CHAPTER IV.

And such the colouring fancy gave To a young, warm, and dauntless chief,— And as a lover hails the dawn Of a first smile, so welcomed he The sparkle of the first sword drawn For vengeance and for liberty.

_Lalla Rookh._

Buscas en Roma a Roma o peregrino Y en Roma misma a Roma no la hallas, Cadaver son las que ostentò murallas Y tumba de sì propio el Aventino.

_Sonata de Quevedo._

The shriek which Ellen involuntarily uttered brought her maid to her assistance. Her father and sister were sent for, and soon arrived to support and to console her.

Though she had never been able to return the passionate love which her husband had evinced for her, though she had never loved him as she was capable of loving, still she was dutifully attached to him, and she mourned for him with sincerity and truth. She expected to receive some parting word, some last injunctions, from one who had been so fervently devoted to her. But nothing of the kind ever reached her. She had no friends among the _detenus_ to whom she could write, and she was obliged to rest contented with no farther details of the melancholy event than the report of Colonel Eversham, who had been one of those who followed his remains to the grave, and who had, soon afterwards, effected his own return to England. He told her that Cresford had made various and desperate attempts to escape, which had all failed, and that his friends attributed his illness to mental agitation, as he did not seem to labour under any particular or positive complaint.

She heard with some satisfaction that his remains had been decently deposited in the Protestant burying-ground without the town, and that a considerable number of the most respectable of his fellow prisoners had attended his funeral. She grieved sincerely for his untimely fate, and she felt it the more from the belief that his passion for her, and the jealous feelings which he could not master, had, in all probability, hastened his end.

By her marriage settlements she was entitled to a handsome jointure, for poor Cresford was noble and generous with regard to money, and did not dole out the jointure of the wife according to the fortune she brought, but proportioned it to his capabilities of providing for her. The partners preserved a share in the business for her son, and her daughter was also amply portioned.

Ellen continued to live in the pretty cottage in which she had for some time resided. After a short delay the marriage of Caroline and Mr. Allenham took place, and all things resumed the even tenor of their course. Ellen found pleasure in the society of her children, whose opening intelligence rendered them each day more capable of becoming her companions, and she devoted herself to the pleasing task of leading their young hearts and minds in the right way.

At the end of the first six months of her widowhood she paid a visit to Mr. and Mrs. Allenham, and it was a cordial to her heart to see poor Caroline, who had always been frightened and subdued at home, the joyous creature she now was. Her adoration of her husband knew no bounds; she thought him the best, the cleverest, the wisest of human beings. Her loving heart had at length found its proper resting-place, and her humble service and devotion would have made any man, except Mr. Allenham, appear in the light of a tyrant. But he was so gentle and so kind, he smiled so gratefully at the little attentions which she incessantly paid him, he so habitually preserved towards her the sort of polished deference with which a man should always treat a woman (in manner, at least, though he need not the more yield to her in deeds and actions), that Ellen began to think it was possible for matrimony to be a much happier state than she had found it.

It was not long after her arrival at Longbury, that she was one day walking with her sister and her children in a retired green lane, which was nearly bowered over by the trees on each side, when a gentleman on horseback approached. A widow in her weeds is always an object of some interest, and the horseman was wondering who that graceful creature could be,—he was watching the sportive boundings of her children, without attending to his own path, when a bough knocked off his hat just as he was about to pass, and was trying to ascertain whether the face corresponded with the form he admired. The little boy ran to pick it up, and advanced fearlessly towards the horse. Ellen turned round, half alarmed for her child. The stranger leaped to the ground to receive the hat, saying at the same time, “Thank you, my fine fellow; you are a brave boy.”

Ellen looked up with a pleased smile at the commendation of her darling George, and the stranger thought he had never in his life seen so beautiful a vision as that of the young widow with her close cap, her marble forehead, her straight-marked eyebrows, and those lustrous eyes, which gleamed so softly from beneath the hanging crape of her widow’s bonnet. He bowed with profound respect, remounted his horse, and rode on.

He longed to look back, but there was something so serenely pure and holy in the expression of her countenance, that he felt it would be almost sacrilege to betray even common admiration.

Caroline, whose career as a country town beauty had made her somewhat alive to the glances of passers by, could not help saying to Ellen, “That gentleman seemed quite struck when you turned round; I saw him give a start of surprise, and the colour came into his face.”

“Oh, Caroline, how can you talk in that manner? there is something horrid in the notion of a widow exciting any feeling but pity.” Ellen’s delicacy shrank from such an idea, and they proceeded on their way in silence.

The stranger was a visitor at Lord Coverdale’s, and at dinner he mentioned having seen this lovely widow in the green lane. “Oh, it must have been Mrs. Cresford,” said Lady Coverdale; “she is our clergyman’s sister-in-law, and they say she is very handsome. I am dying to see her, but she never appears when I call on Mrs. Allenham. Her husband was one of the _detenus_, and the poor man died six or seven months ago in France.”

Mr. Hamilton left Coverdale Park the next day, but

“Those eyes of deep and most expressive blue,”

came between him and his midnight dreams

“Oftener than any other eyes he ever knew.”

Ellen returned to her cottage, where she still continued to reside, devoting great part of her liberal jointure to the assistance of her father, and to the advancement of her brothers in their various professions. The eldest was active and industrious, and was, through her means, enabled to become a partner, though but to a small amount, in the concern.

The first year of Ellen’s widowhood had more than expired, and she again visited her sister and Mr. Allenham. She had changed her mourning, and etiquette no longer required that she should persevere in her seclusion.

She now accompanied the Allenhams when they dined at Coverdale Park, and all who met her were struck by her beauty and attracted by her manners. Though her countenance still retained its habitually pensive expression, a smile would now occasionally light up her features, and he must have been a cold critic who could perceive any fault in the perfection of her loveliness.

One day when they arrived at Coverdale Park, Ellen found herself greeted with a bow of profound respect, and a smile of recognition, by a tall, distinguished looking man, of whom she had not the slightest recollection. She acknowledged his salutation in the polite, half-doubting manner which is usual on such an occasion. Lady Coverdale immediately introduced him as Mr. Hamilton, and added that he had returned from a solitary ride last year, quite enchanted with her noble boy, who had so fearlessly brought him his hat, under the very feet of his horse.

Ellen remembered the circumstance, and the name of Hamilton fell on her ear as being connected with a romantic history, not common in these unchivalrous days.

Mr. Hamilton, when scarcely twenty, had taken his only sister to Naples for the recovery of her health. After having watched her gradual decline with tender and almost feminine attention, he had committed to the grave the remains of his only near relation, and found himself, without any tie, alone in a foreign land, at the moment when Buonaparte’s invasion of Italy had awakened the love of liberty, which though slumbering, was not totally extinguished in the souls of a few of her sons. With the true English spirit which considers as brethren those engaged in the struggle for freedom, he felt warmly for that lovely land—

Italia a cui feo la sorte Dono infelice di beltà!

On several occasions he fought as a volunteer among the Italians, whom, in the enthusiasm of youth, he venerated as the descendants of the ancient Romans, passing over in his imagination the many centuries during which the national character had been degraded by submission to foreign powers. He forgot that the natives of the soil had for ages past allowed themselves to be mastered and controlled by hireling troops of strangers, and hoped that if once restored to independence, they would rise regenerate from their ashes.

He had formed an ardent friendship with a young Italian, Count Adolfo Melandrini, who was in command of a small squadron of troops. He acted as a sort of aide-de-camp to his friend, and fought by his side with all the generous impetuosity of his character. The star of Buonaparte, however, was in the ascendant: neither Melandrini’s nor young Hamilton’s heroism could do more than rouse the spirit of those immediately around them.

Many of the states had been compelled to purchase an armistice by the sacrifice of their treasures of art. Melandrini’s indignation knew no bounds. His national pride was touched in the tenderest point, and in a skirmish which occurred shortly afterwards between his squadron and the advanced-guard of the French, in which his dispirited men were on the point of yielding, he dashed with headlong desperation into the midst of the enemy’s troops.

Hamilton, who loved his friend with passionate devotion, and regarded him as the one being in whom the spirit of the olden time still survived, watched over his safety with almost religious veneration.

They both performed prodigies of valour; but at length Melandrini sank covered with wounds, and faint from the loss of blood. Hamilton stood over the body of his friend, defending it with the energy of despair, and firmly resolved that while he retained life, it should never fall into the hands of the foe. The troops in the mean time rallied, and, returning to the charge, drove back the enemy. Hamilton was found still protecting the almost lifeless form of the Italian chief, which he never quitted for a moment, but bore in his own arms back to the entrenchments. His efforts to save his friend were, however, unavailing: Melandrini had found the death he sought, and only survived long enough to express his gratitude to Hamilton, whose gallant feat was soon noised abroad, and reached the ears of many who were not personally acquainted with him.

The surrender of Mantua put an end to all idea of further resistance. Italy allowed herself quietly to be plundered of all her most precious and holy ornaments, even including the famous image of our Lady of Loretto, and Hamilton, in disgust abandoning the wretched land, returned to his own free and happy country. His paternal estates were considerable, and he resolved to devote himself in private to the welfare of those who were dependant upon him, and in public to the preservation of that liberty which he believed to be the basis of all that ennobles man. He distinguished himself in parliament, at first, perhaps, by too great vehemence, on the liberal side; but his own clear head and maturer judgment soon tempered what might have been extravagant in his enthusiasm, and at the age of nine-and-twenty he was as practically useful a member of society, as he had originally been a romantic advocate of liberty.

Ellen, who long ago had accidentally heard the history of his achievements, looked on him with a certain degree of respect, as the hero who, to her girlish imagination, had realised the stories of Paladins of old. It was with pleasure, therefore, that she found herself seated by him at dinner.

His appearance and his address did not disappoint her. His flashing eye seemed formed “to threaten and command;” his athletic form might well, single-handed, have kept at bay a host of common men; while she could imagine that from those expressive lips might flow streams of eloquence to sway the listening senate. Still he was peculiarly simple and straight-forward: with all his fame about him he had a frank manner, as though what was said by him, carried with it no more weight than if it had been uttered by the most undistinguished individual in the room. Yet every thing he said was well said; all showed reflection, reading, sound judgment, and refined taste. He was, in all respects, so superior to any one with whom Ellen had ever yet been thrown, that he appeared to her a being of another order.

The enthusiasm which we have described as being a leading feature of his character, although tempered by judgment in political matters, was still all there; and the impression produced by the first sight of Ellen in her weeds, was not weakened by further acquaintance. The lightning of her smile, when usurping the place of her usually pensive expression, reminded him of the days of youthful romance, when he and his friend Melandrini used to study Petrarch together, and reading of the “lampeggiar del angelico riso,” would picture to themselves what must have been that Laura, who could render the poet,

Si da se stesso diviso E fatto singolar da l’altra gente.

He now thought, if she had resembled Ellen, there was nothing to marvel at in the poets’s long and hopeless devotion.

During the two years which she had passed in retirement, she had read a great deal; and the education which she had thus given herself had tended more to cultivate her mind than all the accomplishments with which governesses cram the common run of young ladies. The more he saw of her, the more he became convinced that the qualities of her head and heart fully corresponded with the loveliness of her person.

Lord and Lady Coverdale found their most agreeable friend, Mr. Hamilton, vastly more willing to prolong his visit than usual. He seemed much struck with the excellence of Mr. Allenham’s opinions upon the subject of the poor laws, and he frequently walked to the parsonage, to discuss the subject with him.

The eagerness with which Mr. Hamilton accepted their invitation to repeat his visit made them begin to suspect that the youthful widow had more to say to the attractions of the parsonage than Mr. Allenham and the poor laws. Still, though he evidently admired Mrs. Cresford, there was nothing which could justify any reports. He was so afraid of alarming her by any indiscreet avowal of his preference, that he continued merely to seek the society of the family in general.

Caroline, however, who was not so very delicate upon such subjects as her sister, could refrain no longer.

“Well, Ellen! I suppose, now you have been seven months out of your weeds, I may venture to say that Mr. Hamilton admires you? and it is my belief, though I am not apt to place much reliance on men in general, it is my belief he intends to propose to you.”

“Oh no, Caroline! he has never said any thing like it.” But Ellen’s heart beat quicker, and the colour mounted in her cheeks.

“Yes, yes! you think so too! You are blushing ten times more than when poor Mr. Cresford proposed.” (Caroline always disliked Mr. Cresford, for she was exceedingly afraid of him.)

“Hush, Caroline! Do not speak so of my poor husband! He was very fond of me; and nothing in the world should ever induce me to do any thing that was the least disrespectful towards his memory.”

“Well, but you are not bound to remain a widow, from the age of three-and-twenty, for evermore!”

“I am not out of mourning yet, Caroline.”

No more passed; but this conversation made Ellen appear more conscious, and less at her ease in Mr. Hamilton’s presence, than she had previously done. From this sign he gathered hope.

The remarks of friends, the quizzing of acquaintances, the reports of the world, greatly accelerate matters when there already exists a real preference, though they often completely nip a slight one in its bud. There is a particular moment at which they fan the flame, and a previous one at which they blow it out.