Recollections of a chaperon

Cresford, as we have before mentioned, had given his mind to business; but his visionary schemes of aggrandizement had not proved successful. He had, on the contrary, involved the concern in considerable embarrassments, and to retrieve all, he ventured on a still bolder speculation,—which failed!

In a few words, the house broke.

He had gone through much during the time that these difficulties had been thickening around him, and when at last the storm, which had been long gathering, broke upon his head, it found him totally unequal to bearing up against it,—in impotent anger against himself, and every one else.

It was galling to his spirit to find that by his rashness and imprudence he had reduced from affluence to a state of indigence, men who had been honestly labouring all their lives. For himself, if he could not make himself a name, as one of the richest merchants of the great emporium of commerce, he cared not if he were the poorest. But he felt for his children. He loved them, though it was not with a tender love. He meant his son should be as great a man as any in the kingdom; he intended that his daughter should be the most accomplished of girls; he would have spared nothing for their education.

Ellen first learned the failure of his house from the public papers, and she mourned over the altered fortunes of her children. She grieved, too, for the unfortunate man who seemed doomed to have his hopes blasted in this world, while his earthly sorrows had not as yet softened or prepared his heart for happiness in another.

Her brother Henry soon wrote her word of some further particulars, and informed her that the firm would be able to pay a good dividend in the pound; so that, although a bankruptcy, it would not be a disgraceful one. He had called to inquire about Cresford, and the answer was, that he had been ill, but was now better, though not well enough to receive visiters. Henry could not ascertain what prospects there were for his future provision; but promised to let her know when he could learn any thing farther.

Pity swallowed up all other feelings, and she anxiously awaited the result. Henry again wrote to her. He had called a second time, and was refused admittance. The servant shook his head, and said “he feared his master was very ill. The doctors said they could do nothing for him unless his mind was kept quiet; and as for keeping his mind quiet, that was impossible. He was night and day poring over papers, and the lawyers were with him two or three times a day; if they did not come, he kept sending for them; so there was no use in telling them not to trouble him till he got a little better.” The servant added, he thought “it would be a good thing if he would go to Brompton, and be with his children for a while; but it made him worse to talk of that. He said he could not bear to think of his poor ruined children, much less to see them.”

Ellen’s heart bled for him. She sometimes considered within herself whether duty did not call her to him in his present miserable state. But perhaps her presence might only irritate him; and even if he did wish for it, could she bring herself to attend his summons? She scarcely thought she could do so. She begged Henry to discover whether he ever mentioned her name. It would be a relief to know he did not think of her.

Henry, the next time he called, sounded the servant, who was an old acquaintance of his, as he had been porter at the time when Henry belonged to the house. He could not find that Cresford ever alluded to his wife. Once, when he was very ill, he had said, “If I get worse, let her be written to!” without mentioning any name.

Ellen’s mind was set at ease upon this subject. She had nothing to do but patiently to wait the event.

It was some time before she heard again, and then it was from Henry, to say he had seen Cresford; that, having learned he was considerably worse, he had again called, and had ventured to send up word that he was there; that Cresford had admitted him, and that he had been shocked at the havoc which a few months had made in his appearance; that he was certainly very ill, but he thought it was the mind, which preyed upon the body—the sword consuming the scabbard: his face was haggard—his eye was restless—his voice feeble and hollow. There seemed to be no positive complaint, except a slight but frequent cough. He spoke much of his affairs—said he did not care for himself, but he lamented the fate of his children; that, perhaps, his schemes had been imprudent, but that his partners hampered him. They would not enter into his views, and their timid prudence prevented his projects being carried on in the only manner which could lead to a successful termination, boldly and gallantly as they had been conceived.

“God knows,” he added, “what remnant of fortune may be saved from the wreck, or whether I may have anything to allow—your sister. That thought torments me past all others. She will be supported by Hamilton after all!”

Henry added that he had done all he could to tranquillise his mind—had told him how few her wants were; that he and Captain Wareham would do their utmost to supply them—in short, said all the soothing things he could. He had left him with the promise of calling again in a few days.

Before these few days had elapsed, Ellen received an express from Henry, imploring her to come forthwith to London—that a change for the worse had taken place, and that the physicians thought Cresford could not survive many days, perhaps not many hours; that, upon being made aware of their opinion, he had expressed a passionate desire to see her; and that he thought she ought to lose no time in acceding to it.

In two hours from the moment she received Henry’s letter, Ellen was on her way to London, having left little Agnes with her father and Matilda. Captain Wareham was not well, and was quite unequal to so sudden a journey.

The journey was long. She had time to think, and to think of every thing—of every probability, of every possibility. But there was one on which she dared not allow her mind to rest.

What was to happen if Cresford died? She felt it criminal to look forward to what would then ensue. If he recovered, what then? Would her visit to his bed of sickness be a reconciliation? Could he wish to take her back, when he knew her whole heart was another’s? What would, what could happen? She strove not to look forward beyond the present moment. She had but one course to pursue. She could not refuse such an appeal from a dying man, and that man her lawful husband. The path of duty was clear; for the rest, she must trust to Providence for guidance and support.

She first drove to her brother’s lodgings: she found him there. His countenance betrayed anxiety, his brow was care-worn.

“He is yet alive,” he said; “I sat up with him all night. In your absence he will scarcely allow me to leave him.”

“Oh, Henry, this is an awful meeting! How will he receive me? Does he feel kindly towards me? Or must I endure his reproaches from his death-bed?”

“He is entirely changed; he is gentle and forgiving now; all his former love for you seems to have revived.”

“That is almost worse! Poor Charles! his love has ever been a source of woe to both of us.”

Henry lost no time in conveying her to Cresford’s house, which was attached to the office, and, although not in the most fashionable part of London, was roomy and commodious, and was usually inhabited by the head-partner of the concern. In that house she had passed four years as his wife.

It was with painful recollections, and painful anticipations, that she traversed the stone-hall, and mounted the broad but dismal oak staircase, once so familiar to her.

Henry left her in the drawing-room, while he went up-stairs to prepare Cresford for her arrival. She looked round; there were the curtains which she had chosen, the carpet, the sofas, of her selection—now dirty and dingy with years of London wear.

Henry returned. He said the physicians were at that moment visiting their patient, and that when they left the room he would apprise him of her arrival. She had still to wait. When once the mind is worked up to the performance or the endurance of any thing disagreeable or painful, a few additional moments of suspense are almost agonising.

She mechanically took the hand-skreen off the chimney-piece. It was one she had herself ornamented with wafer cameos, and little scraps of verses. The gold paper was all tarnished, the cameos broken, the writing half effaced; but she could still distinguish some lines, which carried her back to the feelings of former days, and the emotions under which they had been selected, till the flood of recollections which crowded upon her almost bewildered her.

In the course of ten minutes the physicians entered. Ellen felt awkward and confused. They must think her presence so odd! She knew not what tone to take, and it was with timidity and shyness that she ventured to ask what was their opinion of Mr. Cresford.

The taller, a pale slender man, with a sweet countenance, and soft manner, informed her, “that he could not venture to say the symptoms had improved; that the lungs and the heart both seemed to be affected, and that although he might linger some time, or indeed might ultimately recover, still a fatal termination might take place in a few hours—that it was a case in which medicine could do little or nothing!” and having delivered this most conclusive and luminous opinion, he sat himself down to a table, and there wrote prescriptions for some draughts, some pills, an aromatic mixture, a liniment, and a warm plaister for the chest, and prepared to take his leave.

The second physician, who was a short, thick man, with a bob-wig, stood quietly by, while there played around his mouth something approaching a smile, at the inutility of all these measures at the present stage of the disorder.

Ellen ventured to turn to him with an inquiring countenance.

“Madam,” he said, “if you wish to know my opinion, it is that he cannot recover. He is too far gone for that. But we do not justly know what his complaint is, so we may prove wrong, and while there is life there is hope. So I wish you a good morning!” and away he trudged, having made a short, abrupt bow to Ellen.

When they were gone, she sat down for a few moments, and tried to collect her thoughts for the interview which approached.

She heard Henry’s step on the stairs; her heart felt sick within her—his hand was on the lock of the door.

“Now, Ellen!” he said, “Cresford is tolerably composed. But how pale you are! Shall I get you any thing?—a glass of water?”

“Nothing! thank you; I am quite well now.”

She took Henry’s arm, and he led her up stairs. He gently opened the door—the apartment was darkened. As they entered, the nurse discreetly slipped past them out of the room.

Coming from the full light, Ellen could scarcely see. She approached the bed; he was propped up with pillows and cushions, almost in a sitting posture. She could distinguish that he looked ghastly; she shook from head to foot, and leaned heavily on Henry’s arm.

“Ellen! are you come at last? I was afraid you would not have arrived in time. I am ill—very ill—and I wished to see you once more; you will soon be free of me, and then—but I wished to see you, and to forgive you for all I have suffered on your account, and to ask your forgiveness for having made you miserable too. I ought not to have brought you to a trial;—it was a bad feeling of revenge which drove me to it, and I repent it now; but I was maddened—goaded to desperation. Ellen! I have loved you fearfully! I have loved you unto death—for I am dying of a broken heart! The doctors do not know my complaint—I can tell it them!”

Ellen had sunk on her knees by the bedside. She sobbed audibly.

“Tell me you are sorry for me,” he continued; “and tell me that you forgive me, as truly as I forgive you.”

“Oh, Charles! you know I do pity you, and I have from the beginning. I have not wilfully done any thing to increase your wretchedness. As for forgiving you, that I do, indeed, from the bottom of my heart.”

“Well, I have your pity!—and your forgiveness!—your love I never had!”

There was a mixture of dejection and of hardness in the tone in which the last few words were uttered. Ellen could not reply. It would have been a glaring falsehood, to say it was true love she had ever felt for him; an impious, and an useless falsehood, to lie to one on the verge of eternity.

Turning to Henry, he inquired,—

“Are the children come yet? I wanted to bless them, and to bless my wife too; for you are still my wife, Ellen!—as long as I am alive, you are my wife—I am your husband!”

There was a shade of his former stern and violent manner, which made Ellen shudder to her inmost soul.

“Are my children coming?” she faintly asked.

“Yes! I sent for them hours ago. Why do they not come, Henry Wareham?” he inquired, in a peremptory and authoritative voice.

“I expect them every moment,” replied Henry.

“Ellen, come nearer!” She drew nearer. He extended his thin and bony hand. “Give me your hand—no! the other!” He took her left hand, and looking solemnly in her face, “Who put that ring on your finger?” he said. She could not reply. She had never had the heart to take off the ring Algernon had placed there; and in all the agitation of the last day, she had not remembered any thing concerning the rings. “Is that the ring I placed upon that finger?” and he held her hand with a firmness that appalled her: “answer me, and answer me truly!”

“No!” she faintly replied.

He dashed the hand he held away from him, with a strength of which all who had seen him for the last few days would have deemed him utterly incapable.

She tremblingly drew off the ring, and offered it to him, as a token of submission, and recognition of her duty to him.

“Take it away!—destroy it!—I cannot look on it!” He turned away his head, and spoke with a vehemence which alarmed them. “Throw it into the fire—let me know it is consuming.”

In humble penitence for having, by her inadvertence, so embittered the last moments of the unhappy man’s life, she walked to the fire, and, as he bade, committed the treasured ring to the flames. As she was doing so, she felt her soul die away within her.

He had raised himself up with the unnatural strength of great excitement to witness the execution of his behest, and he fell back exhausted and faint. He gasped for breath. Henry and Ellen hastened to him. They thought his last moment was approaching; but he rallied. “Where is the ring I placed upon your finger?”

“It is at home: I put it carefully away when—”

“Speak on; finish your sentence.”

“When—the other—was placed there.”

“You have kept it, then? You did not cast it away?”

“Indeed I preserved it religiously. Are you not the father of my children?” she added in a gentle deprecating tone. “Oh, Charles, do not thus agitate yourself! Be calm, be patient. We are all weak, frail, erring creatures; we should mutually forgive, as we hope to be forgiven. Your children will soon be here, and let them not see their father thus perturbed and restless.” She paused.

“Speak on; your voice does soothe my perturbed and restless spirit; speak on, Ellen,—and come here to the light. Open the curtains, Henry; let me look on her face while my eyes can yet see.”

She stood trembling beneath his fixed and melancholy gaze. “Oh, Ellen, how I have loved you! I am too near the grave to curse any one, or else I could breathe forth a malediction on that tyrant, who, in his unmanly, deliberate, and useless vengeance, has blighted the prospects, ruined the characters, and blasted the hopes, both in this world and the next, of hundreds of unoffending fellow-creatures. I am not his only victim! Mine is not the only ruin of body and mind for which he is answerable! But I will forgive, as I hope to be forgiven. Ellen, repeat the Lord’s prayer to me; I think from your voice it will do me good.”

Ellen and Henry knelt by the bed-side, and Ellen reverently and humbly obeyed him. As she spoke, his eyes gradually closed, and soon after he fell into a short but refreshing slumber.

When he awoke, the nurse stole in to inform them that the children were come. He bade them enter.

It was now more than a year since they had been parted from their mother, and when they unexpectedly saw her, they ran to her arms in silent joy. They made no exclamation, for the subdued voices of all the attendants, the darkened room, the vague awe of a death-bed, overpowered their young minds, and prevented any burst of delight. They clung round her, and she folded them to her bosom, with mingled emotions, in which pleasure bore no inconsiderable part.

“Children,” said Cresford in a gentle tone.

“Your father speaks,” Ellen hastily whispered; “go to him, my loves.”

“My children,” he continued, “kneel here by my bed-side: I wish to give you my blessing, my parting blessing. Be good, and never let your passions get the better of you. Mind what your mother says, for she is an excellent and a conscientious woman, and she will teach you your duties. Ellen, I give you my blessing, too; may you be happy!”

Ellen was on her knees. She seized his pale hand as it lay feebly on the bed, and covered it with tears and kisses. He smiled faintly and gratefully upon her, and pressed her hand. He soon again dropped off to sleep.

The children were removed, but Ellen remained. She had an earnest wish to do her duty by him to the last.

In the evening, when the physicians came, they found him considerably better; the sleep he had enjoyed had refreshed him. His pulse was steadier, he was able to take some nourishment, and they appeared almost to imagine permanent improvement might take place.

These words fell strangely on Ellen’s ear. She could not but rejoice in his amendment. Dreadful as was the prospect for herself, it was not in the nature of any thing so gentle, so feminine, so forgiving as Ellen, to watch the painful breathing, the feeble smile, the hectic cough, and not wish the breathing less painful, the cough less frequent.

The comparative tranquillity of his mind had a wonderful effect upon his frame, and for two whole days it almost seemed as if the natural vigour of his constitution would conquer. On the third, however, a violent fit of coughing caused the rupture of a blood-vessel, and there was no doubt but that a few hours must close his sad existence.

The effusion of blood could not be stopped. He gradually became weaker and weaker. As his strength declined, his tenderness towards Ellen increased, and all angry feelings vanished. From her hand alone would he receive either food or medicine. She watched over him with unwearied attention; and when at last his spirit quietly departed, so calmly, so gently, that the by-standers could scarcely ascertain the moment when he drew his last breath, it was her hand that closed his eyes, and she imprinted on his cold forehead, clammy with the dew of death, one pious kiss of duty and affection.

CONCLUSION.

Southey’s Roderick.

Ellen remained in the house till the last duties had been performed. The funeral of poor Cresford was conducted without pomp or show, and she then returned, with her restored George and Caroline, to her own cottage.

She put his children in the deepest mourning. For herself, she also wore deep mourning; but she did not dress herself in weeds: she felt, under all the circumstances, that it would be a mockery.

She had not written to Algernon to inform him of Cresford’s death. She had felt a superstitious horror when his wedding-ring was committed to the flames; and the last parting scenes with Cresford had to her feelings sanctioned and confirmed anew her first union, so that at the moment when she was free to give herself for ever to Algernon, she felt herself more severed from him than she had ever yet done.

She knew not where he was; she had not allowed him to correspond with her; and though she felt it was scarcely kind not to be the first to inform him of the event, she had not courage to write to tell him she was free. She had never believed the rumours which had arisen from his frequent visits to Coverdale Park: she had been so sure of his devotion, that she would have felt guilty of ingratitude towards him, if she had allowed them to give her any uneasiness: yet now, for the first time, the recollection of the report would recur to her mind. It was possible, just possible, there might have been some foundation for it. She had heard, she had read a thousand times, that while there was hope, man might remain faithful; but that it was woman and woman only who could live a life of hopeless devotion. She should have no right to complain, if he had at length looked elsewhere for domestic bliss. He would still have been true and kind to her, beyond what she had any right to expect.

As she did not write at first, from a feeling of delicacy towards the memory of Cresford, she now felt unwilling to do so from the shrinking sensitiveness which had always formed a leading feature in her character.

She was not long, however, kept in suspense. Algernon had been in Scotland at the time, and more than a week elapsed before he learned the event. He instantly returned to London. He there found that Ellen was at her cottage, and he followed as fast as four horses could carry him.

She was startled from a reverie of much hope, mixed with a little fear and wonder, by the clatter of a carriage at her door. Her heart leaped within her; she doubted not who it was, and in two seconds she found herself pressed to Algernon’s bosom.

She did not, this time, insist upon two years of widowhood; but consented, at the end of one month, to be privately re-married.

They agreed to renew those vows, to which their hearts had so strictly adhered, at Longbury Church, and to Mr. Allenham’s they speedily removed: Captain Wareham and Matilda followed, and Henry arrived from London.

It was late in the month of October. The party had gathered round a cheerful, blazing fire, on the evening preceding the ceremony. It was long since they had met together with feelings of peace and happiness, such as they now experienced, although in some of the party it was happiness chastened and subdued by all they had previously endured.

Algernon’s eyes were fixed on Ellen with an expression of holy love, which bordered on veneration. Matilda remarked upon his steady gaze, and told him he would put Ellen quite out of countenance.

“I was thinking,” he replied, “that if she had not been as virtuous as she is beautiful, as pure as she is kind, as firm as she is affectionate, if she had listened to me, when I wished to fly to America, we should never have known this hour of unalloyed happiness.”

“Well,” answered the lively Matilda, “those thoughts were very respectful, and respectable thoughts. I cannot find any fault with them!”

Ellen smiled through the tears of virtuous gratification which Algernon’s words had called forth.

“It is quite a comfort to see you smile, Ellen,” said Caroline; “I thought I should never have seen those white teeth again! And when do you mean to curl your hair? I long to see your glossy black ringlets! Do not you, Mr. Hamilton? Do not you miss the ringlets very much?”

“I miss nothing!” replied Algernon; “Ellen is once more my Ellen. I have scarcely looked to see how she dressed herself.”

“Now that is what I call true love,” exclaimed Matilda; “Algernon does not look at Ellen’s beauty. Ellen is Ellen, and that is enough for him. You all call me proud and difficult, but when any man like Algernon loves me as Algernon loves Ellen, then I will love him as Ellen loves Algernon.”

“Do you give this as a proof you are not difficult, Matilda?” replied Ellen, smiling almost gaily: “there are not Algernons to be met with every day!”

“Then I will stay and take care of you, papa. You know you would not manage at all well without me! you would have nobody to scold! and, what is more, there would be nobody to scold you,” she added, playfully tapping her father on the cheek.

“I will tell you what, Matilda,” replied Captain Wareham, who was too happy to be angry, “you must keep down this same spirit of your’s, or nobody will put you to the trial.”

Matilda looked archly at Caroline, as if Caroline and she knew something that disproved Captain Wareham’s prognostics.

The marriage was to take place early in the morning, as they meant to reach Belhanger the same day. The children had been already sent there, that they might be ready to greet them on their arrival.

Before eight o’clock the whole party walked quietly up the hill to the church.

There Mr. Allenham again pronounced over them the nuptial benediction. They both repeated after him, clearly, distinctly, and fervently, each word of their vow; and with a delightful but sober certainty of waking bliss, of assured happiness, the small party wound their way down again to the parsonage.

It was a fine October morning, and the sun was quickly dispersing the vapours which still hung in the low grounds.

The valley had, half an hour before, appeared almost like a lake, as they looked down on the mist below. The trees, the spires, the knolls of higher ground were gradually emerging, and in a few minutes all was clear and joyous, dancing in the morning sunshine. The robin redbreast sung cheerily from the dewy hedges, which were still bright in their rich autumn livery.

“All Nature smiles upon us, Ellen,” whispered Algernon: “So the clouds of our early life are dispersed! All before us is bright and serene.”

THE END.

London:
Spottiswoode and Shaw,
New-street-Square.