The sun shone bright in Stephen Gimlet's cottage for a couple of hours
after dawn, till about an hour before evening's close. For the first
three or four hours the same sunshine seemed to pervade the interior
house, that glowed without. Widow Lamb seemed contented with what she
had done; her meek face wore as warm a smile as ever now shone upon
it; and she busied herself during the morning in all the little
household arrangements, and in teaching the boy his letters. The boy
himself played about merrily, whilst she was occupied with the
inanimate things of the place, and then came and said his letters,
infamously ill, indeed, but still somewhat better than usual. When the
sun got round to his southern-most point, Widow Lamb, not at all
surprised at her son-in-law's absence, as its probability had been
announced beforehand, gave the boy his dinner, and took a very
moderate portion of food herself; but, when the day had three or four
hours declined from its prime, she wondered that Stephen had not come
back, and, at the end of an hour, grew somewhat uneasy. She consoled
herself, however, by supposing, that Lord Lenham had not yet returned
from London, and that Stephen was waiting for his arrival; but another
hour passed, and another; and at length her son, Billy Lamb, made his
appearance, inquiring somewhat anxiously for his brother-in-law.
Mrs. Lamb simply told him, that Stephen was out, adding that he had
been away all day.
"It is droll I haven't seen him," said the boy, "but I dare say he is
vexed about his dog."
"Why, what has happened to the dog?" asked Widow Lamb. "He took it out
with him this morning early."
"Ay, but the people of Tarningham killed it for a mad dog," said Billy
Lamb, "I dare say the poor beast was not mad at all. I saw it
afterwards and knew it directly; but I have seen nothing of Stephen."
"He is up at Sir John's," said Widow Lamb, "and I dare say is waiting
till the young lord comes down from London."
"No, that can't be, mother," replied her son, "for the gentleman came
down yesterday evening; one of our post-boys drove him."
"That's very odd," said Widow Lamb, "I wonder Stephen has not come
back then. I hope nothing's the matter."
"Oh, dear no," replied the deformed lad; "you know Ste was always fond
of wandering about, and would, at times, be out for a couple of days
together; but I wanted to tell him that I have found out nothing about
that Captain Moreton, except that he is going away from the cottage
somewhere to-night. I did not see him myself, when I took up the
letters to him to-day; but the servant-girl told she had been sent up
to Buxton's Inn to order a chaise, and that it was to be down there
just at nightfall."
"Ay, ill birds fly at night," said Widow Lamb; "but I wish Stephen
would come home, for he has been now gone well-nigh twelve hours."
"Oh, he is safe enough, mother," reiterated her son, "it is not like
if it were night-time, or winter either--but I must get back; for
there will be all the supper-beer to carry out;" and, after a few more
words, he departed.
Hour after hour, however, went by; and Stephen Gimlet did not appear,
till the good old lady's apprehensions increased every minute. She put
the boy to bed and sat up and watched; but eight, nine, ten o'clock
came, and no one approached the cottage-door. A terribly anxious night
was that which followed; and, though about midnight Widow Lamb went to
bed, sleep did not visit her eyes for some hours. She lay and revolved
all, that could have happened. She was anxious for her son-in-law;
anxious for the result of his mission to Beauchamp; and she had
resolved to set off early on the morrow morning for Tarningham Park,
taking the boy with her. At about half-past three, however, weariness
overpowered the old woman, and she slept. Her frame was not very
strong; and, exhausted with both watching and anxiety, the slumber
that fell upon her was profound and long. The first thing that awoke
her was the little boy pulling her by the arm and saying, "Granny,
granny, you are a sluggard now, as you called me the other day. I am
very hungry, I want my breakfast."
Widow Lamb started up, and looking at her old round watch in its
tortoiseshell-case, she saw that it was half-past seven o'clock. Vexed
and angry with herself, she hurried on her clothes, and proceeded to
give the boy some food, urging him to hasten his meal, as she was
going to take him a walk. The temptation was strong, and at about a
quarter past eight they were out of the cottage, and on the way to
Tarningham Park. She heard village-bells ringing merrily, as on a day
of festival; but Widow Lamb's heart was sad. The whole country was
smiling in the morning light; but, though to a fine mind the beauties
of nature never lose their charm, yet to the old there is, at all
times, a melancholy mingled with the pleasure they produce; and to the
spirit cast down with apprehension, or affliction, the very loveliness
becomes a load. The boy lingered, and would fain have played by the
way; but his grandmother hurried him forward as fast as his little
legs could carry him; and they reached the mansion of Sir John
Slingsby a few minutes before nine. There were carriages already at
the door. Servants were seen bustling about; but all were too busy to
take notice of the old widow and the little boy, till, going into the
court-yard, she addressed herself to one of the helpers in the stable,
whom she had seen and known, and told him her apprehensions about her
son-in-law.
The man kindly undertook to make inquiries, and let her know the
result; and leaving her there for some minutes, he came back shortly
after with the butler, who told her, that Stephen Gimlet had certainly
not been there the day before. "I can't stop to talk with you, goody,"
he said, in an important tone; "for you see Miss Slingsby is just
going to set out, to be married to Lord Lenham; but, as soon as they
come back from church, I will tell Sir John; and depend upon it he
will have Stephen sought for."
"If I could speak with Lord Lenham for one minute," said Widow Lamb;
but the man interrupted her, laughing. "You must go down to
Tarningham, then, goody," he said, "for his lordship slept there last
night; or else you can go down to the church of Little Tarningham,
where, I dare say, he is waiting by this time; or, what is better than
all, wait here till they come back; and I'll give Ste Gimlet's little
boy a bit of bride-cake."
As he spoke, he hurried back again into the house; and Widow Lamb
paused and thought, with the tears in her eyes; but at length she said
aloud, "I will go down to the church;" and, taking the little boy by
the hand, who did not at all like the idea of losing the bride-cake,
she hurried out of the gates of the court, and pursued one of the
small footpaths leading towards Little Tarningham. She was within
fifty yards from the park paling, when Sir John Slingsby's carriages
drove past at a quick rate; and Widow Lamb, though little able from
much exertion, hurried her pace, till the boy was forced to run, to
keep up with her. The church, as the reader knows, was at the distance
of somewhat less than half a mile; and, when Widow Lamb reached it,
there stood before the gates of the little churchyard, two or three
handsome carriages and one post-chaise. Passing quickly along the path
through the cemetery, the old woman approached the door, which was
ajar, and heard the full sonorous voice of Dr. Miles reading the
marriage-service. She pushed open the door gently and went in. There
were a great number of people in the church, collected from Tarningham
and the neighbourhood, some in the little gallery, where they could
see best; some in pews in the body of the church; and one or two in
the aisle. The latter, however, did not prevent the old lady from
seeing straight up to the altar, around which was congregated the
bridal party, with Beauchamp and Captain Hayward on the one side, and
Sir John Slingsby with his family on the other. Just as Widow Lamb
entered, Dr. Miles, standing before the altar, was saying aloud, "I
pronounce that they be man and wife together."
It was evident the ceremony was nearly over; the marriage in fact
completed. The benediction was then given, and the psalm said; and,
after all those parts of the service, which are usually read,
Beauchamp drew the arm of Isabella through his own and led her down
the aisle towards the little vestry which stood on the right hand side
of the church. The people in the pews rose up to look over; but, to
the surprise of many, one of the pew-doors opened, before the
newly-married couple had taken two steps; and a lady issued forth,
and, turning her face towards the altar, stood right in the way of the
advancing party. Her eye fixed straight upon Lord Lenham, flashing and
fierce; her lip curled with a smile of contemptuous triumph, while her
brow appeared knit with a heavy frown. At the same moment a voice,
which some persons near recognised as that of Mr. Wharton, the
attorney, exclaimed from the pew which the lady had just left, "Now
she has spoiled it all."
But what was the effect of this apparition upon those in whose
presence it so suddenly appeared? Beauchamp staggered and turned
deadly pale; and Isabella recoiled in alarm from that menacing look
and flashing eye, saying in a low tone, "Good Heaven, who is this?"
"Who am I, girl?" said the lady, aloud, "I will tell you who I am, and
let him deny it if he can. I am this man's lawful wife whom you have
just married--look at his face, pale, dastard conscience is upon it.
He is well aware of the truth that I speak and the crime that he has
committed."
But Beauchamp instantly recovered himself, and while a dead silence
prevailed in the whole church, he put Isabella's hand into her
father's, advanced a step towards the person before him, and fixing
his eyes firmly upon her, he said,
"Charlotte Hay, you have laid once more a dark and horrible scheme to
injure me. By cunning artifices and long concealment you have taught
me to believe you were dead for some years, and have waited for this
moment for your revenge--you know it, you dare not deny it--but you
may yet find yourself deceived. In one point you are already deceived;
for, doubtless, judging from your own heart, you imagine I have
concealed previous events from this lady and her family. Such is not
the case; and now you force upon me that which I have always avoided,
the trial whether there ever was any marriage at all between myself
and you."
"Avoided it, because you knew it could not be questioned," answered
the lady, scornfully. "Your father and yourself took lawyers' opinion
enough, and the reply of every one was that the marriage was perfectly
good and valid."
"Not worth a straw," said a voice behind her, and turning round with
the look of a demon the eyes of Charlotte Hay lighted on Widow Lamb,
who had walked quietly up the aisle at the commencement of this scene.
For a moment or two she gazed at her as if striving to recall her
face, and then gave a short scream, muttering afterwards to herself,
"I know who has done this, I know who has done this!"
"What is this, my good woman?" cried Mr. Wharton, stepping out of the
pew, and putting himself at the side of Charlotte Hay.
Sir John Slingsby was darting forward towards him with wrath in his
countenance, but Doctor Miles held him by the arm, and Widow Lamb
replied boldly,
"What I said, Mr. Wharton, was that this lady's pretended marriage
with Lord Lenham, then Mr. St. Leger, was no marriage at all."
"But why? were you present? what can you know about it? are you one of
the judges of the ecclesiastical court?" asked Mr. Wharton, with
amazing volubility.
"I am no judge, and was not present though I was in the house,"
answered Widow Lamb; "but it was no marriage at all, and I can prove
it, so you need not be terrified, dear young lady, for you are his
lawful wife at this very moment."
Charlotte Hay turned towards Isabella with a look of withering scorn,
and exclaimed,
"You may be his concubine, girl, if you like, but you can never be his
wife as long as I live."
"I say she is his wife," cried Widow Lamb, indignantly, "just as much
as you are the wife of Archibald Graham, the minister of Blackford, my
husband David Lamb's first cousin. You thought all trace of that
marriage was removed; you knew not that there are people living who
witnessed the marriage; you knew not that I had your marriage lines
now in my possession, and a letter from your real husband written long
after Captain Moreton took you away from him, and after your pretended
marriage with this gentleman."
"Produce them, produce them," cried Mr. Wharton, "let us see what
these wonderful documents are. Such papers often turn out mere
moon-shine in a court of law."
"At all events, Sir, this church is not a court of law," said Dr.
Miles, advancing, "such matters must not be argued here, and I must
remark that if this lady had any just cause to oppose this marriage
she was bound to state it when called upon in the solemn manner which
the ritual prescribes. How the fact of her not having done so may
affect the legal questions implicated is not for me to say, but I must
declare that her not having tendered her opposition at the proper
moment was highly wrong, and does not give a favourable impression of
her case."
The lady turned her fierce eyes upon the rector, and then glared over
the rest of the party, but seemed without a reply, for she made none.
Mr. Wharton came to her assistance with a falsehood, however.
"The lady was too much overpowered, Sir, to speak," he said, "and I
was not formally authorised by her to do so. But as to this old woman,
I demand that the documents she mentions be produced, for I have every
reason to believe that this is a mere pretext, in fact a case of fraud
originating in conspiracy, and I shall not scruple to give the good
lady into custody if I can find a constable, unless she instantly
produces the documents." He looked full at Widow Lamb while he spoke,
and then added, "Have you got them? can you produce them?"
"I have not got them here," answered the old woman in a faltering
tone, somewhat alarmed at the threat of a man who had ruined her
husband, "but they are safe enough, I am sure, and they shall be
produced whenever there is a trial."
"Oh, oh!" cried Mr. Wharton, "what time to manufacture them! But I
will take care of you, my good lady. I will see for a constable
directly, and--"
"Nonsense, you rogue!" cried Sir John Slingsby, "you know very well
that such a thing is out of the question. You can manufacture no
charge upon such a ground, whatever others may manufacture."
"Rogue, Sir John," cried Mr. Wharton, furiously, "that man is the
rogue who does not pay his just debts, and you know whether the name
applies best to me or to you."
"To you, lawyer Wharton," said Stephen Gimlet, coming up the aisle,
"there, hold your tongue, for I heard all your talk with Captain
Moreton this morning, and how you settled all your differences upon
his promising you what you called a _post obit bond_, to pay you five
thousand pounds upon the death of Lord Harcourt Lenham. There, Goody
Lamb, there is the letter you gave me yesterday; I'll tell you how it
all happened that I could not deliver it by-and-by."
"Here are the papers, here are the papers!" cried the widow, tearing
open the letter; "here are the marriage lines, as the people call them
in Scotland, between Charlotte Hay and Archibald Graham, and here is
poor Archy's letter to my husband written long after."
"You had better get into the chaise and go," whispered Mr. Wharton to
the lady, who now stood pale and trembling beside him, and then
raising his voice as if to cover her retreat, he continued: "take
notice, Sir John Slingsby and all persons here present, that I charge
the noble lord there with the crime of bigamy in having intermarried
with Isabella Slingsby, his wife Charlotte Hay being still living, and
that I at once pronounce these things in the old woman's hands merely
forgeries got up between her and Viscount Lenham while he was staying
at the cottage of her son-in-law Stephen Gimlet, _alias_ Wolf. You
will act as you like, Sir John, but it is only a friendly part to say
that if you have any regard for your daughter you will separate her at
once from one who is not and cannot be her husband."
Thus saying he walked with a well-assured air to the door of the
church, neither turning to the right nor to the left, but the moment
he turned away Ned Hayward quitted the side of Mary Clifford, and
with a quick step followed the lawyer. He let him pass through the
churchyard and open the gate, but then going up to one of the
post-boys standing by Beauchamp's carriage, the young officer said,
"Lend me your whip one moment."
The man at once put it in his hand, and the next instant it was laid
over Mr. Wharton's shoulders some five or six times with rapid and
vigorous reiteration.
"I think the price is five pounds," said Ned Hayward, nodding his head
to the smarting and astounded attorney; "it is cheap, Mr. Wharton, and
perhaps I may require a little more at the same price. Good morning,"
and he re-entered the church, while the servants and post-boys gave a
grand shout, and Mr. Wharton sneaked away vowing vengeance for a
future day.