We generally, through life, write the actions of each of our friends
and acquaintances on the two sides of one leaf in the book of memory,
the good upon one side, and the bad upon the other, so that it is
scarcely possible to see both at once. With an amiable weakness,
however man most frequently suffers the death of any one he has known
to turn the leaf forever, and reads the character of him that is no
more as if the good were alone recorded. Beauchamp's heart would not
suffer him to do otherwise; and, after he had spoken with the surgeon
in regard to several points of all the sad ceremonies that were to
follow, he sat down in solitude, giving way to feelings that were far
more bitter than he had anticipated. Even had he not felt his uncle's
loss deeply, on the ground of personal regard, there was in his bosom
another motive for regret which would have pained him much.
He asked himself whether the angry discussion which had taken place
between himself and the earl, so shortly before the decease of the
latter, might not have hastened that catastrophe; and although he was
obliged to acknowledge that, were the same circumstances to come over
again, he could not, and would not act otherwise than he had done, yet
he was deeply grieved that the disagreement should have taken place so
immediately previous to the death of his uncle, and that they had
parted from each other forever in anger and ill-will.
We shall pass over Beauchamp's grief, however, merely saying that he
grieved sincerely. Nor shall we dwell upon the details of the funeral
of the Earl of Ashborough--nor treat the reader to the full, true, and
particular account of the execution of three criminals, against whom
we have seen that a jury of their countrymen pronounced a just
verdict, and to whom a judge had awarded a righteous punishment.
Suffice it, that they died!
In regard to Harding alone, a few words must be said. To all
appearance, he met his fate with the same determined coolness which he
had shown through life; rendered, perhaps, a degree more stern and
intense from the awful situation in which he was placed. One
circumstance, and one circumstance alone, seemed to show that the drop
of better feeling which almost every man has at the bottom of his
heart was not entirely polluted by the poisonous streams that flowed
around it. On the night before his execution, after having obdurately
rejected those religious consolations which were offered with
persevering piety by several zealous clergymen, he suddenly desired to
speak with two magistrates; and then, in their presence, made a full
and clear confession of all the particulars connected with the murder
at Ryebury, confirming in every point the testimony of Walter
Harrison. This he signed in the presence of the magistrates, and
caused them to affix their names as witnesses; which being done be
added, "I have made this confession, gentlemen, because the act for
which I am to die has been attributed to a young gentleman who had
nothing to do with it; and because--that gentleman, being well
calculated to do service to himself and his country, if every shade of
imputation be removed from his character--I think the general
considerations of utility require--or rather," he said, breaking off
abruptly the tirade in which he was about to indulge--"or rather, I do
it because I have learned what mental as well as bodily suffering is,
and therefore would spare it to another where there is no occasion for
its infliction. So now, gentlemen, I have done with this world
forever, and I wish you good night."
In the various accounts of the execution, which every one must have
seen in the newspapers, a number of contradictory statements appeared;
some journals affirming that Harding had died, maintaining his
innocence to the last; some, with more truth, that he had made a full
confession. His statement, however, was immediately sent up to London,
properly authenticated, together with the case of Walter Harrison, and
both were laid before the Home Secretary, for the consideration of his
majesty.--The necessary measures for issuing a free pardon to the
young sailor were immediately taken; and when it was presented for
signature, the great personage paused for a moment, to ask some
questions in regard to Captain Delaware, expressing considerable
indignation that so grave a charge should have been brought against a
distinguished officer on such light grounds. "Had that officer not
run off," he said--"a point of which it may be as well to take no
notice--had he not run off, it might have been necessary to make him
some compensation. But that was a great error--that was a great error,
to flinch from trial--a brave man, too--a very brave man!"
"Sir A---- B----, the judge who presided at the trial, sir," replied
the secretary, "informs me, that it was lucky he did make his escape,
alleging that he would have been hanged to a certainty, before
evidence of his innocence could have been procured. So that your
majesty has, at all events, saved a good officer."
"Always a great gain, sir," replied the personage whom he addressed;
"and if that was the case, Captain Delaware did very right. Always
stay in the ship till the very last moment, but don't go down with
her, if you can help it."
With these observations the pardon was signed, and dispatched to the
country town where the young sailor was still confined. Being set at
liberty, he immediately took his way on foot toward the village of
Emberton, where so many of our scenes have been laid. It was by this
time winter, and a hard frost rendered the road firm and dry, so that
Walter Harrison, though greatly debilitated, walked on better than
might have been expected. Night, however, had fallen ere he reached
Emberton; and glad he was that darkness hid him from the cold and
abhorrent eyes he must otherwise have encountered in the streets. But
what tongue could tell the many painful and thrilling memories that
were awakened in his bosom by every spot, as he passed through his
native town, and saw again all the scenes of youth and innocence--as
he marked the various resorts of his boyish hours, and felt that a
night, far darker than that through which he wandered, had fallen over
his life forever.
At the door of his mother's cottage garden he paused, and gazed
wistfully over the house, with feelings that would scarcely let him
enter the gate. There was a light, however, within; and his step over
the gravel of the footpath had instantly caught the mother's unerring
ear--the light moved--the door was thrown open--and the worn and weary
lad, weighed down with sin, and sickness, and sorrow, was pressed in
his mother's arms, and his cold cheek bathed in her tears!
It was long ere either could speak, and for nearly half an hour the
young sailor sat gazing upon the fire, while thick recollections of
all the past held him dull and voiceless. All the time his mother
stood by his side, and fixed her eyes upon him, tracing every line
that remorse had written, and every hue that sickness had spread over
his face; but at length she laid her hand upon his arm, and said,
"Walter, my beloved boy, we must go hence. You must not stay in this
hateful place, which has seen our ruin, our poverty, and our shame. We
must go across the sea, and I will lead you to a place that you will
like to see."
"You forget, mother! You forget!" said the youth, with a deep sigh;
"people travel not without money; neither can they live without it in
foreign countries, more than here. I am sure you do not think that I
am going to take the reward the people offered me, for giving up the
murderers.--No, no! I will not take a price for their blood!"
"I would not have you, Walter!" cried his mother, eagerly. "I would
not have you touch it with the tip of a finger, if they offered you a
world of gold on such an account. But fear not, my boy, I have the
means. Look here--what I received but yesterday--two hundred golden
sovereigns, and this kind letter; and this deed of annuity to you and
me, for one hundred pounds a year, as long as either of us live,
charged upon the estates of Mr. Henry Beauchamp."
"God bless him!" said the youth, fervently. "God bless him!"
"God will bless him, my boy!" replied the widow. "God will bless him
and make him happy, I am sure; for if ever there was a friend to the
friendless, it is Mr. Beauchamp. Only three days after the trial he
sent me this;" and she put into her son's hands a letter, in which
Henry Beauchamp explained to her that the young sailor, having been
severely wounded in turning away a pistol which had been directed
toward his head, he was not only bound, but pleased to make him a
return, which would place him above temptation from poverty.
Beauchamp, who hated that any one should feel he was conferring an
obligation upon them, added many a reason to show that he was rather
pleasing himself than loading them with benefits; and, as he read, the
young sailor shook his head with the first smile that had curled his
lip, for many weeks. "Ay!" he said, "he is a noble gentleman as ever
lived; but he need not have said so much to make us take the money,
mother; for if there is any body in the world I could be proud to take
it from, it is from Mr. Beauchamp; and I declare, mother, if I get
over it all, I will try all my life long to do nothing but what is
right--just to show him that I am grateful."
"It is far the best way that you can show it, Wat," replied his
mother; "and oh, my boy, it is the only way that ever you can set your
mother's heart at peace again!"
"Well, I will, mother, I will!" cried the lad, grasping her hand; "and
I am sure Heaven will help me, if I try--for since I have had this
wound through my side, I have not felt half so wild and willful as I
used to do; and when I was in the prison of a night, I tried to pray
many a time--and if it had not been for that, I don't think I should
have got through the whole of that bad business steadily. So, I will
try and do right; indeed I will!"
The tears streamed down his mother's cheeks; for the relief that
Beauchamp's liberality had given her was nothing to that which those
words afforded, and the night passed over in peace. The next morning,
the news spread through Emberton that the widow's son had returned;
and one or two of the ladies of that place, suddenly smitten with an
interest in the widow's fate, called at the cottage they had never
entered before, just to ask after her and her son. They carried no
gossip back into the town with them however; for the widow coldly,
though civilly, replied that her son was not well, and dismissed them
with a brief answer to more impertinent questions. Three days after
that again, the fresh tidings fluttered on the air of Emberton, that
Widow Harrison and her son had left the place, and had gone to France.
Every one opened their eyes--every one conjectured--and then the nine
days' wonder was over, and the whole affair was forgotten.
Only one person in the neighborhood saw the young sailor after his
return. This was Dr. Wilton, who, having delivered in person the
packet which Beauchamp had sent to the widow, was now visited by both
herself and her son, ere their departure, with a request that he would
convey to their benefactor the expression of their deepest gratitude.
The worthy clergyman, on first hearing who it was that awaited him in
his library, had meditated an exhortation to the young sailor on his
future conduct; but when he saw the worn and haggard look, and the
evident traces of ruined health which his countenance displayed--all
that was severe in the good man's oration died away, and it breathed
nothing but hope and consolation.
"You say you are going to France," he added; "and I will give you two
books to take with you, which, after your Bible, I should wish you to
read attentively. They contain neither cant nor affectation," he
added; "but they point out the best way for one who has been led
astray to return unto right."
Both mother and son received the books with gratitude; and after
having promised to let him know where they settled in France, they
left the worthy clergyman in the act of muttering to himself, "He'll
not live three months, poor, unhappy lad!--There is consumption in his
eyes and on his cheek!"
Scarcely were they gone, and scarcely was Dr. Wilton's comment on the
young sailor's appearance pronounced, when the rush of wheels was
heard before his windows, and in a moment the servant announced Lord
Ashborough. The doctor started up, bewildered; but as Beauchamp
entered the room, dressed in deep mourning, the events that had lately
taken place recurred to his old preceptor's mind; and, shaking him by
the hand, he exclaimed, "Welcome, my dear Harry, and let me pay my
tribute to your new rank; though, to tell you the truth, when the
servant announced the Earl of Ashborough, I scarcely knew who to
expect. I had forgotten all about it, and have been calling you Mr.
Beauchamp for this half hour, with two pensioners of yours--Widow
Harrison and her son. But with me, I am afraid, you will be Harry
Beauchamp to the end of your days."
"Let me never be any thing else, I beseech you, my dear sir," replied
Beauchamp. "The poor widow and her son, too, know me by no other name;
for the deed was drawn up before my poor uncle's death. But I must go
and see them when I visit Emberton."
"You will hardly find them there," replied Dr. Wilton; "for
apprehensions of the rude curiosity and brutal scorn of that most
gossiping place, have driven them to seek an asylum on the continent.
But tell me, Harry, what is the meaning of your looking so ill and so
anxious!"
"In regard to my ill looks," answered Beauchamp, smiling, "you must
remember, my dear sir, that, as I wrote to you, I have been seriously
indisposed since we last met; and as to my anxious looks, I have
certainly had many a subject, both of care and anxiety, pressing
heavily upon my mind. The sudden death of my uncle, and all the
consequent trouble--both in examining his affairs, and in punishing a
rascally agent, who endeavored to throw the basest imputations upon
the memory of his benefactor--have occupied more of my time and
attention than was at all pleasant to me."
"I hope at least you have succeeded in doing justice upon the agent,"
replied Dr. Wilton; "I have seen something of the affair in the
newspapers."
"I have not punished Mr. Tims quite so well as I could have wished,"
Beauchamp answered, "though he thinks the retribution more than
severe. The fact is, I am afraid my uncle suffered him to make use of
his name with too great freedom, and the lawyer has of course taken
advantage of it to screen himself at his patron's expense.
Nevertheless, I compelled him to refund every thing that he had
unjustly appropriated; but, although I believe we had proof sufficient
of one or two direct frauds to have had his name struck off the roll
of attorneys with disgrace, and perhaps might have punished him still
farther, I have been obliged to compromise that matter, and suffer him
to make his retirement from business a voluntary act."
A slight glow upon Henry Beauchamp's cheek showed Dr. Wilton plainly
that there had been parts in the conduct of the late Earl of
Ashborough which his nephew did not feel to have been quite
justifiable; and therefore, turning the conversation from a topic
which he saw was disagreeable in some of its details, he answered,
"That the man was a rogue in grain I have never had any doubt since
all the business relating to the murder of his unhappy uncle, and the
charge he preferred against poor William Delaware. But pray, Harry,
can you tell me what has become of Sir Sidney and his family--you of
course know?"
"Indeed, my dear sir, I do not," answered Beauchamp; "and one great
reason of my coming down here was to ask you the very question that
you have asked me. I have caused my solicitor in London to apply to
the trustee of Captain and Miss Delaware, to ascertain their present
residence. He replied, however, that he was as ignorant upon the
subject as any one. The ten thousand pounds that they inherited from
their mother, he had sold out, he said, at a moment's notice, and
transmitted to Sir Sidney at Mrs. Darlington's, since which time he
had heard nothing of their movements."
"Strange enough!" replied Dr. Wilton; "but we must make inquiries in
the neighborhood while you stay with me; and of course we shall find
some one who knows their address--some of the farmers, or Mr.
Johnstone, who used to collect Sir Sidney's rents, or some one."
"I am afraid it will be a more difficult matter than you anticipate,"
replied Beauchamp; "I sought them in vain when I was in France, though
I knew that they must have landed at Cherbourg; but I found that, as
they had undoubtedly gone to join William Delaware himself, their
route had been studiously concealed. Several weeks have now elapsed
since the trial; and yet, though Captain Delaware's character stands
as clear as ever it did, we have heard nothing of him."
Dr. Wilton did not now require to be told what was the chief cause of
that expression of anxiety which he had remarked in Beauchamp's
countenance; but he knew that to a lover, and an ardent one--which he
felt sure his pupil would be wherever he did love--the subject of his
hopes and fears could never become painful or tiresome when once it
had been spoken of; and he therefore went on boldly to ask, whether
Beauchamp had or had not discovered since, that he was right in
thinking that Blanche's conduct, in rejecting his hand, had proceeded
from some misapprehension.
"No, indeed, my dear sir!" replied Beau champ. "As I told you at the
time, there could be no misapprehension in the business. Nor have I
discovered any thing since, on any subject which would lead me to
think so. Indeed, I have but had the pleasure of meeting Miss Delaware
once since I last saw you."
"Nay, nay! if you speak of her in such set and formal terms, poor
girl," cried the clergyman, with a gay smile, "I shall think that your
lordship's new dignity has changed your views in regard to such an
alliance. Is it so, my noble lord?"
Beauchamp laughed, but faintly. "No, no!" he replied. "My views are
the same. All I can hope is, that the new dignity you speak of may
change hers--and yet," he added, "that would make it all worthless
together."
"Take care, Harry! Take care!" cried Dr. Wilton, with a warning shake
of the head--"Many a man has frittered away his happiness with just
such sentences as that. But I will insure you, that your title will
make no difference in the views of Blanche Delaware; so that, if you
have no other recommendation than that, you may give yourself up to
despair. But you young men are so impatient. Here you are fretting
yourself to death, because you do not discover the residence of your
ladye-love as soon as you think fit to seek it."
"Indeed, my dear sir, you are quite mistaken," answered Beauchamp. "My
chief desire is to see William Delaware and his father; and--showing
them that every difficulty which surrounded them in life is now
removed--to share in the happiness that such a change must occasion
them--that is all, indeed!"
"Poo! my dear Harry! Nonsense!" cried his old preceptor. "I never saw
a man yet who could cheat his own understanding so completely as you
sometimes do. You are just as anxious to see Blanche Delaware as ever
man was to see the woman he loved best in the world. But we will find
her, my dear boy! We will find her!"
Their search, however, in the neighborhood of Emberton, proved
entirely in vain. Neither agent nor farmers knew any thing of the
track of Sir Sidney and Miss Delaware; and at the end of a week,
Beauchamp's last hope was reduced to the information possessed by Mrs.
Darlington.