From our own paths, our love’s attesting bowers,
I am not gone,
In the deep hush of midnight’s whispering hours
Thou art not lone!
Not lone when by the haunted stream thou weepest,
That stream whose tone
Murmurs of thoughts the holiest and the deepest
We two have known.
MRS. HEMANS.
He was gone—quite gone—and slowly and wearily she dragged herself back
to the sofa, and gave free vent to all the agony which had been eating
away her very being.
She was thus drowned in tears, when the footman entered the room,
upon some pretence of closing the shutters, or of making up the fire.
The servants could not but perceive that something unusual was going
on, and their curiosity was excited by the mysterious looks of their
master and mistress, and by the sudden departure of the former. Ellen,
to avoid the inquiring gaze of the footman, hastily retired to her
boudoir, whither she had no sooner retreated than her anxious maid
peeped in to see if she might want any thing.
Pleading a violent head-ache, she bade her say she should not require
any dinner, and assured her that nothing but entire quiet could relieve
the pain under which she was suffering. The faithful creature would
prescribe all the nostrums that ever were invented for head-aches,
and poor Ellen thought she never should be allowed to weep in peace.
At length she was relieved from the troublesome attentions both of
the inquisitive and of the kind-hearted, and was left to her own sad
thoughts.
She accused herself of not having sufficiently valued the one last
morning she had passed with him. She remembered a thousand things she
meant to say—a thousand things she ought to have said. She thought she
had been cold, she thought she had been unkind, and yet she reproached
herself for having allowed him to take that one farewell kiss; for she
felt and knew she was not his wife. She could not deceive herself into
a momentary belief that the letter was an imposture. She knew that
her lawful husband was alive, and that every feeling of her soul was
therefore criminal. Still, though she scarcely indulged a hope of ever
being re-united to Algernon, she had not the courage to declare the
truth. She wished, if possible, to preserve her reputation, and her
child’s position in the world.
She now had leisure to reflect upon the line of conduct it behoved her
to adopt, and she came to the conclusion, that, provided she received
no further communication from Mr. Cresford, and that there seemed no
fear of open exposure, the only mode of preserving her fair name, and
her virtue at the same time, was to induce Mr. Hamilton to consent to
an amicable separation on the score of incompatibility of temper.
This was her best hope! How dreadful the other alternative! to be
claimed by the indignant Cresford, to be held up to the eyes of the
world as a base culprit, guilty of the crime of bigamy! It was almost
too degrading to contemplate.
Some days had now elapsed; she had every morning received the letters
with a sickening dread which almost paralysed her. With fear and horror
she had hastily turned over the exterior of every letter, and, with
inexpressible relief, she had found none that bore the dreaded foreign
post-mark. Each morning brought a long epistle from Algernon, written
in the spirit of the highest, purest, most devoted affection.
These were some balm to her heart. These were treasured up and perused
over and over again. But she was an altered creature—all around
wondered at the change. The children found that mamma could only kiss
them, and weep over them, and they became thoughtful and subdued in
her presence. The poor people wondered their bounteous lady no longer
came among them. She could not do so. She dreaded the eyes of her
fellow-creatures—their very blessings were painful to her—she felt as
if she had obtained them under false pretences. All that had given her
pleasure in this lovely place, this delightful country, now only filled
her with regret, when she thought that the next day might find her an
exile from this Paradise. Every walk, every tree, every view, every
spot she visited, reminded her of him whom she no longer ventured to
call husband, and with whom she had no hope of ever seeing them again.
Two or three weeks had now slowly dragged their weary length away,
and no fresh intelligence had arrived. It was nearly a month since
she had received the first, and she almost began to think he found it
impossible to make his escape. The friendly governor might be removed.
The mental aberration might, from over-excitement, have returned. She
felt wicked in, for a moment, anticipating such a circumstance with any
thing approaching to satisfaction; and yet the horror of another, and
still more appalling, solution of the difficulty, that he had succeeded
in his petition, and that he was on his way home, filled her with
dismay, which almost bewildered her senses.
One morning when she, as usual, received with trembling hands the
packet of letters, she perceived one from her brother with an
enclosure. With dizzy eyes she tore open the cover, and within found
another, with the same dreaded post-mark of Gratz. Despair gave her
courage to open it. It was indeed from Cresford, and be there told
her the governor had proved his kindest friend; that the Emperor had
listened favourably to his petition, and that he had every prospect of
being able to commence his journey to England in a few days,—that as
the time approached he felt ten thousand fears pass through his bosom.
How much might have happened since he left his home. His Ellen, to
whom he was now writing in the fulness of his heart, might possibly
be gathered to the dead. His children! were they still in existence?
“Oh, my dearest wife,” he continued, “you can form no conception of
the distracted and confused state of my mind when I think of the
changes that may have taken place among you. Of one thing I believe
I may rest assured, though my own wayward disposition has sometimes
been prone to unreasonable bursts of—jealousy, shall I say?—no, rather
sensitiveness,—for you will do me the justice to confess I never was
jealous of any individual,—of one thing I may rest assured, that I
shall find you pure, true, and virtuous as I left you. The knowledge
of your virtue has been my only consolation,—that conviction alone has
supported me through all my misfortunes. In one short month I shall be
at home, my Ellen, never, never again to part from you.”
This confirmation of what she most dreaded came upon her with almost
as great a shock as the first announcement of her misery. Yet she felt
ungrateful at making such a return for all the affection expressed by
Cresford, affection which had stood the test of time, which had been
his guiding principle in absence, imprisonment, even in madness.
The next moment she fancied that by such emotions she wronged Algernon,
her own adored Algernon, who was for ever torn from her, and doomed to
sufferings equal to her own.
In another month Cresford said he should be at home. The time had
nearly elapsed: he might arrive any day. There was not a moment to be
lost!
In her distraction she almost forgot to open the daily letter of Mr.
Hamilton. It breathed of hope! He had always been more sanguine than
herself, and in this he pleaded strongly to be allowed to return. He
argued that the protracted silence almost proved, beyond a doubt, that
the whole had been a false alarm.
She placed the dear letter next her heart, and, hastily gathering
together the rest of her correspondence which had been cast aside, was
preparing to arrange all things for her instant departure, when her
attention was arrested by a second epistle from her brother Henry. She
knew the worst; she had no more to fear, and she perused it with a
desperate calmness.
Henry began by saying that he, and all the other partners, had been
much distressed by a communication they had received of so strange a
character that he scarcely liked to disturb her mind by reporting it;
that yet, as he had forwarded to her by the same post a letter which
appeared to come from the same quarter as the one they had received,
and as, if he mistook not, he had some time ago sent her another with a
similar direction and post-mark, perhaps she might be prepared for what
he was going to tell her.
The fact was they had received a letter purporting to come from Mr.
Cresford, and full of incomprehensible allusions to an escape from
Verdun, and to a mock funeral; that they scarcely knew whether to
consider it a forgery or not; that he grieved to say those who were
most conversant with his hand-writing seemed most persuaded of its
authenticity; that they were all in the greatest perplexity, but, upon
the whole, agreed it was best to keep the circumstance secret for the
present.
He dreaded to think what her feelings must be; that for himself, he
was firmly convinced it was an imposture from first to last,—that he
remembered how circumstantial had been Colonel Eversham’s account
of the funeral of poor Cresford, performed by torch-light, according
to his own particular request, and attended by Colonel Eversham
himself, by Captain Morton, and several more of the _détenus_ who
were on parole. “And do you not remember his dwelling upon the awful
circumstance, that in one short week from the time Captain Morton
had acted as chief mourner at Cresford’s interment, he was himself
committed to the grave? Do not worry yourself, therefore, my dearest
sister. Depend upon it, it is a trick, with the view of extorting
money; but I thought it would not be right to leave you in ignorance of
the unpleasant doubt.
“I should have been myself the bearer of this strange despatch, but I
am unavoidably detained in town to-day by business. I will be with you
soon after you receive this.”
“It is all true,” she thought to herself, “and it is all known. It must
now be published abroad; there is no escape!” and she looked wildly
around her. This was no moment for deliberation or indecision.
She commanded post horses to be instantly sent for; she summoned her
maid; she desired the nurses, the children, the _bonne_, to prepare
instantly for a sudden journey, and she sat down to write the appalling
news to Algernon, to dash all the hopes which he had fostered, to doom
him also to a future as blank and cheerless as her own.
She began, “I have scarcely the power to write what I am now compelled
to impart to you. In a few more hours I shall have left this beloved
home; in a few more hours I shall be an outcast from this blessed
place, where I have lived as your most happy, and your honoured wife.
Thank you, Algernon, for the unutterable happiness I have for two years
enjoyed: thank you for all your love, all your tenderness.
“I am going to my father. Poor man! he little knows the shame and
misery which await the decline of his life; he who so valued the
opinion of the world! Oh, Algernon, I am doomed to bring a curse on all
who are connected with me! I shall bring his grey hairs with sorrow
to the grave; I have cast a blight over the dignified and prosperous
career which awaited you; I have been the bane of that unhappy man
whose ungoverned, ill-fated love for me led him to practise the deceit
which has worked us all so much woe. My name will be a lasting
disgrace to my children,—all of them!
“Algernon! when I think of you, my heart is near breaking; when I think
of your return to your desolate home, when I know how you will miss
me,—for I judge too well from my own, what your feelings will be,—when
I think how you will miss the children, too! Heavens, I have just
ordered the nurse to prepare herself and Agnes for our sad journey!—But
what right have I to do so? She is your child, Algernon, and shall
I deprive you of that one consolation? Shall I deprive her of an
honourable station to drag her with me into shame and degradation? No!
my wretchedness can scarcely know increase, and you shall be greeted on
your return by her smiles, her out-stretched arms, her lovely attempts
to prattle. I leave you that precious legacy. She will remind you of
her who loves you still with tenfold fervour, though it is now a crime
to do so.
“There is a sort of pleasure in sacrificing something to you: you shall
keep her and cherish her. I expect my brother every moment: he and the
other members of the house have likewise received communications from
Gratz. I cannot add another word—I cannot sign myself,—for, oh! what
name do I now bear?”
She hastily sealed her letter, and, without giving herself time to
retract, she flew up-stairs, and told the nurse that she and Agnes were
to remain at Belhanger—that only George and Caroline were to accompany
her. The nurse was astonished at the sudden change; but her mistress
looked so ghastly and so wild, she did not venture any question or
any remark. Ellen snatched her child to her heart—kissed it with such
vehemence that the terrified creature screamed—then, almost thrusting
it again into the nurse’s arms, she rushed out of the room, not daring
to trust herself another moment in its sight.
She now hastened into her own apartments, and, without allowing herself
time for tender emotions or reminiscences, she began to pack up her
papers, her letters, a few favourite books of devotion, some of the
many tokens of affection she had received from Algernon, and above all,
his picture—that picture which she gazed upon every day, ten times
every day, during his absence.
While thus employed, she saw her maid arranging her diamonds, and other
jewels, for the journey.
“Do not put up those,” she said in a clear, calm voice; “they must be
left here.”
“Dear ma’am, we always take them with us wherever we go; I always think
they are safest when they are under my own eye.”
“They must remain, Stanmore,” answered Ellen almost sternly.
“Just as you please, ma’am, certainly,” replied the abigail, whose
feelings on the subject of the diamonds were so acute that she could
not look with indifference upon any thing that concerned them, although
she saw something had certainly happened which greatly discomposed her
mistress, and was really tenderly attached to her.
“Would you please to leave all the trinkets, ma’am?” she added with
rather a mortified, injured accent.
“No, Stanmore; I must take these rings, these bracelets, all these
things—they were all given to me by dear friends.”
“I am sure, ma’am, I should have thought you might have wished what Mr.
Hamilton had given you to go along with us.”
“Say no more, Stanmore; I cannot bear it.—Only make haste,—all possible
haste!—I must go to my father to-day.”
“Dear me! I beg your pardon, ma’am; but is Captain Wareham ill?”
“No—Yes—I am not sure—I believe he is pretty well.”
Ellen left the room, having secured the few articles she much valued;
and having told Stanmore to carry the diamonds to the housekeeper, and
bid her give them to Mr. Hamilton when he returned.
“How strange!” said Mrs. Stanmore to herself. “Master and mistress
must have quarrelled desperately, somehow or another. And to think
how loving they did seem to be till just at last! Well, they say such
violent love is too hot to hold. I shall think of that when next Mr.
Perkins says a civil word to me, and give him a civil word in return,
for all he is not the man of my heart; for it’s my belief all the love
should be on the man’s side. How well my poor mistress and Mr. Cresford
went on, though he was so queer; and now she has got a husband she
loves, this is the end of it all! Ah! it does not do to make too much
of the men. If one has a man one does not care for, one has one’s wits
about one, to know how to manage him.”
While Mrs. Stanmore was making these sage reflections (in which there
is much deserving attention from the young and inexperienced), Ellen,
who could not sit still, and who was afraid to trust herself with her
child, wandered like an unquiet spirit about the house, longing to
visit every well-known room, and to bid each a sad adieu; but she met
servants in every direction carrying trunks and imperials in all the
bustle of departure.
She took refuge in her boudoir, from which the few things she meant to
carry with her were already removed. She looked round in silence and
in calmness. There was not an object which did not remind her of some
act of kindness of Algernon’s. A tap at the door startled her from the
abstraction in which she stood.
Mrs. Topham, the stately housekeeper, made her appearance.
“If you please, ma’am, I come for orders during your absence. If you
thought, ma’am, you should be away some little time, the furniture in
the chintz-room wants washing sadly, and perhaps, ma’am, it would be a
good opportunity to get it calendered.”
“Do just as you please, Mrs. Topham. I cannot attend to those things at
this moment.”
“Certainly, ma’am, I would not trouble you for the world; but Miss
Mason wished to know whether you would have them go on with master’s
neckcloths, or whether you wished the table-linen to be put in hand
immediately at the school.”
“Oh yes, Mrs. Topham.”
“What, the table-linen? or the neckcloths, did you mean, ma’am?”
“Either: it matters little! Mr. Hamilton will be at home in a few days,
and he will tell you. I am very ill, Mrs. Topham. I cannot—I cannot
answer you.” And tears for the first time that morning flowed from her
eyes.
There is nothing so strange as the causes which open the flood-gates of
woe. The vexation of being troubled with these trifles, and the feeling
that she had no longer a right to regulate them, that it would no
longer be her care to see to all these little household details, melted
her to tears, when all the deep and overwhelming bearings of the case
had not produced an inclination to weep.
Mrs. Topham departed, surprised, grieved, and a little offended.
“She never knew her mistress in such a way before. She had always
behaved so considerate to her, and spoken in such a kind and feeling
way, she was sure there was something wrong, and that her mistress had
something upon her mind.”
Ellen now thought she would once more see his study. She should there
be safe from intrusion, and she would look at every thing, and fix it
so firmly in her memory, that it should serve as a sort of picture
to which her mind’s eye might at any time recur. She marked every
chair and table, the very pattern of the cornice, the mouldings on
the book-cases, the carving of the chimney-piece. She touched all the
papers, the parliamentary reports which crowded the table, and which
might have been touched by him.
At this moment a chaise drove up to the door, and her brother Henry
leaped out of it. In another moment Ellen was in his arms, and clinging
to him in the full abandonment of long pent-up sorrow, which at length
is allowed free vent. There was a degree of relief in the presence of
one to whom she might unburthen her whole soul, from whom she need have
no secrets, and with whom she need be under no restraint.
This weakness, however, was not of long duration. She quickly shook
it off, and rousing herself, she uttered in a firm, though hurrying,
manner:—
“We must be gone directly, Henry. You will take me to my father’s; you
will go with me, dear brother, will you not?”
“Where is Hamilton?” he answered.
“He has not been here since I received the first packet you enclosed
me. We parted then!” She pressed her hand for a moment tightly upon her
eye-balls.
“Do you then consider the case so hopeless, my poor dear sister?”
“Alas! I have from the very first, although he would scarcely believe
me.”
“Oh, dreadful! dreadful! What is to be done?”
“I must go to my father, and I must leave the rest to Providence. I
have not wittingly done wrong, so I hope God will assist me to bear
that with which it is pleasure to visit me!”
“My poor, poor Ellen!”
“Do not pity me, Henry! I have prayed for strength, and hitherto I have
been mercifully supported. Do not pity me, or I shall not be able to go
through what must be done this day.”
“Ellen! By Heavens you are the most high-minded, courageous, and noble,
as well as the gentlest and loveliest creature I ever saw! Whatever the
result may be, you are certainly doing what is right. I am ready to
accompany you.”
“Every thing is prepared, Henry. I have only one task left, that of
bidding adieu to my baby—my little Agnes!”
“Do you leave her behind you?”
“I cannot rob Algernon of that which will remind him of me, and yet
give him pleasure, instead of pain. Neither will I heap more shame and
disgrace on my child’s head than is unavoidable.”
Ellen left him, and with a slow and heavy step she for the last time
mounted the oak staircase. She went to the nursery, and solemnly taking
the child away, she carried it into the room which was her own. Bolting
all the doors, she knelt as she held the infant in her arms, and
offered up for it prayers as fervent and as pure as ever ascended to
the throne of grace. Then kissing its eyes, its forehead, its lips,
“May the God of mercy bless thee, my babe! may He bless thee with
virtue, principle, rectitude! whatever may be thy fate in this world,
may He bring thee to that place where the wicked cease from troubling,
where the weary are at rest!”
She rose from her knees, and carried the child back to the nurse. In a
calm and steady voice, she bade her, as she valued her peace of mind
here and hereafter, to do her duty by the infant; and begging God to
bless them both, she steadily went down the stairs, and without looking
to the right or to the left, passed through the hall. When she reached
the door, she paused, and turning round, she saw the servants who, half
wonder, half sympathy, had collected at the different doors, and were
pressing forward. She tried to speak—her voice failed her; she made
another effort, and at length uttered,—
“You have all done your duties by me, and may God reward you for it!”
A burst of tears and sobs, they scarcely themselves knew wherefore, was
all the answer they could make.
Henry supported her into the carriage. Her elder children and their
attendants entered the other, and she was rapidly conveyed from a spot
where she had endured the two extremes, of mortal bliss and mortal woe.