See the poor captive from his dungeon break,
Where long he pined, and hail the light of day,
With eyes that in the broad effulgence ache,
With smiles that ’mid deep lines of anguish play!
How eagerly he meets the morning gale
With lab’ring lungs that each sweet breath would seize!
How fondly views the hill, the plain, the vale,
Green meadows, brooks, fields, flowers, and waving trees!
And, “Gods!” he cries, “how dear is liberty!
Is there in Heaven’s large gift a boon beside?
The world is mine, and all the good I see!”
But soon, too soon, his raptures wild subside,
And sighing sad, “Not Freedom’s self to me
Is sweet,” he cries, “if one to share it be denied.”
_Unpublished Poems._
The next day Henry was obliged to return to London: indeed, he wished
to be upon the spot, in case of Mr. Cresford’s arrival; and Ellen was,
on the same account, equally anxious he should depart.
Mrs. Allenham made several attempts to learn from Ellen the particulars
of her separation; but Ellen assured her the subject was at present
too painful to dwell upon; and they remained together in melancholy
calmness not unmixed with _gêne_, for Caroline was somewhat hurt at
Ellen’s reserve.
She had one conversation with her father, in which he was all kindness
and sympathy, and she now sat down to a task which she deemed one of
absolute necessity, although of the utmost difficulty, namely, to
write to Mr. Cresford a letter which should meet him on his arrival in
London, and convey to him the dreadful intelligence, which sooner or
later, must reach him.
It was as follows:—
“I know not how to address you, and I dread lest you should have heard
from some other quarter all that has occurred, and may cast aside the
letter of one whom you deem untrue to you, without reading her own
statement of the facts.
“Believe me, when I swear by every thing we hold most sacred, that
the first communication I received from you, from the time I read the
official account of your death in the public newspapers, was the letter
I received last month, dated from Gratz. I had then for two years
believed myself the wife of Mr. Hamilton.
“As I write these words, my spirit quails at the effect I know they
must produce on you; my heart bleeds for the pain I am inflicting on
you; for, indeed, I do justice to the strength of your affection for
me, and I grieve to be thus the cause of anguish to one who loves me!
It is a cruel return for all the fidelity you have preserved to me; but
you must know the truth, and I had rather you should learn it from me,
than from common report—from the busy tongue of slander.
“Mr. Maitland never brought me the letter to which you allude. I
have never seen any of your companions in misfortune, except Colonel
Eversham, who told me how he followed your remains to the grave, and I
have yet to learn by what means you effected your escape from Verdun.
For two years I mourned you in sincerity and truth. During all that
time I regulated my conduct by what I supposed would have been your
wishes, if you had been able to express them to me before your supposed
death.
“Some months after the expiration of my two years’ mourning, I accepted
the hand of Mr. Hamilton. You must feel, that, although this second
marriage is null and void, and that in the eye of the law I am your
wife, an eternal barrier is placed between yourself and me.
“Upon the reception of your first letter, Mr. Hamilton left me,
and I have not seen him since. Upon the confirmation of this first
letter (in the authenticity of which we scarcely believed), I removed
with—the—two children to my father’s.” [She had at first written
“_your_ two children;” but she felt as if by that word she were tacitly
yielding them up to him, and she substituted _our_. This she feared
might imply that their reunion was not impossible, and she wrote
_the_.] “Indeed, indeed, my conscience acquits me of having wilfully
done any thing wrong, though I am aware I have cast a blight over the
fate of all those whose happiness I would gladly die to secure. Would
I could die! But it is our duty to suffer and submit. Misfortune has,
I hope, taught you likewise the duty of resignation. Pray, as I do,
for strength to fulfil our pilgrimage here on earth in unrepining
patience and humility, so that we may hereafter be deemed worthy of
our Maker’s promised blessings to those who do his will in this world.
Our misfortunes have not originated in guilt: in that reflection let
us find a supporting hope; and rest assured that, had I known you
to be living, no length of absence, no human power, no imaginable
circumstances, should have shaken my adherence to my maiden vow of
constancy: you should have found me as you left me—
“Your faithful wife,
“ELLEN CRESFORD.”
With what unutterable anguish did she write that name! For some minutes
she held the pen suspended before she summoned courage to trace the
dreaded characters. Yet why, when her whole letter avowed herself his
wife, why fear to write the word? She forced herself to do so; but as
she wrote, she felt guilty towards Algernon. She had been so completely
in the habit of doing every thing with reference to him, of being
guided by him, of acting as if his eye was always upon her, that she
thought what would be his emotions, if he saw her thus deliberately
deny him! Yet this was indeed her name, and if she avoided it, she
might irritate him who was in very truth her husband; him, who had a
right at any moment to tear her children from her! She would no longer
hesitate—she would not give herself the opportunity of altering the
signature; she sealed the letter, she directed it, she enclosed it to
her brother, and when all was done, she felt her separation from him
she loved more complete than ever. A gush of tenderness came over her
soul. If Algernon had at that moment been at her feet, there is no
knowing whether she might not have consented to fly with him to the
wilds of America, or to any spot on earth where human institutions
could not reach.
When Algernon arrived at Belhanger, a few days after Ellen’s departure,
he lost no time in sending little Agnes to rejoin her mother. He
thought the presence of her child,—his child,—might afford her the
sensation nearest approaching to pleasure of any thing she was now
capable of experiencing. It was not without many a bitter pang that he
brought himself to part from the only object that remained to him, of
all that a few short weeks ago had made him the happiest man alive.
But, in addition to his anxiety to lessen by any means within his
power the bitterness of her fate, it is possible that a lingering hope
mingled itself, that she could not refuse to let him occasionally see
his child, and that he might perhaps thus obtain an interview with
herself.
His home was now utterly desolate. He wandered as she had done before,
like an unquiet spirit, from room to room. He pictured to himself
what must have been her feelings when she tore herself from them.
He longed to know how she had passed that last sad month; he wished
for every trifling detail concerning her occupations, her looks, and
yet he did not like to question the servants. He saw in their faces
an expression of wonder and dismay; they moved about with stealthy
steps, and spoke with subdued voices, while in the part of the house
which he inhabited; or else, as he passed by the offices, he heard
the loud laugh proceeding from the servants-hall, or the blithe carol
of the laundry-maids over their wash-tub, which jarred his feelings,
and he was tempted to exclaim mentally against the heartlessness of
menials. Their curiosity, and their want of sympathy, both checked the
inclination to question them concerning Ellen, which his restlessness
caused frequently to arise in his bosom. Moreover, he scarcely knew in
what terms to speak of her.
Mrs. Topham, however, spared him the trouble of deciding for himself.
A few days after his return, she made her appearance to receive his
orders about the furniture of the chintz-room, saying that Mrs.
Hamilton had desired her to ask him what he wished to have done, and
also to inquire his pleasure concerning the neck-cloths. He begged her
to use her own discretion on those subjects, but still detained her in
conversation, hoping she would, of her own accord, allude to Ellen.
Finding that Mrs. Topham’s discourse was strictly confined to her
business, he ventured at length to say,
“I am afraid your mistress was not quite well when she left Belhanger?”
“Why certainly, sir, Mrs. Hamilton did not look so well as she used to
do. There was not a servant in the house that did not remark it. But it
was very lonesome for her here by herself, and we thought perhaps that
was the reason she appeared so low. I am sure, sir, we all heartily
wished for you back again, if it was only for our poor mistress’s sake.”
Mrs. Topham, whose curiosity had only been repressed by her respectful
discretion, had no mind to lose this opportunity of ascertaining
whether her master and mistress were really parted or not, and of
satisfactorily clearing up the mystery of their late proceedings.
“I suppose, sir,” she continued, “my mistress will be coming back
soon;—do you not think it would be a good thing to get the muslin
curtains in the boudoir washed before her return?”
Poor Hamilton had wished to lead the conversation to Ellen, and now he
had succeeded in doing so, he writhed under the questions,—he thought
it better not to hear her name mentioned at all, than to be subject to
them, and hastily bidding Mrs. Topham see to all those things in her
own department, he hurried out to mount his horse, and to gallop like a
maniac over the country, as if he could thus escape from the corroding
care which followed faster than he could fly.
When, in violent exercise alone, did he experience temporary relief
from misery. At home every thing breathed of Ellen, and, though it was
agonizing to him to see traces of her on all sides, he could not tear
himself from the spot; he would pass whole hours in her morning room,
looking over her books, turning over the leaves of the blotting book,
in which were notes, memorandums, various little matters which belonged
to her. He would gaze for several minutes upon any half-bound book,
which had “Ellen Hamilton” written in her hand on the outside. Those
two words contained for his heart a world of passionate and blasted
feelings. The very household accounts were not without a charm in his
eyes—for they perpetuated the memory of a time when she was his wife.
There is no need to dwell upon the emotions of Ellen when the nurse
brought her child. The smiles of the infant and the letter which
accompanied it were a momentary balm to her heart. Algernon expressed
his conviction that, whatever their own fates might be, he could in
no way so effectually secure the ultimate and eternal welfare of
their child, as by causing its young mind to be trained to all that
was virtuous, under Ellen’s own immediate eye. She could not but be
gratified by his opinion of her, and grateful for his kindness. It was
about a fortnight from the period of their final separation, when Henry
Wareham was one day called out of his office to speak to a gentleman
who awaited him in a private apartment. Henry’s heart misgave him. His
worst fears were on the point of being realized. It must be Cresford.
The room was dark. Henry’s eyes were dizzy with intense anxiety; he
thought he did not recognise the face; but it was Cresford’s voice
which asked,
“Are you Henry Wareham?”
“Heavens! Cresford. Is it indeed yourself?”
“Where is my wife?” uttered Cresford, in a choked tone of defiance.
“Ellen is with her father,” stammered Henry.
“Why was she not here to receive her husband?” continued Cresford.
“Here is a letter, Cresford, which she desired me to give you, and
which will explain all.”
“Then what I have heard is true!” exclaimed Cresford in a burst of
uncontrollable passion. “Your virtuous sister thought I was safe in
an Austrian dungeon, and she has given the loose to her profligate
fancies, under the specious veil of marriage! Well done, your
sanctified hypocrite! The mourning widow of Ephesus with a vengeance!”
And he laughed an appalling, withering laugh, which made Henry shudder.
His eyes glared with the fire of madness. Henry almost shrank with the
involuntary terror from which the bravest cannot defend themselves if
they suspect mental aberration in a fellow-creature.
“Cresford, read this letter, and I think you will not make use of such
hard expressions. Though you may be miserable, you will not be so
angry.”
“So, because I have loved her with mad idolatry, because my passion
for her has driven me to acts of desperation,—has driven me to set at
nought my life—my safety, you think I am such a besotted fool, that
three lines traced by her hand, are to turn the whole current of my
feelings; that she can persuade me quietly to yield her to the arms of
my rival.” He paused, then added in a deep and thrilling voice, “You
neither of you know me. You know not half I have gone through.”
“Cresford, all I implore is that you will read my sister’s letter. We
all believed you dead. The partners in the firm all believed it.”
“It was their interest—it was your interest to do so,” he answered with
a bitter smile.
However, he took the letter.
“Oh, how I have longed to see any thing belonging to her. And now—”
A tear gathered in his eye. Henry augured well of that omen, and stood
in silence, somewhat apart.
He had leisure to remark the havoc which time and suffering, and, as
he began to fear, madness, had worked in the fine features of his
brother-in-law. They were sharper, his nose more prominent, his lips
thinner, and more compressed. His brow low on his eye, which glanced
quickly and suspiciously from beneath it. Although still young, for
Cresford was not yet thirty, his hair was considerably mixed with grey.
Henry watched the varying expression of his countenance as he
proceeded with poor Ellen’s letter, and he sincerely commiserated the
wretched man, who was now a prey to the most agonizing passions of our
nature—blasted hope—indignant jealousy.
When he came to the part in which she spoke of having for two years
believed herself the wife of Mr. Hamilton, he stamped upon the floor,
and crushing the paper in his clenched hand, Henry thought would have
destroyed it, in the paroxysm of his rage. However, he proceeded, and
a softer shade stole over his face when he read of her grief at making
such a return for all his kindness and affection. A tear trickled
down his cheek as he came to the part where she described her strict
adherence to his wishes; and when she mentioned her having parted from
Mr. Hamilton upon the reception of his first letter, he vehemently laid
his hand on Henry’s arm.
“Is this true?” he said. “Did she part from that man at once?”
“Indeed she did, and has not seen him since.”
“Henry, did she love him?—answer me that.”
Henry hesitated—“They seemed to live comfortably together, whenever I
have seen them.”
“Madness! distraction! Did they love each other?”
“I saw but little of them, for I was always in the office,” replied
Henry evasively.
“I must see her—I must see her herself; I must know the truth!” He
resumed the letter, but hastily passing over that part which spoke of
resignation, “There is no use in preaching resignation to me! She might
as well attempt to chain the ocean!” He glanced at the signature. “Oh,
merciful Heaven! that I could forget all that has gone before; that
I could annihilate the preceding words, and preserve nothing but the
last, ‘Your faithful wife, Ellen Cresford!’”
He gazed in rapturous tenderness upon the words; his tears flowed fast;
he kissed the name again and again. Then hastily turning to Henry, he
added, “I must see her once again, and then—God knows what will become
of me!”
He rushed out of the house, and before many minutes had elapsed was on
his road to Captain Wareham’s residence.