Las! Si j’avois pouvoir d’oublier
Sa beauté, sa beauté, son bien dire,
Et son tant doux, tant doux regarder,
Finiroit mon martire.
Mais, Las! Mon cœur je n’en puis ôter;
Et grand affollage
M’est d’esperer,
Mais tel servage
Donne courage
A tout endurer.
Et puis comment, comment oublier
Sa beauté, sa beauté, son bien dire,
Et son tant doux, tant doux regarder?
Mieux aime mon martire.
_Complainte à la Reine Blanche, par Thibeaut._
Some months had now elapsed. Algernon ventured to write to Ellen
herself, describing to her his life of loneliness. He assured her that
if he might look forward to the prospect of seeing her and his child
at stated periods, however rare, however distant, he might again be
able to exert himself, and strive to be an active and an useful member
of society. That at present his existence appeared so aimless, so
hopeless, that he could not rouse himself to attend to public any more
than to private affairs.
These arguments were to her irresistible. She knew too well what were
the yearnings of a parent for his child, and she would not inflict upon
Algernon what she herself endured.
His fame too! His position in the world! His utility to his
fellow-creatures! Her pride in his fame was second only to her love
for himself, and though she would not have consented to that which was
wrong in itself, even for his sake, she thought she might promise to
see him once in every six months, and in the presence of her father,
without compromising herself.
Having consulted Captain Wareham, and obtained his consent to this
plan, she wrote Algernon word, that she agreed to his proposition, but
that he must give her due warning of his coming, and that she would
not see him except in the presence of her father. That she would meet
him as a dear and valued friend, but they must not indulge in vain
repinings, or in useless or sinful hopes.
Her letter was calm, it cost her much to make it so—but it was calm.
Such as it was, it infused new life into Algernon. He doubted not her
love. He respected her scruples. He was so happy at having gained that
much, that he did not quarrel with the measured style. He should see
her again! He should again hear the music of her voice! And his eye
beamed once more with hope—he moved with a more elastic step.
The very servants observed the altered aspect of their master, and Mrs.
Topham remarked, as he walked by the windows of the housekeeper’s room
to the stables, that she “had not heard her master tread so light and
quick, since her poor mistress went away;” she wondered “whatever had
come to him!”
He appointed the day following that on which Ellen should receive his
answer—the hour one o’clock. And meanwhile he was in a restless state
of joyful expectancy, which allowed him to fix his mind to nothing.
He thought a hack chaise was the most unobtrusive mode of conveyance,
and that which was least likely to excite observation, and he departed
on his journey alone.
With what feelings did Ellen await his arrival? She strove to preserve
the even composure of her mind, but in vain!
“Algernon will find me sadly altered,” she thought, as she arranged her
dress with more attention to what was becoming than she had done for
many months. “This mode of dressing my hair makes me look ten years
older, and my cheeks are grown so thin!” She checked herself for the
vain thought: “What business have I to wish to look well in his eyes
now? I ought not to think of such things.” But we will not pledge
ourselves that she might not pass rather more time at her toilette
that morning, than she had usually done; perhaps she was almost sorry
she had adopted the habit of wearing her hair smoothly parted on her
brow, instead of in the luxuriant ringlets which used to fall in
showers on her cheeks. Yet had she nothing to regret. The touching,
holy, Madonna-like expression of her countenance at present, fully
compensated for what she might have lost in brilliancy.
To Agnes’s appearance, however, she devoted herself without any fear of
doing wrong, and the blooming little creature amply repaid her cares.
She was now able to lisp a few words, and Ellen had taught her to say
papa, and bade her be sure so to call the gentleman who was coming, as
soon as she saw him. Captain Wareham had walked down early to Ellen’s
cottage, and they remained waiting in perturbed expectation. Ellen felt
confused. Her situation was so strange—so new. There was no precedent
by which to shape her conduct. But she had the best of guides: her
guileless heart, her innate purity.
Exactly as the clock struck one, a post-chaise drove to the door.
In one second, Algernon sprang from it; in another, he was in the
drawing-room.
Ellen’s heart beat, till she thought her bosom would burst. Algernon
rushed towards her—but she extended her hand to him before he
approached her, and he merely pressed it to his lips in speechless
agitation.
“Look at your child, Algernon,” she said, as soon as she could command
utterance; “she looks quite well now.”
“I will, I will—but at this moment I can see nothing but you.”
Ellen withdrew her hand, and seated herself in an arm-chair.
“You have not spoken to my father,” she added.
Algernon brushed his hand across his eyes, and turning to Captain
Wareham, he pressed his in silence.
Little Agnes whispered,
“Mamma, is that the gentleman I am to call papa?”
“Yes, my love, go to him!” and the obedient child timidly advanced
a few steps. Algernon caught her in his arms, and devoured her with
kisses, while the tears flowed fast down his manly cheeks.
The tears of a man are always powerfully affecting. What must the
tears which Algernon shed over their child have been to Ellen? She did
not weep. She had worked herself up to be firm, and not to allow this
interview to lead to any out-pourings of the heart, to any expressions
of feelings, for which she might afterwards reproach herself.
At length Algernon spoke.
“Our child, Ellen, is not like you,” and he looked from one to the
other with eyes of such melting tenderness, that it would have been
difficult to say, to which, at that moment, his heart went forth most.
“Oh, no!” she exclaimed, “thank Heaven, she is like you!” but she
presently added, in a more composed manner, “She has quite recovered
her looks, and her strength now.”
She loved to hear Algernon say _our_ child. And yet how strange to see
the father of her child clasp it to his bosom, shed tears of love over
it, and to be obliged to keep up a calm, company, conversation!
Captain Wareham now inquired which road Algernon had taken, whether
the rain had not made it very bad travelling, and a few more such
interesting questions.
“Did you come straight from Belhanger?” asked Ellen in a low and
tremulous voice.
“I left it yesterday afternoon.”
“It must look very pretty, now the spring is come; and is my—is the
garden very nice?” One silent tear stole down Ellen’s cheek as she
spoke.
“_Your_ garden is lovely! It might be a paradise! but to me, it is a
place of torment.”
“Oh do not say that! Algernon. But you do not look well. You have come
a great way this morning; you must be hungry; will you not have some
luncheon?”
“Hungry!” he said, and gave her a half reproachful glance: “thank you,
I could not eat!”
Captain Wareham now inquired what Hamilton’s political friends thought
of the Spanish war, and whether the Spaniards were sincerely attached
to the cause of liberty.
“I do not know, my dear sir. I never communicate with my political
friends. I know nothing about them.”
Ellen’s heart smote her, that she should be the cause of his abandoning
a career for which he was so well fitted.
“This must not be,” she said; “you ought to exert yourself, Algernon.
Indeed this is not right!”
“But tell me, Ellen, how do you pass your time? What occupations have
you?”
“I will tell you what she does, Mr. Hamilton,” interrupted Captain
Wareham, “she goes about doing good, and there is not a poor distressed
creature within miles, that does not know her, and bless her.”
Algernon at first felt vexed with Captain Wareham for taking up the
answer to his question, for he longed to hear the music of Ellen’s
voice; but he no longer regretted it was her father who had spoken, for
the report of her good deeds was equally sweet in his ear.
“God will bless you also, Ellen!”
“I wish to remember all you have told me about the management of the
poor, and I hope I do not encourage the idle; but I have no influence
here, and I cannot give them good cottages, and gardens, as you have
done, and have thus enabled them to live comfortably, without charity.
Are the cottages as nice as ever?”
“I believe they are. Yes, they look very neat as I ride by.”
“And how is poor old Amy Underwood?”
“Dead!—poor old soul! She died last winter.”
“Poor Amy! So she is at rest! Who takes care of her little
grand-daughter?—She made me promise I would always be a friend to her
when she was gone. Algernon, you will see that the child is religiously
and virtuously brought up. I cannot,—you know.”
“Yes, yes! that I will! Can you think of nothing else for me to do?
Tell me more protégés of your’s, that I may attend to them. Express
your wishes, give me your orders. You will invest anew Belhanger with
interest in my eyes. You will give me something to live for.”
Ellen smiled faintly, and gratefully.
“Have pretty Jane Earle and her husband got a cottage yet? If they had
a tidy cottage to themselves, it might confirm him in his reformation;
now he has such a pretty wife too.”
In this manner Ellen endeavoured to lead him to again interest himself
in his peasantry, while to herself there was a certain melancholy
pleasure in uttering the names, and picturing the spots, once so
familiar to her.
Agnes meantime had nestled herself comfortably into his arms. Perhaps
she had some indistinct recollection of him; perhaps it was merely the
caprice which sometimes makes children immediately attach themselves to
one person, while they take an antipathy to another, but from the first
moment she seemed attracted by him. Ellen looked at them, and thought
how happy were those who might, in peace and honour, gaze every day of
their lives upon their child, and the father of their child.
The hour for departure approached. At four o’clock the chaise was again
to be at the door. Captain Wareham’s dinner-hour was five, and he had
to walk back into the town.
In a clear and gentle voice Ellen addressed Algernon—
“One thing I wished to ask you, Algernon, before you went. Should you
not like to have Agnes pay you a visit at Belhanger?”
“Not for worlds, Ellen, would I rob you of her for a moment!” It was
true that he would not have robbed her for a moment of that which was
her only pleasure; but he also wished to put an end to such an idea, as
it would deprive him of his one excuse for seeing Ellen. “And are we
not to meet again for six months, Ellen?” he added, after a pause.
She exerted all her might, and answered—
“Not for six months.”
“I may write to you?”
“No; we must not correspond. If Agnes should be ill, of course I will
let you know; and if you should be ill, you must write to me. For God’s
sake, write if any thing should be the matter!” she repeated with an
expression of terror from the image she had herself conjured up.
The chaise had been some time announced. Captain Wareham, though from
the bottom of his heart he pitied them both, thought there was no use
in prolonging this distressing interview—to himself doubly so, for he
felt himself a third; and yet Ellen had made him promise to give her
the support of his presence. She thought, if the interview should not
remain unknown (and what does remain unknown in the present civilised
state of society?), her fair name could not suffer if it was conducted
under the sanction of her father.
Algernon had kissed his child; he had wrung Captain Wareham’s hand;
Ellen had risen from her seat, and again held forth her hand to him.
“May heaven bless you, my dear and valued friend!” she said.
“Ellen! my own Ellen!”
“You had better go now,” she gently replied. “My father is not so young
as he was, and we must not make him too late for his dinner. This day
six months we meet again!”
Algernon replied not. Slowly and reluctantly he left the room: he dared
not remonstrate; he knew her firmness to do what she deemed right, and
he feared by word or deed to lose the grace he had obtained: he threw
himself into his carriage, and drove away.
Captain Wareham walked home to dinner, and Ellen at length gave way to
the tumult of feelings which she had resolutely subdued.
It would be impossible to say whether joy at having seen him, or sorrow
at having parted from him, preponderated: she certainly found it
more difficult to resume the occupations to which she had accustomed
herself; but still she had a point to look to, a bright speck in the
distant horizon, to lead her on through the cheerless desert of life.
Algernon religiously executed all Ellen’s innocent behests, and, for
her sake, did resume in some measure his former habits of practical
utility: he attended parliament—he was put upon committees—his eye
once more flashed with fire—his countenance recovered its animation,
his manner its energy.
His re-appearance in the world was hailed with joy by all who knew,
and consequently loved and respected him. Though there was still a
corroding care within—though there was still a cheerless void in his
heart, yet when once he began again to mix with his fellow men, and to
enter into public affairs, there were so many objects to interest and
occupy a man, that the next six months were not to him so immeasurably
long as to Ellen.
At the appointed day and hour he was again at the cottage, and claimed
her approving smile for his obedience to her wishes. She had carefully
spelled every newspaper, waded through columns of parliamentary
debates on subjects she could not comprehend, for fear of missing, or
not properly appreciating, some short reply of his; but it had been
with joy she had seen his name frequently among the speakers, and her
approving smile was not wanting to reward him.
When his parliamentary duties were over, he found his lone and loveless
home so cheerless that he again became a frequent visiter at Coverdale
Park, and Ellen often heard of him when there, through Caroline. It
was a consolation to him to see Ellen’s sister, and to talk to her
of past happiness. Lord and Lady Coverdale were friendly people, and
Miss Coverdale was a gentle, pleasing girl, who loved Ellen with the
enthusiastic warmth of admiration, which girls often feel for a young
married woman a few years older than themselves.
The consciousness that she did full justice to his beloved Ellen, that
she had tact and discrimination enough to perceive her superiority to
other people, formed a bond of union between them, and the Coverdales
were almost the only family of his former acquaintance, from whose
society Algernon appeared to derive any pleasure.
From his frequent visits, and from the intimacy which subsisted between
him and Miss Coverdale, reports arose which immediately came to the
ears of Mrs. Allenham. Some people have the faculty of always hearing
news, and Caroline was one of those.
She knew how totally groundless was such an idea; but she thought if
such gossip should reach * * *, it might be very unpleasant to Ellen,
and that she should do well to warn her against giving any credit to
it. In short, to prevent her hearing it, she immediately wrote her word
of it.
She told her “It was quite a foolish notion of some meddlesome
neighbours; that Algernon’s pleasure in the society at Coverdale was
principally on account of their all knowing Ellen so well, and because
Coverdale was so near Longbury;” and she bade her “not fret herself at
all, if she did hear such silly things said.”
The very possibility that Algernon should think of any other wife, or
that people should imagine he could think of any one else, was almost
agonizing to Ellen. She instantly drove the suspicion from her mind.
She felt too certain of his unceasing affection for her. Yet when she
had done so, she reproached herself for selfishness in wishing to
doom him to a life of singleness—him so formed for every domestic
affection. She told herself she ought rather to wish he should find
happiness with another, as she was for ever precluded from contributing
to it.
“But I am sure,” she thought, “quite sure, there is no truth in the
report. I know him too well!”
Still the rumour having ever arisen was disagreeable. Implicit as was
her reliance on his devotion, it proved how completely he was looked
upon in the world as a free man. How entirely null and void the world
considered her marriage to him. She knew it. The fact had been too
painfully proved and ascertained! but she experienced a sense of
humiliation, that it was so decided by the law of opinion, as well as
by the law of the land.