THE
TALLANTS OF BARTON.
A Tale of Fortune and Finance.
BY
JOSEPH HATTON,
Author of “Bitter Sweets: a Love Story;” “Against the Stream,”
etc., etc.
“The wheel of Fortune turns incessantly round, and who can say within
himself I shall to-day be uppermost?”--_Confucius._
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. III.
LONDON:
TINSLEY BROTHERS, 18, CATHERINE ST., STRAND.
1867.
[_The Right of Translation is reserved._]
LONDON:
BRADBURY, EVANS, AND CO., PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.
CONTENTS.
CHAP. PAGE
I.--WEDDING BELLS 1
II.--“YET OFT O’ER CREDULOUS YOUTH SUCH SIRENS
TRIUMPH, AND LEAD THEIR CAPTIVE SENSE
IN CHAINS AS STRONG AS ADAMANT.” 17
III.--COMING HOME 35
IV.--TRAVELLERS BY LAND AND SEA 49
V.--LORD AND LADY VERNER 60
VI.--IN WHICH DAME FORTUNE PLAYS OFF HER GRIM
JOKE UPON LIONEL HAMMERTON 74
VII.--CONTAINS A LETTER FROM A DEAR FRIEND, AND
TAKES THE READER ONCE MORE TO SEVERNTOWN 88
VIII.--PORTENDS A DEED OF VENGEANCE 101
IX.--GLANCES AT WILLIAMSON’S STORY, AND TERMINATES
PAUL SOMERTON’S ADVENTURE 112
X.--“FROM GRAVE TO GAY” 119
XI.--EXPLANATIONS THAT CAME TOO LATE 128
XII.--“WHAT THE MOON SAW” 144
XIII.--IN WHICH THE SEVERNSHIRE CORONER HOLDS
AN INQUEST 157
XIV.--THE CHIEF OF THE BRAZENCROOK POLICE MAKES
A BOLD STROKE FOR THE GOVERNMENT REWARD 175
XV.--CONTAINS A CURIOUS ILLUSTRATION OF DETECTIVE
PHILOSOPHY, AND IS AN IMPORTANT
LINK IN THIS HISTORY 184
XVI.--“BAL. TO R. T., £300” 198
XVII.--IN THE FIRELIGHT 209
XVIII.--THE BEGINNING OF THE END 221
XIX.--IN WHICH SEVERAL PERSONS QUIT THE STAGE
FOR EVER 245
XX.--CLOSING SCENES 262
CHAPTER I.
WEDDING BELLS.
As the sail which we first discern, like a speck against the sky,
comes into port at last, so the wedding-day of Miss Amy Tallant arrived
in due course of time; and in order that we may present the event to
our readers in the most familiar manner, we have compiled from the
newspapers the following account of it, discarding on the one hand
the rhapsodies of a Severntown reporter who introduced the whole of
the marriage service into his version of the ceremony, and omitting
on the other hand certain Swivellerish flights of fancy in which the
redoubtable Mr. Jenkins himself indulged after he had dined with
Richard Tallant, Esq., at his “palatial residence” in Kensington Palace
Gardens.
The marriage took place at St. George’s, Hanover Square. The bride was
accompanied to church by her brother, Mr. Richard Tallant, her aunt,
Lady Amelia Petherington, Miss Somerton, and Lady Georgina Evelyn.
The Earl of Verner, accompanied by his “best man” Lord Tufton, went
to the church from the Gordon Hotel, Pall Mall East; and the bride
from her brother’s princely residence, Kensington Palace Gardens.
The bridesmaids were Lady Georgina Evelyn, Lady Maria Fotherington,
Miss Fredrika Lionel, Miss Alicia Lionel, Lady de Witz, and Miss
Somerton. The bridegroom was first at the church, speedily followed
by the bridesmaids, who came from their respective residences. The
bride arrived at eleven o’clock, and was conducted to the altar by her
brother, a voluntary on the organ being played meanwhile.
Long before this, a distinguished party of friends and spectators had
taken their places in the church, and amongst them we noticed Lady
Duval, the Countess of Wharton, Major Darfield and Mrs. Darfield, the
Hon. J. Delafield and Mrs. Delafield, the Hon. Mrs. Dawkins, Miss
Elizabeth Dawkins, Miss Amelia Dawkins, and Miss Felicia Henrietta
Dawkins, the Misses Constantine, and the Marquis of Questfield, Sir
John and Lady Bewdley, Lady Elizabeth Himley, the Hon. Captain Evesham,
Mrs. Evesham, and Miss Evesham, Lady Worcester, the Marquis of Forth,
Mr. De Lawtworth and the Countess Dawnforth, His Excellency the French
Ambassador, His Excellency the Prince Calignousky, accompanied by the
Baron Dionsky and General Dronkoni, Mr. Dest, Lieut. Somerton, Captain
MacSchauser, &c., &c.
The bridesmaids awaited the arrival of the bride in the central aisle,
and their appearance was as charming as the loveliest bride could
desire. Their dresses were of white grenadine trimmed with cerise satin
and sashes of the same colour. The wreaths were of lilies of the valley
and violets.
The beauty of the bride was the theme of general admiration. She was
said to be much like the Petherington family, of which her noble
mother was reckoned the greatest beauty. Her bridal dress was of the
costliest and most becoming character,--a robe of white satin with a
veil of exquisite point-lace, which fell in gorgeous folds upon her
heavy sweeping train. She wore a necklace of pearls and diamonds, and
bracelets to match.
The ceremony was performed by the Rev. Francis Clifton, vicar of
Brazencrook, assisted by the Hon. and Rev. James Fitzpatrick. The
responses were given in clear and distinct tones, and the ceremony was
altogether most imposing and impressive.
Amidst the magnificent strains of the “Wedding March” the bridegroom
led the newly-created Countess to the vestry. The register having
been signed and attested, the bridal party left the church for the
Gordon Hotel, where a sumptuous _déjeûner_ was prepared for the bridal
party and friends. The bill of fare was quite a curiosity in the way
of luxurious indications of the feast, and the tables were adorned
with the most exquisite ornaments and rare flowers. The bride-cake was
designed by an artist of high repute, and was surmounted by a design of
the noble Earl’s magnificent castle of Montem.
Before the company retired from the dining-room, Lord Tufton rose, and
in a few appropriate sentences proposed “Health and happiness to the
Bride and Bridegroom.” The toast was received with rapturous applause.
In reply, Lord Verner said that a year ago he had not even dreamed
of such a day as this; but the time would never be effaced from his
memory as one of the greatest happiness he could possibly experience:
it not only was a day never to be forgotten by him, and always to be
remembered with gratitude and delight as that upon which his dear wife
had given herself up to his keeping; but it was to be remembered also
with unfeigned pleasure on account of the many friends it had brought
around him, and from whose society his former bachelor habits had, to
a great extent, excluded him. It was indeed the happiest, the most
important, the one red-letter day of his existence. Loud cheers greeted
his lordship’s earnest speech, and then the bride retired to prepare
for her departure for Horton Hall, Essex, the seat of Lord Tufton,
where they would spend the honeymoon. The Marquis of Questfield then
proposed “the Bridesmaids,” and Mr. Tallant acknowledged the deserved
compliment in eloquent terms.
At three o’clock the bride and bridegroom took their departure,
proceeding by special train to Corfield. The lady’s travelling dress
was pronounced to be in the best possible taste.
The journals then gave a list of the presents to the bride, which we
need not republish; the gifts were from great people mostly, and were
of the costliest character. They included necklets, with pendants of
diamonds and pearls; bracelets set in brilliants, diamonds, brooches,
workboxes inlaid with gold, dressing cases, Sévres vases, antique
china, crosses set with diamonds, writing tablets, watches, fans, and a
hundred other things of gold and silver and precious stones, and woods
and china, and leather work.
The monitors of the Press, who gave to the world this interesting
account of the marriage, may almost be said to have been everywhere
on that eventful day. They had been to Mr. Tallant’s residence and
seen all the wedding presents; they had talked with the fashionable
dressmaker and milliner who had had the making of the _trousseau_. They
had seen the _déjeûner_ laid out in that fine room of the Gordon Hotel;
but it was only the privilege of the writer of this history to follow
the lady into her chamber.
How handsome she looked! Those observant newspaper gentlemen might well
speak of her charms and graceful carriage. When her maid had removed
the long lace veil, and the bride’s hair had fallen loosely upon her
shoulders, she presented a picture of _débonnaire_ gracefulness and
beauty. And what a contrast they were,--the Countess, and Phœbe, with
the Miranda-like simplicity and sweetness!
“You may leave me now,” said the bride to her maid.
“Yes, your ladyship,” said the woman.
The title sounded strange and harsh somehow to the newly-made countess.
It seemed to cut her off from the people whom she had known from
childhood; and yet her heart beat with pride when she felt that she had
reached the highest point of her ambition--that all her wild dream had
come true.
“How charming you look, my pet!” she said to Phœbe.
“Reflected beauty,” said Phœbe, putting her arm round the bride. “Only
reflected beauty, for I never saw you look so pretty, so lovely as you
look this morning.”
The Countess smiled a little sadly, but this might only be a woman’s
tribute to the importance of the occasion.
“How kind his lordship is! how very kind,” said the bride, as she
discovered some new gift on the dressing table.
“It made me cry to hear him speak so earnestly and nobly to-day when
your health was proposed,” said Phœbe.
“You are very tender-hearted,” said the Countess, “I did not see any
one else look like crying; but the words touched me too. He is a truly
generous, warm-hearted man, I am sure.”
Phœbe looked at her friend, as much as to ask her if she had ever
doubted it. The Countess read the thought in an instant.
“You think me a strange woman. I have never thought much about his
feelings or his heart until lately, Phœbe, and never so much as I have
done this morning. It has been all ambition and revenge until to-day,
Phœbe; what is it to be in the future?”
She sat down as this thought presented itself to her, and looked at
herself in the great mirrors that repeated her supple figure over and
over again. She sat and looked at herself, and Phœbe, knowing her
secret, crept near her and laid her head upon her shoulders.
“Duty in the future,” said Phœbe softly; “your noble husband’s love and
generosity will make you love him in the end I am sure, as he deserves
to be loved; the path of duty lies before you and cannot be mistaken.”
“He has long since won my respect, Phœbe, and my gratitude; he loves me
with a good man’s truthfulness and sincerity, and I will love him; you
know how I have struggled, you know what I have suffered: let us both
blot all that part out now and for ever, Phœbe, and as you love me pray
that I may be sustained in the wifely path of duty and obedience.”
The Countess spoke like her former self in those past days before that
cloud of sorrow fell upon Barton Hall; in those past days when she was
the bailiff’s daughter and the sisterly companion of her whom she had
since supplanted in fortune and position.
The tears came into Phœbe’s eyes again, and the two women embraced each
other tenderly.
“Bless you, my own dear friend,” said the Countess, “believe me, I
will make reparation for all my unkindness to you. There dear, do not
reply--kiss me again and leave me--it is better I should be alone a
little while.”
Alone, the Countess fell upon her knees, and prayed with passionate
fervency--prayed as she had not prayed since that change came over
her on that never-to-be-forgotten day when she learnt of _his_
departure--prayed as she had not prayed since that scheme of ambition
leaped into her mind at the appearance of that carriage with the
coronet on the panel.
She rose with a calm expression upon her face, refreshed by the
outpouring of her supplications, and determined to do her duty in the
high station to which she had risen, and towards her husband.
Unlocking a small dressing-case which stood near his lordship’s latest
present, she took out an inner drawer which was curiously concealed.
Her hand trembled slightly as she withdrew the contents--a letter. It
was _his_ letter (if it might be called a letter)--the only memento of
him which she possessed except in memory. There were only three lines
upon it, and these were written on the day following that day when they
had walked together in Barton Hall gardens.
“Dearest--I shall be at Barton Hall at four o’clock to-morrow. Do
not let me go away without seeing you. L. H.” This was all the note
contained. For long days and weeks and months afterwards she had
treasured up that poor little scrap of paper--worn it in her bosom,
wept over it, kissed it, and cherished the memory of that hour of
happiness which followed it.
For a moment she held it in her hand hesitatingly. She felt that it was
the only link between the present and the past. Lighting a vesta, she
held the paper in the flame until it was consumed, and then she stamped
her little satin-slippered foot upon the embers. The flame burnt her
fingers before it went out, as if there were venom in the perjured
words that the fire was consuming. But this was nothing to the fire
which had seared her heart long since, burning into it those serpent
words that had looked so fair only to sting the deeper. But it was
over at last, and now she was Countess of Verner.
“My lady” rang for her maid, and prepared to dress for the bridal
journey. Whilst her robes were being removed she glanced round the room
which had been furnished with so much magnificence for her reception,
and then she thought, with a grateful smile, of the homage which her
husband had paid her in all things.
The maid being asked some simple question, told her how the health of
the bridesmaids had been proposed, and how her ladyship’s handsome
brother had made a beautiful speech in reply. This she thought would
please her ladyship very much indeed; but it only excited uncomfortable
thoughts in her ladyship’s mind--a vague kind of danger seemed to
threaten her through Richard Tallant.
Her ladyship asked no more questions, but went through the elaborate
process of her toilette in silence, and by-and-by left the room robed
in purple moire, and lace, and looking every inch a countess, to the
everlasting envy of Lady Petherington and her youngest sister, and to
the delight of her husband and the rest.
All this time the bells at Severntown, Avonworth, and Brazencrook rung
out over town and field and river. The summer air was full of their
glorious old music. The ringers in their shirt sleeves pulled with a
will, until the churches fairly shook again. Mighty jugs of ale passed
from hand to hand, from lip to lip, in the intervals of this labour of
love, and majors and triple bob-majors and all kinds of curious changes
were performed on the swinging bells. Avonworth caught the faint echoes
from Severntown, and Brazencrook, picking up the trembling tones from
Avonworth, took them up into its own ringing measure, and carried the
grand old-fashioned harmonies away down the river to distant villages,
where women stood at cottage doors and listened, and men rested on
their scythes to wonder why Brazencrook bells were ringing.
Glorious bells, merry bells, wedding bells! Arthur Phillips sat in his
studio with the windows wide open listening to the joyous music, and
thinking of the peal that would soon ring out the news of another
marriage. He looked away beyond the Linktown hills in the direction of
London, thought of his darling Phœbe in her bridesmaid’s dress, and
pictured her, in a wreath of orange blossoms at a country church, by a
time-sanctified altar in Avonworth Valley.
Happy bells, tuneful bells, olden bells, wedding bells! Luke Somerton
heard them as he sat with his wife at the Hall Farm, and puzzled his
brain with all sorts of vague happy fancies that seemed to soar upwards
in the smoke of his early after-dinner pipe. His wife spoke cheerily of
the music, but it was a great struggle for her. Something would whisper
in her ear that the Countess might perhaps have been her daughter, but
the next moment she remembered that Phœbe was there as her ladyship’s
friend, and that Lieutenant Somerton was amongst the distinguished
visitors. That strange dream of ambition, you see, had not all passed
away from the proud Lincolnshire woman’s heart.
Joyful bells, brazen bells, jubilant bells, wedding bells! Travel your
happy strains adown that glimmering river; no whisper of your tender
music can reach that home-bound ship that rides on the Indian sea.