health! Those ringlets which she had so often fondly twisted through her fingers, those eyes she had so often kissed, those cheeks which had so often been pillowed to rest upon her bosom!
She had pledged herself to do nothing to attract attention,—and she kept her word. But a fearful chill ran through her. Where was George? Why was not he playing with his sister? Was he ill? She could no longer watch every graceful movement of Caroline, so agonizingly did she look for her boy. George, the playful, the high-spirited George, what could keep him within? The suspense was almost too much to endure without betraying herself. She had nearly made up her mind to ask the shop people, in as unconcerned a tone as she could command, whether they had lately seen the little boy who lived opposite. She had approached Mrs. Allenham, and had grasped her arm in almost speechless tremor, when she saw George appear for one moment at the window, and beckon his sister in. She breathed again, and, seating herself for a few moments, recovered her self-possession. Mrs. Allenham had turned round with an anxious look of inquiry.
“It is nothing,” whispered Ellen, “it is all right now!”
“Are you ready to go,” rejoined Caroline.
“Yes—oh, no, wait a few minutes longer.” She returned to the door to look once more. All was quiet—no one was to be seen at the window. At length Caroline could devise no fresh articles to purchase, and they left the shop. At that moment the door opened, and bounding down the steps, she saw both children with rosy cheeks and active forms, and radiant faces.
She stopped, trembling, and gazed till they were out of sight. They passed on, unconscious and contented, each holding a hand of the good old bonne, and jumping as they went with the light-hearted merriment of childhood. She faithfully made no sign, nor movement that should attract attention, and turned her steps towards their temporary domicile, satisfied and relieved; but, such is the inconsistency of the human heart, that, anxious as she was to know them happy, a painful feeling shot through her to think how joyous they were without her. While she—yet she wished them to be joyous, though it was bitter to think her children should grow up without any love for her, any recollection of her.
If such thoughts did cross her mind, they found not utterance in words. She professed herself satisfied, and they returned to Longbury. She loved Longbury; it was there she had first seen Algernon. It was there he had first breathed his vows of love; it was there she had, as she then fancied, bound herself to him by ties, which death only was to sever.
Since the trial, Cresford insisted upon her receiving alimony from him. It was painful to her to do so; but he would have been furious at the idea of her being beholden to Hamilton. Her father, though he had the will, had not the means of supporting her; and feeling also that her miseries tended rather to depress him, and to throw a gloom over the youth of Matilda, she retired to a very small cottage in the outskirts of the town, and there resided in the deepest retirement, seeking consolation in the performance of the few duties which remained to her to fulfil,—devotion to her child, and attention to the poor around her; her only amusement, the cultivation of her tiny flower-garden.
The neighbouring peasants soon learned to look upon her as their friend, and applied to her in all cases of distress. She had heard Algernon’s opinions upon the mischief produced by indiscriminate charity, and she tried so to regulate her’s, as not to reward the idle and complaining, while the frugal, industrious, and contented, were unnoticed, and unassisted. She felt, while making this her study, that she was in some measure executing his wishes. How well she succeeded in doing real good, is another question. The task is one of great difficulty; but she succeeded in making herself loved by all the best of her poor neighbours, though she might occasionally be imposed upon by some of the worst.
Her gentle words, her good advice, her attempts to convert the wicked, and to console the suffering, could do no harm, even when they failed of effecting good.
CHAPTER XIX.
Some months had now elapsed. Algernon ventured to write to Ellen herself, describing to her his life of loneliness. He assured her that if he might look forward to the prospect of seeing her and his child at stated periods, however rare, however distant, he might again be able to exert himself, and strive to be an active and an useful member of society. That at present his existence appeared so aimless, so hopeless, that he could not rouse himself to attend to public any more than to private affairs.
These arguments were to her irresistible. She knew too well what were the yearnings of a parent for his child, and she would not inflict upon Algernon what she herself endured.
His fame too! His position in the world! His utility to his fellow-creatures! Her pride in his fame was second only to her love for himself, and though she would not have consented to that which was wrong in itself, even for his sake, she thought she might promise to see him once in every six months, and in the presence of her father, without compromising herself.
Having consulted Captain Wareham, and obtained his consent to this plan, she wrote Algernon word, that she agreed to his proposition, but that he must give her due warning of his coming, and that she would not see him except in the presence of her father. That she would meet him as a dear and valued friend, but they must not indulge in vain repinings, or in useless or sinful hopes.
Her letter was calm, it cost her much to make it so—but it was calm.
Such as it was, it infused new life into Algernon. He doubted not her love. He respected her scruples. He was so happy at having gained that much, that he did not quarrel with the measured style. He should see her again! He should again hear the music of her voice! And his eye beamed once more with hope—he moved with a more elastic step.
The very servants observed the altered aspect of their master, and Mrs. Topham remarked, as he walked by the windows of the housekeeper’s room to the stables, that she “had not heard her master tread so light and quick, since her poor mistress went away;” she wondered “whatever had come to him!”
He appointed the day following that on which Ellen should receive his answer—the hour one o’clock. And meanwhile he was in a restless state of joyful expectancy, which allowed him to fix his mind to nothing.
He thought a hack chaise was the most unobtrusive mode of conveyance, and that which was least likely to excite observation, and he departed on his journey alone.
With what feelings did Ellen await his arrival? She strove to preserve the even composure of her mind, but in vain!
“Algernon will find me sadly altered,” she thought, as she arranged her dress with more attention to what was becoming than she had done for many months. “This mode of dressing my hair makes me look ten years older, and my cheeks are grown so thin!” She checked herself for the vain thought: “What business have I to wish to look well in his eyes now? I ought not to think of such things.” But we will not pledge ourselves that she might not pass rather more time at her toilette that morning, than she had usually done; perhaps she was almost sorry she had adopted the habit of wearing her hair smoothly parted on her brow, instead of in the luxuriant ringlets which used to fall in showers on her cheeks. Yet had she nothing to regret. The touching, holy, Madonna-like expression of her countenance at present, fully compensated for what she might have lost in brilliancy.
To Agnes’s appearance, however, she devoted herself without any fear of doing wrong, and the blooming little creature amply repaid her cares. She was now able to lisp a few words, and Ellen had taught her to say papa, and bade her be sure so to call the gentleman who was coming, as soon as she saw him. Captain Wareham had walked down early to Ellen’s cottage, and they remained waiting in perturbed expectation. Ellen felt confused. Her situation was so strange—so new. There was no precedent by which to shape her conduct. But she had the best of guides: her guileless heart, her innate purity.
Exactly as the clock struck one, a post-chaise drove to the door. In one second, Algernon sprang from it; in another, he was in the drawing-room.
Ellen’s heart beat, till she thought her bosom would burst. Algernon rushed towards her—but she extended her hand to him before he approached her, and he merely pressed it to his lips in speechless agitation.
“Look at your child, Algernon,” she said, as soon as she could command utterance; “she looks quite well now.”
“I will, I will—but at this moment I can see nothing but you.”
Ellen withdrew her hand, and seated herself in an arm-chair.
“You have not spoken to my father,” she added.
Algernon brushed his hand across his eyes, and turning to Captain Wareham, he pressed his in silence.
Little Agnes whispered,
“Mamma, is that the gentleman I am to call papa?”
“Yes, my love, go to him!” and the obedient child timidly advanced a few steps. Algernon caught her in his arms, and devoured her with kisses, while the tears flowed fast down his manly cheeks.
The tears of a man are always powerfully affecting. What must the tears which Algernon shed over their child have been to Ellen? She did not weep. She had worked herself up to be firm, and not to allow this interview to lead to any out-pourings of the heart, to any expressions of feelings, for which she might afterwards reproach herself.
At length Algernon spoke.
“Our child, Ellen, is not like you,” and he looked from one to the other with eyes of such melting tenderness, that it would have been difficult to say, to which, at that moment, his heart went forth most.
“Oh, no!” she exclaimed, “thank Heaven, she is like you!” but she presently added, in a more composed manner, “She has quite recovered her looks, and her strength now.”
She loved to hear Algernon say our child. And yet how strange to see the father of her child clasp it to his bosom, shed tears of love over it, and to be obliged to keep up a calm, company, conversation!
Captain Wareham now inquired which road Algernon had taken, whether the rain had not made it very bad travelling, and a few more such interesting questions.
“Did you come straight from Belhanger?” asked Ellen in a low and tremulous voice.
“I left it yesterday afternoon.”
“It must look very pretty, now the spring is come; and is my—is the garden very nice?” One silent tear stole down Ellen’s cheek as she spoke.
“Your garden is lovely! It might be a paradise! but to me, it is a place of torment.”
“Oh do not say that! Algernon. But you do not look well. You have come a great way this morning; you must be hungry; will you not have some luncheon?”
“Hungry!” he said, and gave her a half reproachful glance: “thank you, I could not eat!”
Captain Wareham now inquired what Hamilton’s political friends thought of the Spanish war, and whether the Spaniards were sincerely attached to the cause of liberty.
“I do not know, my dear sir. I never communicate with my political friends. I know nothing about them.”
Ellen’s heart smote her, that she should be the cause of his abandoning a career for which he was so well fitted.
“This must not be,” she said; “you ought to exert yourself, Algernon. Indeed this is not right!”
“But tell me, Ellen, how do you pass your time? What occupations have you?”
“I will tell you what she does, Mr. Hamilton,” interrupted Captain Wareham, “she goes about doing good, and there is not a poor distressed creature within miles, that does not know her, and bless her.”
Algernon at first felt vexed with Captain Wareham for taking up the answer to his question, for he longed to hear the music of Ellen’s voice; but he no longer regretted it was her father who had spoken, for the report of her good deeds was equally sweet in his ear.
“God will bless you also, Ellen!”
“I wish to remember all you have told me about the management of the poor, and I hope I do not encourage the idle; but I have no influence here, and I cannot give them good cottages, and gardens, as you have done, and have thus enabled them to live comfortably, without charity. Are the cottages as nice as ever?”
“I believe they are. Yes, they look very neat as I ride by.”
“And how is poor old Amy Underwood?”
“Dead!—poor old soul! She died last winter.”
“Poor Amy! So she is at rest! Who takes care of her little grand-daughter?—She made me promise I would always be a friend to her when she was gone. Algernon, you will see that the child is religiously and virtuously brought up. I cannot,—you know.”
“Yes, yes! that I will! Can you think of nothing else for me to do? Tell me more protégés of your’s, that I may attend to them. Express your wishes, give me your orders. You will invest anew Belhanger with interest in my eyes. You will give me something to live for.”
Ellen smiled faintly, and gratefully.
“Have pretty Jane Earle and her husband got a cottage yet? If they had a tidy cottage to themselves, it might confirm him in his reformation; now he has such a pretty wife too.”
In this manner Ellen endeavoured to lead him to again interest himself in his peasantry, while to herself there was a certain melancholy pleasure in uttering the names, and picturing the spots, once so familiar to her.
Agnes meantime had nestled herself comfortably into his arms. Perhaps she had some indistinct recollection of him; perhaps it was merely the caprice which sometimes makes children immediately attach themselves to one person, while they take an antipathy to another, but from the first moment she seemed attracted by him. Ellen looked at them, and thought how happy were those who might, in peace and honour, gaze every day of their lives upon their child, and the father of their child.
The hour for departure approached. At four o’clock the chaise was again to be at the door. Captain Wareham’s dinner-hour was five, and he had to walk back into the town.
In a clear and gentle voice Ellen addressed Algernon—
“One thing I wished to ask you, Algernon, before you went. Should you not like to have Agnes pay you a visit at Belhanger?”
“Not for worlds, Ellen, would I rob you of her for a moment!” It was true that he would not have robbed her for a moment of that which was her only pleasure; but he also wished to put an end to such an idea, as it would deprive him of his one excuse for seeing Ellen. “And are we not to meet again for six months, Ellen?” he added, after a pause.
She exerted all her might, and answered—
“Not for six months.”
“I may write to you?”
“No; we must not correspond. If Agnes should be ill, of course I will let you know; and if you should be ill, you must write to me. For God’s sake, write if any thing should be the matter!” she repeated with an expression of terror from the image she had herself conjured up.
The chaise had been some time announced. Captain Wareham, though from the bottom of his heart he pitied them both, thought there was no use in prolonging this distressing interview—to himself doubly so, for he felt himself a third; and yet Ellen had made him promise to give her the support of his presence. She thought, if the interview should not remain unknown (and what does remain unknown in the present civilised state of society?), her fair name could not suffer if it was conducted under the sanction of her father.
Algernon had kissed his child; he had wrung Captain Wareham’s hand; Ellen had risen from her seat, and again held forth her hand to him.
“May heaven bless you, my dear and valued friend!” she said.
“Ellen! my own Ellen!”
“You had better go now,” she gently replied. “My father is not so young as he was, and we must not make him too late for his dinner. This day six months we meet again!”
Algernon replied not. Slowly and reluctantly he left the room: he dared not remonstrate; he knew her firmness to do what she deemed right, and he feared by word or deed to lose the grace he had obtained: he threw himself into his carriage, and drove away.
Captain Wareham walked home to dinner, and Ellen at length gave way to the tumult of feelings which she had resolutely subdued.
It would be impossible to say whether joy at having seen him, or sorrow at having parted from him, preponderated: she certainly found it more difficult to resume the occupations to which she had accustomed herself; but still she had a point to look to, a bright speck in the distant horizon, to lead her on through the cheerless desert of life.
Algernon religiously executed all Ellen’s innocent behests, and, for her sake, did resume in some measure his former habits of practical utility: he attended parliament—he was put upon committees—his eye once more flashed with fire—his countenance recovered its animation, his manner its energy.
His re-appearance in the world was hailed with joy by all who knew, and consequently loved and respected him. Though there was still a corroding care within—though there was still a cheerless void in his heart, yet when once he began again to mix with his fellow men, and to enter into public affairs, there were so many objects to interest and occupy a man, that the next six months were not to him so immeasurably long as to Ellen.
At the appointed day and hour he was again at the cottage, and claimed her approving smile for his obedience to her wishes. She had carefully spelled every newspaper, waded through columns of parliamentary debates on subjects she could not comprehend, for fear of missing, or not properly appreciating, some short reply of his; but it had been with joy she had seen his name frequently among the speakers, and her approving smile was not wanting to reward him.
When his parliamentary duties were over, he found his lone and loveless home so cheerless that he again became a frequent visiter at Coverdale Park, and Ellen often heard of him when there, through Caroline. It was a consolation to him to see Ellen’s sister, and to talk to her of past happiness. Lord and Lady Coverdale were friendly people, and Miss Coverdale was a gentle, pleasing girl, who loved Ellen with the enthusiastic warmth of admiration, which girls often feel for a young married woman a few years older than themselves.
The consciousness that she did full justice to his beloved Ellen, that she had tact and discrimination enough to perceive her superiority to other people, formed a bond of union between them, and the Coverdales were almost the only family of his former acquaintance, from whose society Algernon appeared to derive any pleasure.
From his frequent visits, and from the intimacy which subsisted between him and Miss Coverdale, reports arose which immediately came to the ears of Mrs. Allenham. Some people have the faculty of always hearing news, and Caroline was one of those.
She knew how totally groundless was such an idea; but she thought if such gossip should reach * * *, it might be very unpleasant to Ellen, and that she should do well to warn her against giving any credit to it. In short, to prevent her hearing it, she immediately wrote her word of it.
She told her “It was quite a foolish notion of some meddlesome neighbours; that Algernon’s pleasure in the society at Coverdale was principally on account of their all knowing Ellen so well, and because Coverdale was so near Longbury;” and she bade her “not fret herself at all, if she did hear such silly things said.”
The very possibility that Algernon should think of any other wife, or that people should imagine he could think of any one else, was almost agonizing to Ellen. She instantly drove the suspicion from her mind. She felt too certain of his unceasing affection for her. Yet when she had done so, she reproached herself for selfishness in wishing to doom him to a life of singleness—him so formed for every domestic affection. She told herself she ought rather to wish he should find happiness with another, as she was for ever precluded from contributing to it.
“But I am sure,” she thought, “quite sure, there is no truth in the report. I know him too well!”
Still the rumour having ever arisen was disagreeable. Implicit as was her reliance on his devotion, it proved how completely he was looked upon in the world as a free man. How entirely null and void the world considered her marriage to him. She knew it. The fact had been too painfully proved and ascertained! but she experienced a sense of humiliation, that it was so decided by the law of opinion, as well as by the law of the land.