"Come into the vestry," said Dr. Miles, in a low tone to Beauchamp,
"you have many things, my lord, to consider; and we have here the eyes
of a multitude upon us, the ears of a multitude around us."
"You had better go back to the park," said Sir John Slingsby, who had
overheard the good old rector's words, "there we can talk the matter
over at leisure."
"The register must first be signed," said Dr. Miles, gravely, "for
whatever be the result, the ceremony has been fully performed--come,
my lord. The circumstances are, undoubtedly, very painful; but it
seems to me they might have been much worse."
With slow steps and sad hearts the whole party followed; Isabella,
pale as death, looking down upon the ground, and Beauchamp with his
lip quivering and his brow contracted, but his step firm and regular,
as if the very intensity of his feelings had, after the first moment,
restored him all his energies. As they passed through the vestry-door
Isabella raised her eyes for an instant to his, and saw the deep
dejection which was written on his countenance. She touched his arm
gently to call his attention, and said, as he bent down his head,
"Do not be so sad, you have nothing to reproach yourself with."
"That is some consolation, dear girl," replied Beauchamp, in a low
voice, "but still I must be sad. How can it be otherwise, when I have
to part with you for a time even at the very moment I call you my
own?"
Isabella did not reply, but her cheek varied, first glowing warmly,
then becoming deadly pale again.
"Where is Ned Hayward?" exclaimed Sir John Slingsby, looking round,
"where the devil have you been, Ned?" he continued, seeing his young
friend coming in at the vestry-door.
"I have been horsewhipping Wharton," answered Ned Hayward, in an
indifferent tone; "but now, Lenham, what are you going to do in this
business?"
"To go to London directly," answered Beauchamp, "and bring this matter
to an issue at once."
"Pooh, the woman is not married to you at all!" cried Sir John
Slingsby, "the whole thing is a farce; still I think you are right."
"I am quite sure you are," said Ned Hayward, "and I will go with you,
if you will let me, Lenham. But first we must talk with good Widow
Lamb; examine these papers of hers accurately; ascertain exactly all
the circumstances and be prepared with every sort of evidence and
information. Cheer up, cheer up, my dear lord. Honour and
straightforward dealing always set these things right at last. Shall I
call in the old woman? she is standing out there by the vestry-door."
"By all means," said Dr. Miles, "it may be as well to make all these
inquiries here, and determine at once what is to be done. The crowd of
gaping idlers from Tarningham will disperse in the meantime--sit down
here, Isabella, and be firm, my child, God does not desert those who
trust and serve him."
While he was speaking, Ned Hayward had beckoned Widow Lamb and Stephen
Gimlet into the vestry, and Dr. Miles, taking the papers from the old
woman's hands, examined them carefully.
"The very appearance of these documents," he said, at length, "puts
the idea of forgery, or at least, recent forgery, quite out of the
question. No art could give all the marks of age which they present.
But we can have another and a better assurance, I believe, than the
mere look of the papers--"
"But what are they, what are they, doctor?" asked Sir John Slingsby,
"I have not yet heard the exact import of either."
Isabella moved nearer to the clergyman while he explained, and all
other eyes were fixed eagerly upon him.
"This first and most important document," he said, "purports to be
what is called in Scotland the marriage lines of Archibald Graham,
student in divinity, and Charlotte Hay, the daughter of Thomas Hay, of
Green-bank, deceased, within the precincts of Holyrood--which means, I
suppose, that he died in debt. The paper--I have seen such before--is
tantamount to a marriage-certificate in England. The marriage appears
to have been celebrated in one of the parishes of Edinburgh, and I
have lately had cause to know that very accurate registers are kept in
that city, so that the authenticity of the document can be ascertained
beyond all doubt."
"But the date, the date?" cried Beauchamp.
"The date is the 4th February, 18--," said Dr. Miles, "just thirteen
years ago last February."
"Nearly two years before the execution of their villanous scheme
against me," said the young nobleman; "so far, at least, all is
satisfactory, but what is the other paper?"
"Hardly less important," replied Dr. Miles, whose eye had been running
over the contents while he conversed, "but it will require some
explanation. I would read it aloud, but that some of the terms are
more plain and straightforward than ladies' ears are accustomed to
hear. It is signed Archibald Graham, however, dated five years ago,
and addressed to David Lamb, who died in Tarningham some two years
back. He speaks of his wife Charlotte, and tells his cousin that he
hears she is still living in adultery with Captain Moreton. He says
that as her seducer's property is somewhere in this neighbourhood she
is most likely not far distant, and begs David Lamb to seek her out,
and beseech her, upon Christian principles, to quit her abandoned
course of life. The good man--and he seems a really good man--says
further, that although he can never receive or see her again, he is
ready to share his small stipend with her in order that she may not be
driven by poverty to a continuance in vice; but he seems to have been
ignorant of her pretended marriage with Lord Lenham--at least, he
makes no allusion to it."
"That was because he never knew it, Sir," said Widow Lamb; "I beg
pardon for speaking, but the way it all happened was this. Old Mr. Hay
had spent all he had and had taken to Holyrood to avoid his creditors.
Archy Graham, who was then studying divinity in Edinburgh, had been
born not far from Green-bank, and finding out Mr. Hay, was very kind
to him and his daughter. Though he was not very rich himself--for he
was only the son of a farmer well to do--he often gave the old laird
and the young lady a dinner when they could have got one nowhere else,
and when Mr. Hay was taken ill and dying, he was with him every day
comforting him. He paid the doctors, and found them food and every
thing. When the old man died the young lady was left without any means
of support. At first she thought of teaching, for she had learned all
kinds of things in other times, but people were not very fond of her,
for she had always been too gay for the Scotch folks, and there was
something flighty in her way that was not liked. It was need, not love
or gratitude either, I believe, that made her marry poor Archy Graham.
Soon after he got the parish of Blackford, and went there to have the
manse ready, leaving his wife in Edinburgh. He was only gone six
weeks, but he never saw her again, for when he came back to take her
to her new home, he found that she had been receiving the visits of a
very gay gentleman for some time, and had, in the end, gone away with
him in a phæton about a week before he arrived. Eight or nine months
after that a gay young lady came to stay on a visit at old Miss
Moreton's, with whom my poor husband David Lamb was greeve, or what
you call steward in England. I had gone down with her as her maid, and
had married the steward about eight years before, for my poor girl
Mary was then about seven years old. We saw this Miss Hay, as she
called herself, very often, but never thought she was the runaway wife
of my husband's cousin. Indeed, we knew little of the story till long
after. Captain Moreton was generally at his aunt's house, though he
often went away to England, and we all said he was going to marry the
pretty young lady, if they were not married already, as some thought.
But then he brought down his cousin Mr. St. Leger with him, and soon
after we heard of the marriage by consent when Mr. St. Leger had drank
too much, and about his going away in haste to England, and we all
said that it was a great shame, though we did not know it was as bad
as it was. About four months after old Miss Moreton died, and one day
the captain came down in great haste to my husband and told him a long
story about his being on the point of selling the property; but that
he would take good care, he said, that David Lamb should not be out of
employment, for his father, the Honourable Mr. Moreton, would take him
as steward if he would go up to Turningham directly. My husband said
it would be better for him to stay on the ground till Miss Moreton's
estate was sold, but the captain seemed in a great hurry to get us
off, for he said that his father was very anxious to have a Scotch
bailiff as they farmed so well, and he promised all kinds of things,
so that what with one persuasion or another we were away in a week to
Edinburgh, to take ship there for England. There we met with Archy
Graham, who afterwards came to visit us, and he and my husband had a
long talk about his unfortunate marriage, all of which I heard
afterwards; but David Lamb was a man of very few words, and he did not
mention to his cousin any thing about our having seen his wife at old
Miss Moreton's, though it seems the minister was even then going down
there to try and separate her from Captain Moreton, for he had found
by that time who it was that took her away, and it was because he had
written, several letters to the gentleman, and threatened to come
himself directly, that the captain was in such a hurry to get us away
to England."
"I do not understand why your husband did not tell the whole truth,"
said Dr. Miles, gravely, "it might have saved great mischief, Mrs.
Lamb."
"I know that, Sir," replied the widow, "but there are great
differences in the way men think of such things. I asked my husband
afterwards why he did not mention all about the marriage with Mr. St.
Leger, but he said he wanted to hear more about it before he opened
his mouth to any one; that he was not sure they had set up this law
marriage as a real marriage at all; and that it might be only a sort
of joke, so that if he spoke he might do more mischief than was
already done. I knew him to be a very prudent, thoughtful man, very
sparing, too, of his words, and it was not for me to blame or oppose
him."
"Very true, Mrs. Lamb, very true," said Dr. Miles.
"Well, your reverence," continued the widow, "he did try to hear more
of the business as soon as he had time to think of any thing but
himself and his own affairs; for, poor man, when he came here he found
that old Mr. Moreton had no occasion for a bailiff at all; and knew
nothing at all about him. We were going back to Scotland, again, after
having spent a mint of money in coming up to London and then down
here; but my husband fell ill of rheumatic fever, and for six months
was confined nearly to his bed. All--or almost all that we had saved
was gone, and we had to try for a livelihood here as we best could. We
did better than might have been expected for some time, and David made
many inquiries in regard to his cousin's wife and her second marriage
with Mr. St. Leger; but he only heard that the young gentleman was
travelling, and that they had certainly never lived together. Then
came the letter from Archy Graham; and my husband, whose health was
failing, consulted me about it, and I said, that at all events, it was
a pity Mr. St. Leger or Lord Lenham, as he was by that time, should
not know all the truth, for no one could tell how needful it might be
for him to prove that he was never really married to Charlotte Hay,
and David wrote back to his cousin, asking him to send him up proofs
of his marriage with the lady. So that brought up the marriage lines,
and I have kept them and the first letter ever since my husband's
death."
"And is Archibald Graham still living?" asked Beauchamp, who had been
listening with painful attention.
"He was living not two years ago," answered Widow Lamb; "for he wrote
to me at the time of my husband's death, and sent me up ten pounds to
help me. Poor David had not neglected what he thought of doing, when
he asked for the proofs; but we could hear nothing of you, my lord.
You had been very kind to my poor boy, and I always put my husband in
mind of the business, so that he wrote to you once, I know, saying
that he had important information for you if you could come to
Tarningham."
"I recollect," said Lord Lenham, "such a letter followed me into
Italy; but I did not recollect the name, and thought it but a trick of
that unhappy woman."
"Well, my lord, the case seems very clear," said Doctor Miles; "but
your immediate conduct in this business may require some
consideration. Perhaps we had better all go up to the park and talk
the matter over with Sir John at leisure."
"No, my dear Sir," answered Beauchamp in a firm tone, "my conduct is
already decided. If you please, we will just walk to your house for a
few minutes, I dare say all the people are gone by this time. Come,
Isabella, there will be peace for us yet, dear one;" and he gave his
arm to his bride, who drew down her veil to hide the tears that were
in her eyes.
All the party moved forward but Sir John Slingsby, who lingered for a
moment, and laid his hand kindly upon the widow's arm. "You are a good
woman, Mrs. Lamb," said the old baronet, "a very good woman; and I am
much obliged to you. Go up to the park, Mrs. Lamb, and take the little
boy with you. I'll come up and talk to you by-and-by; but mind you
tell the housekeeper to take good care of the little man, and give him
a hunch of bride-cake. I don't think there will be much eaten in the
house by any one else. You go up too, Ste, and wait till I come."
When Sir John followed to the rectory, which was somewhat slowly, he
found the rest of the party in the rector's drawing-room. Now the
house was built upon a plan not uncommon, and very convenient for
studious bachelors like Dr. Miles. The drawing-room on the right side
of the entrance hall opened by folding doors into a library, which
formed a right angle with it running along the back front of the
house--for houses have contradictions as well as human beings, and I
may add many a man has a back front to his character as well as many a
house. The library occupied one-half of that side, the dining-room the
other half; the offices all the left of the entrance hall and the
staircase the centre.
Beauchamp, at the moment of the baronet's entrance, was speaking to
Dr. Miles and Ned Hayward in the bay window, Isabella was seated at
some distance, with her hand in her aunt's, and Mary Clifford was
leaning tenderly over her. But the position of all parties was soon
changed.
"The sooner the better, then," said Dr. Miles, in answer to something
Beauchamp had said, and turning away, the young nobleman approached
Isabella, and took her hand, saying, "Speak with me one moment, love."
Isabella rose, and her husband led her into the library, and thence to
the dinning-room, leaving the doors open behind him. "Dearest
Isabella," he said, "forgive me for all the terrible pain I have
caused you--but you know it was that I was deceived, and that for the
world I would not have inflicted such distress upon you
intentionally."
"Oh, I know it, I know it," said the poor girl, her tears flowing
fast.
"But out of evil springs good, dear Isabel," continued Beauchamp, "by
this day's misery and anxiety, I trust we have purchased peace and
happiness for the future. Yet for me, my beloved, remains one more
painful effort. Till the decision of the law is pronounced upon all
the circumstances of this case, I must leave you, dear girl. No
happiness that your society can give me must induce me to place you in
a doubtful position. I must leave you, then, my dear Isabella, my
bride, my wife, even here almost at the steps of the altar; but I go
to remove every obstacle to our permanent reunion, and I trust in a
very few weeks to clasp you to my heart again, mine beyond all
doubt--mine for ever. I knew not, dear girl--I hardly knew till now,
how dearly, how passionately, I loved you, but I find from the
difficulty of parting with you, from the agony of this moment, what it
is to love with the whole heart. That very love, however, requires me
to go. Therefore, for a short, a very short, time, farewell, my love;"
and he threw his arms around her, and pressed one kiss upon her lips.
"Oh, do not go, do not go yet," said Isabella, clinging to him. "Oh, I
was so happy this morning, Henry, I felt quite oppressed with it. I am
sure there is a dizziness of the heart as well as of the brain--but
now I shall go home and weep all day!"
"Nay, do not do that, dear girl," said Beauchamp, "for our parting is
but for a short time, beloved. Every one judges that I am right in
going. Do not let me think my Isabella thinks otherwise, do not render
more bitter what is bitter enough already, by a knowledge that you are
suffering more than is needful. Cheer thee, my Isabella, cheer thee,
and do not give way to grief and apprehension, when our fate is
lightened of half of its weight, by the certainty, the positive
certainty, that there is no serious barrier between us."
"I will try," said Isabella, "I will try; and I believe you are right,
but still this is all very sad," and the tears poured down her face
afresh.
When Beauchamp came forth, however, Isabella came with him, and was
calmer; but she would not trust herself to speak till he was gone. The
parting was then soon over. Ned Hayward, called up the carriage, gave
some directions regarding his own baggage to Sir John Slingsby's
servants, and bade farewell to Mary Clifford and the rest. Beauchamp
once more pressed Isabella's hand in his, and hurrying out sprang into
his carriage, Ned Hayward followed, and one of the post-boys,
approaching the side after a servant had shut the door, touched his
hat, and asked, "Will you go by Winterton or Buxton's inn, my lord?"
"By Winterton," answered Beauchamp, mechanically, and in another
minute the carriage was rolling on.
For about twenty minutes Sir John Slingsby remained talking with Dr.
Miles, and then the party which had set out from Tarningham Park, so
happy and so gay, not two hours before, returned sad and desolate.
Even the old baronet's good spirits failed him, but his good humour
did not; and while Isabella retired with Mary to her own room, he
called Widow Lamb and Stephen Gimlet into his library, after having
assured himself that the little boy was taken good care of by the
housekeeper, he repeated his sage commendation of the old woman's
conduct, saying "You are a good woman, Widow Lamb, a very good woman,
and you have rendered very excellent service to us all this day. Now I
am not so rich as I could wish to be just now; but I can tell you what
I can do, and what I will do, Widow Lamb. Stephen, here, has his
cottage as keeper. It is a part of his wages at present; but I might
die, you know, or the property might be sold, Widow Lamb, and then
those who came in might turn him out. Now I'll give you a lease of the
cottage and the little garden, and the small field at the side--they
call it the six acres field, though there are but five acres and two
roods, and the lease shall run for your two lives. You may put in the
little man's life too, if you like; and the rent shall be crown a
year, Widow Lamb. I'll have it done directly. I'll write to Bacon to
draw the lease this minute," and down sat Sir John Slingsby to his
library table.
"I beg your pardon, Sir," said Stephen Gimlet, approaching with a
respectful bow, "but I think it would be better not to give the lease
just yet, though I am sure both I and Goody Lamb are very much
obliged; but you recollect what that bad fellow, attorney Wharton,
said about the papers being forged, and if you were to give us any
thing just now, he would declare we were bribed; for he is a great
rascal, Sir, as I heard this morning."
"You are right, yon are quite right, Stephen," replied Sir John
Slingsby; "and Wharton is a great rascal. I am glad that Ned Hayward
horsewhipped him; I dare say he did it well, for he is a capital
fellow, Ned Hayward, and always liked horsewhipping a scoundrel from a
boy. But what was it you overheard this morning, Stephen? I hope you
were not eavesdropping, Ste. That is not right, you know."
"Not I, Sir John," answered the gamekeeper, "but I could not help
hearing. I'll tell you how it all was in a minute. Yesterday morning I
was coming over here with the papers which Goody Lamb gave me for Lord
Lenham; but I took a bit of a stroll first, and just when I was close
upon Chandleigh Heath, Captain Moreton jumped out of a hedge upon me
in front, and young Harry Wittingham pinioned my arms behind, and
before I could do any thing for myself, they had a rope tight round my
elbows, and got me away to the lone cottage, where they shut me up in
a room with bars to the windows, and kept me there all day and all
last night. I did not sleep much, and I did not eat much, though the
captain crammed some bread into my mouth, and gave me a pail of water,
out of which I was obliged to drink like a horse; but they never
untied my arms. However, I heard a good deal of going about, and a
carriage-wheels, and some time after--it must have been twelve or one
o'clock at night--there was a great ringing at the bell, and people
talking, and I heard young Wittingham's voice, and then some one
galloped away on horseback. But nobody came to let me out, and I sat
and looked at the day dawning, wondering when all this would come to
an end. I looked long enough, however, before I saw a living soul,
though about six I heard people moving in the house. About an hour
after I saw poor Billy Lamb out of the window, creeping about in the
garden as if he was on the look out for something, and I put my foot
to one of the panes of glass, and started it in a minute. That was
signal enough for the good lad, and he ran up and put his face to the
window, whispering to me to make no noise, for Captain Moreton had
just come in in a gig, and had met Mr. Wharton at the door, and they
were both in the drawing-room together. I was not going to stay there,
however, like a rat in a trap a minute longer than needful; so as soon
as I found that Bill had his knife in his pocket, I made him put his
arm through the broken pane, and cut the cords round my elbows. I then
got his knife to open the door, but the one I came in by was bolted as
well as locked, so I couldn't get out that way. But there was another
door at the side, and I forced the lock back there soon enough. That
let me into the dining-room which had two doors too. Through one of
them I could hear people talking loud, and the other was locked. I
could not manage to open it, and though I had a great longing to go in
and give Captain Moreton a good hiding, yet as they were two to one,
and I was half-starved, I thought it might not turn out well, and
stayed quiet where I was. Then I heard them talking, and Wharton said
he could hang the captain; and I thought it very likely. But the
captain said to do that would put nothing in Wharton's pocket, and he
had better take his _post obit_, as he called it, for five thousand
pounds, which would give him a chance of something, and come over with
him to Winterton, and keep the lady quiet if she would go to the
church. There was a good deal of dirty haggling about it, but I made
out that the woman whom he called Charlotte was going to be at the
wedding, and that she had a great spite at his lordship, and I guessed
all about the rest from what Goody Lamb had told me. So as soon as
they had gone off in the gig together, which was not more than two or
three minutes after, I walked out through the drawing-room,
half-scared the servant girl into fits, and came away to little
Tarningham church, sending Billy Lamb up to my cottage. That is the
whole story, Sir."
The old baronet commended his keeper highly, and vaticinated that
attorney Wharton would be hanged some day, in which, however, he was
mistaken, for that gentleman lived and prospered; and his tombstone
assures the passer by that he died universally regretted and
respected!
The day passed heavily at Tarningham Park, and Isabella remained all
the morning in her own room. It was a very bitter cup that she had to
drink; for to apprehension and disappointment was added another
painful sensation. To her it was inexpressibly distressing to be made
the talk of the common public, She had felt that the very announcement
of her marriage in the public newspapers, the gazing crowd in the
church, the spectacle and the rumour in fact which attend such events,
were any thing but pleasant. But now to be the topic of conversation,
the object of tales and rumours, to be pitied, commiserated, perhaps
triumphed over--be even slandered, added deeply to all she suffered
both on Beauchamp's account and her own. However, she made a great
effort to conquer at least the natural expression of her feelings. She
knew that her father, her aunt, her cousin, all felt deeply for her,
and she was resolved to cause them as little pain as possible by the
sight of her own. She washed away all traces of tears, she calmed her
look, she strove not to think of her mortification, and at the
dinner-hour she went down with a tranquil air. Her room was on the
side of the house opposite to the terrace, and the principal entrance,
but she had to pass the latter in her way to the drawing-room. As she
did so, she saw a carriage and post-horses at the door, and as she
approached the drawing-room she heard a voice loved and well-known.
She darted forward and entered the room. Beauchamp and Captain Hayward
were both there, as well as her father and Mary Clifford. The very
effort to conquer her own feelings had exhausted her strength, and joy
did what sorrow had not been able to do. Ere she had taken two steps
forward she wavered, and ere Beauchamp could reach her, had fallen
fainting to the ground.