Cher petiot, bel amy, tendre fils que j’adore,
Cher enfançon, mon souicy, mon amour,
Te voy, mon fils, te voy, et veux te veoir encore,
Pour ce trop brief me semblent nuiet et jour.
CLOTILDE DE SUUVILLE, 13th _Century_.
The next morning Captain Wareham, at Ellen’s request, wrote a note to
Algernon to tell him she was well, and that little Agnes was rapidly
recovering, and also to assure him that Ellen’s mind was comparatively
at ease. In his answer to Captain Wareham he told him that having
heard so satisfactory an account of those in whose welfare his every
feeling was centered, he should quit * * *, as he feared his presence
in the town might occasion Cresford’s also remaining there, in jealous
irritation; but that he trusted, when every thing was quiet, and
Cresford (as he flattered himself he would) had resumed his habits of
business, he might be allowed to visit his child; that he likewise
claimed some pity, and that a father’s heart yearned towards his only
child. He said no more. He wished to accustom her to the idea that he
must, that he ought to see Agnes, and he hoped by degrees to persuade
Ellen to allow him an interview herself.
Cresford, as Hamilton had anticipated, left * * * when he had
ascertained his rival’s departure, and he returned to London. He then
entered with ardour into the concerns of the house,—peremptorily
insisted upon the speedy adjustment of the affairs, which had been
rendered perplexed by his return, and resolved that he would make
himself a name as the first and greatest of English merchants. If, in
private life, he stood in the contemptible position of the discarded,
the deserted husband, in the world he would be respected as one of the
most leading men in the city. But his mind, weakened, excited, and
unsettled by what he had undergone, was not equal to accomplishing all
he undertook. His schemes were wild and visionary, and neither added to
the stability nor to the consideration of the house.
Henry Wareham, who had lost no time in withdrawing himself, had found
little difficulty in gaining admittance into another establishment of
equal, if not greater, note; his capital, which, though not large,
had increased during the time he had formed one in the Cresford
partnership, his character for steadiness and industry, and his clear
practical head, making him an acquisition in any concern, while the
cause of his retirement from his present business excited an interest
in his favour.
There is no want of generous and kind feeling in this country. A case
of undeserved misfortune, if once known and understood, rarely fails to
create friends and protectors.
Ellen’s ardent desire to see her elder children increased, rather
than diminished, with time. The savage wildness of Cresford’s eye and
manner filled her with uneasiness for their fate. Henry had ascertained
that he had taken for them a small house at Brompton, and that he
visited them once or twice a week. The _bonne_, whom she had placed
about them, she knew to be a good creature, although not possessed
of much information, nor by any means the person to whom she would
willingly have entrusted the complete guidance of their minds and
characters. Still she was grateful that he left them under her care,
and she rejoiced that he did not habitually live with them, and that
consequently they were not exposed to the starts of passion which, even
in better days, had been formidable.
She thought if she could once see them, unknown to themselves,—merely
see them as they passed by, and ascertain that they looked healthy and
happy, that she should feel more contented.
She opened this idea one day to Captain Wareham, who treated it as
fanciful and romantic. The irritability of temper, which, during the
time of great and serious distress completely subsided, had gradually
again grown into a habit. He was too old to alter, and although
his heart was most kind, his feelings for Ellen tender, yet in the
every-day intercourse of life she could not avoid sometimes perceiving
that she brought much trouble and discomfort upon him in the decline of
life.
She proposed a visit to Caroline and to Mr. Allenham, who had urged
her completing the cure of little Agnes by trying change of air. She
knew that the kind-hearted Caroline would willingly agree to any plan
which might promise her a moment’s comfort, and, if Mr. Allenham would
give his consent, she could not have more respectable sanction and
assistance.
Caroline, as she expected, was all good-nature, nor did Mr. Allenham
disapprove of the idea. He saw that she was in so restless a state,
that she was so possessed with the notion that if her children were
sick, she would not be apprised of their illness,—that they might
be dying, and she remain in ignorance,—that he really thought it
desirable her mind should be relieved upon this subject. One thing he
premised,—that she should not make herself known to them. If it ever
came to Cresford’s ears, he might secrete them where she would have no
means of hearing or knowing about them; and at all events it would be
wrong to excite curiosity, useless regrets, or premature sensibilities
in the children; still more so to accustom them to mystery and
concealment. She saw the reason of his arguments: all she begged was to
be allowed to disguise herself in the dress of a common maid-servant,
and to walk in the street near which they lived, till she could once
see them pass along, healthy and cheerful.
In compliance with her wishes, they all three repaired to London. Ellen
and Caroline dressed themselves in the most homely apparel, and Ellen
solemnly promised Mr. Allenham to do nothing which might cause herself
to be recognised. They entered a shop nearly opposite the dwelling
which contained her children. Mrs. Allenham busied herself bargaining
for threads, tapes, and ribbons, while Ellen stood near the door, half
out of sight, watching with a palpitating heart, and eyes which were
almost blinded with intense gazing, the windows, the doors of the house.
After some time the sash was thrown up, and she saw her own little
Caroline run into the balcony. The child looked well and blooming; her
fair hair hanging down her back in glossy ringlets, her laughing eyes
sparkling with gaiety, her cheeks glowing with health! Those ringlets
which she had so often fondly twisted through her fingers, those eyes
she had so often kissed, those cheeks which had so often been pillowed
to rest upon her bosom!
She had pledged herself to do nothing to attract attention,—and she
kept her word. But a fearful chill ran through her. Where was George?
Why was not he playing with his sister? Was he ill? She could no longer
watch every graceful movement of Caroline, so agonizingly did she look
for her boy. George, the playful, the high-spirited George, what could
keep him within? The suspense was almost too much to endure without
betraying herself. She had nearly made up her mind to ask the shop
people, in as unconcerned a tone as she could command, whether they
had lately seen the little boy who lived opposite. She had approached
Mrs. Allenham, and had grasped her arm in almost speechless tremor,
when she saw George appear for one moment at the window, and beckon his
sister in. She breathed again, and, seating herself for a few moments,
recovered her self-possession. Mrs. Allenham had turned round with an
anxious look of inquiry.
“It is nothing,” whispered Ellen, “it is all right now!”
“Are you ready to go,” rejoined Caroline.
“Yes—oh, no, wait a few minutes longer.” She returned to the door to
look once more. All was quiet—no one was to be seen at the window. At
length Caroline could devise no fresh articles to purchase, and they
left the shop. At that moment the door opened, and bounding down the
steps, she saw both children with rosy cheeks and active forms, and
radiant faces.
She stopped, trembling, and gazed till they were out of sight. They
passed on, unconscious and contented, each holding a hand of the good
old _bonne_, and jumping as they went with the light-hearted merriment
of childhood. She faithfully made no sign, nor movement that should
attract attention, and turned her steps towards their temporary
domicile, satisfied and relieved; but, such is the inconsistency of the
human heart, that, anxious as she was to know them happy, a painful
feeling shot through her to think how joyous they were without her.
While she—yet she wished them to be joyous, though it was bitter
to think her children should grow up without any love for her, any
recollection of her.
If such thoughts did cross her mind, they found not utterance in words.
She professed herself satisfied, and they returned to Longbury. She
loved Longbury; it was there she had first seen Algernon. It was there
he had first breathed his vows of love; it was there she had, as she
then fancied, bound herself to him by ties, which death only was to
sever.
Since the trial, Cresford insisted upon her receiving alimony from him.
It was painful to her to do so; but he would have been furious at the
idea of her being beholden to Hamilton. Her father, though he had the
will, had not the means of supporting her; and feeling also that her
miseries tended rather to depress him, and to throw a gloom over the
youth of Matilda, she retired to a very small cottage in the outskirts
of the town, and there resided in the deepest retirement, seeking
consolation in the performance of the few duties which remained to her
to fulfil,—devotion to her child, and attention to the poor around
her; her only amusement, the cultivation of her tiny flower-garden.
The neighbouring peasants soon learned to look upon her as their
friend, and applied to her in all cases of distress. She had heard
Algernon’s opinions upon the mischief produced by indiscriminate
charity, and she tried so to regulate her’s, as not to reward the idle
and complaining, while the frugal, industrious, and contented, were
unnoticed, and unassisted. She felt, while making this her study, that
she was in some measure executing his wishes. How well she succeeded
in doing real good, is another question. The task is one of great
difficulty; but she succeeded in making herself loved by all the best
of her poor neighbours, though she might occasionally be imposed upon
by some of the worst.
Her gentle words, her good advice, her attempts to convert the wicked,
and to console the suffering, could do no harm, even when they failed
of effecting good.