We that did nothing study but the way
To love each other, with which thoughts the day
Rose with delight to us, and with them set,
Must learn the cruel art how to forget.
——Like turtle doves
Dislodged from their haunts, we must in tears
Unwind a love knit up in many years.
Now turn we each from each—so fare our hearts,
As the divorced soul from its body parts.
_The Surrender._
Mr. Hamilton had half succeeded in persuading himself the whole
thing was a cunning forgery. The story seemed so improbable. No
letter had ever arrived from Cresford—no Maitland had ever brought
any intelligence of this attempt to escape. Colonel Eversham had
seen him carried to the grave—the funeral had taken place at night,
by Mr. Cresford’s dying request, he said. How unlikely, whatever
might subsequently have been the difficulties of his situation,
that if alive, he should really have allowed so much time to elapse
without writing to the wife with whom he was so madly in love! These
reflections all presented themselves to his mind, and by dinner-time
he was able to take his accustomed seat, and to do the honours of his
table with tolerable self-possession.
Towards evening Mrs. Allenham was alarmed by a recurrence of Ellen’s
faintness: it was immediately after her children had been brought in to
wish her good night.
Mrs. Allenham was urgent that a physician should be sent for. Ellen
appeared to revive, to express her vehement desire that no one should
be summoned. She only wished that her maid should sleep on a sofa in
her room, in case she should be worse in the night. Mrs. Allenham
thought Mr. Hamilton rather remiss in not sending for medical advice.
“Mr. Allenham,” she thought, “though he does not make such a fuss about
his love for me, would never let me be as ill as Ellen is, without
sending for all the doctors in the neighbourhood; but different men
have different ways, and one must take people as one finds them.”
One thing, however, she resolved upon, that if Ellen was not better
the next morning, she would speak her mind openly to Mr. Hamilton, and
insist on his having the very best advice.
Ellen was no sooner in her bed than she dropped into a profound
slumber, from which she awoke early the next morning, refreshed in
body, and with only a vague recollection of the tremendous change which
had taken place in her fate. By degrees her actual situation opened
upon her.
How dreadful is the waking from a real sound sleep of forgetfulness,
after any severe misfortune has befallen us! The temporary oblivion of
our sorrows scarcely compensates for the agony of recollection.
She was, however, aware of the necessity of concealing what she felt,
if she wished to preserve the illegitimacy of her child from becoming
public, while there was yet a hope of its remaining unknown. She passed
some time in humble prayer, imploring guidance from above, judgment to
know what was right, and strength to execute it.
She rose from prayer in a calmer frame of mind—she felt herself
fortified for the task before her— she thought that if Algernon left
her at Belhanger alone, there could be no crime in delaying the
promulgation of the dreadful secret, for the chance of saving herself
and her child from unmerited disgrace.
She went down to breakfast, and she made an attempt to smile in return
to the salutations and inquiries of her friends. She was in the act
of assuring them she was quite well, when Mr. Hamilton entered the
apartment. She started as she heard his well-known turn of the lock,
she faltered in her speech as he entered, her paleness was replaced by
a vivid glow, which overspread her face, but she turned not her eyes
upon him; she studiously avoided meeting his; the first sound of his
voice thrilled through her very being.
She took her station at the breakfast-table, upon the same spot where
yesterday she had received that fatal intelligence which had so
completely broken up her happiness. She took her station as mistress of
the mansion to which she had no longer any right. She felt she was an
impostor.
Mr. Hamilton, who had the preceding day buoyed himself up with
something more of hope than she had done, had passed a night of anxious
restlessness. Sleep had not for one moment weighed down his eyelids;
and when at length Ellen ventured almost by stealth to take one look at
that beloved countenance, her heart was pierced to see it so wan, so
haggard.
Their object was to avoid exciting remark. A plan was proposed, and
acceded to, of driving to see a fine castle in the neighbourhood, in
which was a collection of pictures. Ellen accompanied the ladies in an
open carriage, and Mr. Hamilton took the gentlemen across the country
on horseback.
While others were engaged in admiring some of the masterpieces of art,
Ellen found herself near Mr. Hamilton.
“Algernon, you look very ill,” she said: “it breaks my heart to see
you!”
“Can it be otherwise, Ellen? Even you can scarcely know the tortures I
endure.”
“We must not speak to each other. I shall lose the self-command I have
so struggled to obtain. But I have behaved well, Algernon. I have
conducted myself according to your wishes?”
“Yes! yes! May God bless you, dearest and best! I cannot trust myself
to say another word.”
He hastened away, and went to the stables, as though to see for the
horses and the barouche. Ellen busied herself in examining a picture,
of which she did not see one form, and drove back her bursting tears,
and stilled the tumult of her soul.
On their way home, Lady Coverdale was eloquent on the beauties of this
part of the world, on the charms of Belhanger, and discussed with much
interest the plan for the flower-garden which Ellen was making along
the terrace in front of the house.
“When your shrubs have grown, and the creepers cover that bowered
walk to the left, it will be quite beautiful. Are you not always
very impatient at the slow growth of plants? One has to wait so long
before one sees any result produced. I think it is a great objection
to gardening. However, you are very young, and you may look forward to
many years of enjoying your improvements.”
These simple words shot like daggers through Ellen’s heart. She could
not reply, and notwithstanding all her efforts to appear at her ease,
the conversation flagged. Caroline had seen Ellen speak in a low voice
to Mr. Hamilton, while others were engaged with the paintings; she had
seen him suddenly leave the room, and perceiving how oppressed Ellen’s
spirits were, became thoroughly convinced some serious disagreement had
occurred.
“Well,” she thought, “I suppose it will all come right again. Everybody
cannot go on so smoothly as dear Mr. Allenham and I do!”
When they returned from their excursion, Ellen retired to her room.
She had not the heart, as usual, to repair to the nursery or the
school-room. The sight of her two elder children harrowed her soul,
from the fear that she possessed them only for a time, that they would
be torn from her just when their opening intelligence, their amiable
dispositions, had superadded to the instinctive love of a mother, the
affection produced by their own good qualities. The sight of her little
girl was scarcely less agonising, from the conviction that she must
soon be a nameless outcast!
She had again recourse to prayer, and she again rose from her devotions
strengthened and resigned.
At that moment a gentle tap at the door was heard, and Algernon entered.
“I must see you, I must speak to you, Ellen! Human nature cannot endure
this continued state of effort. Let us unbend for a few short moments.
Tell me you love me, and that, let our fate be what it may, your heart,
your whole heart, is mine.”
“Oh, Algernon! I have just been praying for strength and resignation,
and I thought I had obtained my prayer. Do not speak to me in those
tender tones. They melt away my whole soul, and I will, I will be firm.
I must no longer allow myself to use such expressions; but I cannot
even try not to feel all and more than I ever felt before. Spare my
weakness, Algernon, and remember that dearly as I prize your love,
I prize your good opinion still more. That is the one thought which
enables me to exist, I believe.”
He looked on her with admiration, almost amounting to awe.
“My good opinion! You are as much superior to me, or to any other
living being, as the angels of heaven are to the common run of mortals.
I adore you, I venerate you, as one of them.” He knelt at her feet.
“Speak, and I will obey you. I place myself under your guidance. I will
regulate my actions by what you deem calculated to ensure your own
peace of mind. I will prove to you that I can equal you at least in
self-devotion; though my heart may break, I will not yield to you in
that!”
“Get up, Algernon. Do not kneel at my feet. I cannot bear to hear you
speak in such a manner. These scenes must not recur. We only agonize
each other, and render ourselves unfit for our task. Leave me, dearest;
leave me to compose myself!”
“You bid me leave you, and I will do so. But will you not give me your
hand?—that dear hand which, after all, was pledged to me at the altar!”
He took her unresisting hand. “It was I who placed that ring upon your
finger, Ellen; you then swore to me eternal fidelity, you swore to love
me ‘till death us did part.’ Can any thing cancel that vow?” And he
drew her gently towards him.
“O God! nothing, nothing!” She dashed his hand from her, and rushed to
the opposite corner of the room. She glared wildly upon him. “Nothing,
nothing can cancel that first dreadful vow! Oh! do not remind me of
those words. It was then the vision came over me! He, whom you tell
me is my husband, seemed to rise up between us, Algernon! It was a
forewarning of what was to happen! I ought to have obeyed the warning—I
should have stopped before”—her voice faltered, but she continued in a
tone of unutterable sweetness—“before those words made me the happiest
woman in the whole world!” She hid her face with her hands, and burst
into tears.
“Bless you for what you have just said, my own Ellen!”
“Do not call me your own Ellen; I am not—can never be! In mercy leave
me—this agony is not to be endured!”
Slowly and reluctantly he withdrew: he stood for a few moments at the
door, and then he closed it, and she remained alone.
She had prayed for strength, and she found it. She did not weep, but
meekly sat, patient and uncomplaining. The hour for dressing arrived,
and she mechanically proceeded with her toilet. Her maid had prepared
the dress, the ornaments she thought she would wear. Mechanically she
sate before the looking-glass, mechanically she arranged her ringlets
round her face; she placed in her hair the ornamental comb her maid
presented to her, fastened her ear-rings, held out her arm to have her
bracelets clasped, and, when she was dressed, wondered at herself for
having tricked herself out in all these gewgaws.
“How strange,” she thought, “that I should have been able thus to deck
this wretched form!” But such is the force of habit: it does not come
into any body’s head to leave off the feathers, the diamonds, the
flowers with which they are in the habit of adorning themselves, though
the heart beneath may be breaking—and yet it seems a mockery!
Before dinner Lady Coverdale begged that the children might be sent
for, and little Agnes appeared in a beautiful cap which Miss Coverdale
had embroidered for her. The beauty of the child’s eyes was discussed.
“If Agnes grows up according to this promise, Mrs. Hamilton”—(Ellen
started at the name)—“you will have a pleasant task in acting as her
chaperon.”
Ellen almost sank at the prospect which was thus brought before her.
She could not answer, but, hastily turning away, stirred the fire with
great energy, at the same time exclaiming, “How hot it is!”
They went to dinner; she was seated at the head of the table, opposite
to Mr. Hamilton. She felt a sort of melancholy pleasure in being, as
it were, forced to appear as his wife; but never did two such bursting
hearts pass calmly through an evening of society.
Another day succeeded, and it was spent in the same struggle. On the
third the Coverdales departed, thinking that, for so happy a couple,
they were the most fashionably cool they had ever seen; the Allenhams,
fearing that Mr. Hamilton, charming as he was, must have an odd corner
of temper, for, as to Ellen, they knew her too well to imagine for a
moment that she could be in fault.
They all drove from the door, and the wretched couple were left alone
with their love and their misery.
“And now _you_ must leave me, Algernon; we must not remain here alone,
and I even doubt whether I ought to remain under your roof.”
“Oh, Ellen! one would think you wished to believe we were severed, for
ever severed! There is still hope.”
“None for me! I know that hand-writing too well.”
“Must I go to-day?”
“To-day, if you value my peace, and the little remnant of honour I may
yet hope to preserve.”
“This is hard, this is cruel; but you shall have an approving
conscience, my own Ellen; and if your conscience will be easier when
I am gone, I will not linger: I will order every thing for my journey,
and I will go at dusk to-night. Till then, you will let me be with you;
till then, I may look on your face—I may listen to your voice—I may
breathe the same air with you!”
He flew to order his departure, and in another instant was by her side.
There was a melancholy satisfaction in being together, and yet, when
they were so, they could not speak: what could they say that was not
fraught with wretchedness?
“I must see our children, Ellen.”
He had been in the habit of calling all the children “our;” but the
little word, which from the force of habit escaped him, struck daggers
to the hearts of both. The two elder were his children who might soon
be at home to claim them.
They all three came, and poor Hamilton devoured them with kisses. The
little Agnes was just old enough to know him, and to hold out her arms
to him with a smile of joy. They could neither of them endure this
long; they could not talk to the children—they could not play with
them—they could not listen to their prattle, and they were soon sent
away.
Strange to say, these last few hours, whose flight they so much
dreaded, hung heavy. They wished to arrest the course of time, and yet
they knew not how to pass it. They strolled into the garden: every
thing there spoke of hope and promise; every thing within their own
bosoms boded unheard-of wretchedness.
They had several times paced in silence round the sheltered parterre,
when Ellen turned deadly pale, and stopped for a few moments.
“You must lean on me, Ellen! You must take my arm.”
Her feebleness compelled her to do so, and once more he had the
happiness of feeling that lovely form rest on him for support.
Neither spoke again. Both hearts were too full for utterance. In
silence they bent their course homeward. They again returned to the
drawing-room. They once more sat down there together. They could not
bring themselves to quit each other for a moment,—to lose one instant
of these few precious hours; and yet to each, the presence of the other
was oppressive. This state of misery and _gêne_ was worse than that
occasioned by the presence of others.
They could not, at such a moment, speak on indifferent subjects; and if
they alluded to their own situation, it must lead to passionate bursts
of feeling, which she considered as criminal, and which he also dreaded
for her sake.
At length the hour of departure came. The carriage was announced—and
he went up-stairs alone once more to give his parting blessing to the
children. He returned to her.
“I think we may correspond,” she said, “there can be nothing wrong in
that, till our fate is quite decided.”
“Oh yes, yes; you must write every day,” he replied. “I shall find out
some retired spot in Wales, and I shall remain there in utter seclusion
till your mind is made easy by hearing no more. In three months you
will conclude it was only a forgery?”
She shook her head. “I know the writing.”
“In six months? In a year, you will—name some time—set some term to my
banishment!”
“We will write—I am not capable of knowing or understanding what is
right in your presence. You must leave me, Algernon, or I think I shall
die, now, at your feet!”
“And are we to part thus?”
She stood like a marble statue, as cold, as pale, as motionless.
“Are we to part thus? Impossible!” and he snatched her to his bosom,
and imprinted on her lips one kiss of deep, fervent, unalterable love.
He tore himself away, and plunging into the carriage, in a few moments
was borne far from the scene of all his happiness.
When she heard the sound of the wheels, she made a desperate rush to
the window, and remained fixed there to listen for their sound, and to
fancy she still heard it, long after it was possible to do so.