CHAPTER X.

En songe, souhaid, et pensée, Vous voye chacun jour de sepmaine Combien qu’estes de moi loingtaine Belle très loyaument amée.

Du tout vous ay m’amour donnée; Vous en povez être certaine, Ma seule dame souveraine, De mon las cœur moult desirée En songe, souhaid, et pensée.

CHARLES DUC D’ORLEANS, A.D. 1446.

How did poor Hamilton meanwhile pass the time of his weary exile? It would have been wretchedness to him to have been recognised, to have been obliged to answer the usual inquiries after his wife and children, with which a married man is invariably greeted; to endure all the common courtesies of life. Yet his acquaintance was so general, his name so well known, from having on many occasions borne a prominent part in politics, and from having lived much in the world, that he could scarcely find a spot where he would not be exposed to them.

He therefore, under an assumed name, retired to the most desolate fishing village he could find in the neighbourhood of M——, and passed his days wandering upon the shore, and mixing with none but the fishers, who plied their dangerous trade upon the wild Welsh coast.

Every morning he walked into the town, and claimed his letters at the post-office, then hurried to the shore, there to feast upon the lines traced by his beloved Ellen’s hand. The enthusiastic turn of mind, which we at first described him as possessing, enabled him, better perhaps than another man, to endure the life of abnegation of self, which he here led. His passion was of so pure, so refined a character, that in sober truth, he had rather sit alone on a sea-girt rock, and think of her whom he worshipped with so holy a love, than be in the society of any other living being, however lovely, however fascinating.

Weeks however elapsed, and even his highly wrought nature was beginning to tire of this protracted uncertainty. He formed a thousand desperate plans; he nearly convinced himself that they were both sacrificing their happiness to a frivolous punctilio; that Mr. Cresford never would return—that if he did, still in the eye of Heaven she was his, not Cresford’s wife, and that there would be no guilt in their flying to the uttermost parts of the earth, and there existing for each other alone.

But although he might think such thoughts, he never ventured to commit them to paper when writing to her. He never again proposed their living together, if their union was not sanctioned by the laws. There was a spotless lofty purity about her that he dared not outrage by word, or look. He knew also, that even supposing he should succeed in persuading her to fly with him, still, that with her disposition, her religious principles, she could never find happiness in his devotion, if remorse was an inmate of her bosom. He had courage to endure all ills, rather than to meet her reproachful eye;—to feel he had caused that innocent heart to know the pangs of a wounded conscience;—to feel that her religion, which was now her only source of consolation, had, through his means, been converted into a source of terror. The romantic adventures and feelings of his own early life did not lead to his experiencing the same orthodox scruples himself, but the enthusiastic devotedness of his disposition made him respect them, even while he thought them over-strained.

His despair, therefore, when he received Ellen’s last communication, knew no bounds. It destroyed his only hope. He paced the shore. It was a stormy morning, as if in accordance with his feelings: the sea-gull, with its wide-spread wings, gleaming white against the lead-coloured clouds, screamed as it passed over his head. The surf was wildly beating against the beach. The fisher vessels which had been out all night were striving to regain the land, before the threatening storm burst upon them. He looked upon the little boats as they neared the shore with an emotion of envy.—“Perhaps,” he thought, “perhaps the next few waves may swallow up the brave fellows, who are there exerting themselves to preserve life. They know not for what a miserable possession they are struggling. They know not what may await them if they escape the present danger! Blighted affections, ruined hopes, the torture of losing those they love, or of seeing them exist in wretchedness, may bring them to regret they had not now sunk, secure from experiencing any more of the sufferings human nature is heir to. Would I were in one of those boats! It would be no sin of mine if the waves were to close over it.”

The wives and mothers of the fishermen, who were inured to the venturous life of their relatives, proceeded with their ordinary toil. They had so often seen them weather a storm in safety, that they felt little alarm at what would have struck others as awful. One young woman, however, stole forth alone; her loose cloak shivered in the wind; the wild gust brought with it the spray and dashed it in her face, but still her eyes were strained to catch a glimpse of one frail bark. She knew not that her bonnet was blown back, that her dishevelled hair streamed upon the blast. She gradually drew nearer to the spot where Algernon stood in his desperate musing.

She was a stranger: a girl from the midland counties, who had married one of the hardy young fishermen of this secluded village, and she was not yet accustomed to let the blast howl unheeded round her dwelling, while he she loved was on the wide salt sea.

She approached Algernon. In her loneliness she felt safer when near a fellow-creature.

“Do you think there is any danger, sir?” she said in a hesitating voice.

“The storm seems to be gathering,” he answered; “but most likely you have more experience than I have.”

“I have not been here long,” she said, “and those great waves, with foamy tops, always terrify me sadly.”

“Are you anxious for any one at sea, my good girl?”

“My husband, sir, is in one of those boats.”

“And does he love you? Do you love him, and are you lawfully married?”

“Oh, sir! to be sure we are!” and she drew back abashed, and half angry.

“Then—then you are not to be pitied. In life or in death you are his. You are bound together by the ties of love and of duty, of religion and of law! He will return to you, my girl. See, the boats are getting nearer every moment: they will beat the storm—you will be reunited. You need not weep.”

He darted away among the rocks, and sought the little room in the single ale-house, which had been his home for the last month.

His first impulse was to return to Belhanger—to revisit the spot which breathed of her, and having once more beheld the precious child which she had left there as a pledge of her affection for him, to send her with the nurse to rejoin her mother at Captain Wareham’s. His resolution was no sooner taken than it was executed.

Ellen and her brother had ere this arrived at the end of their journey. They reached Captain Wareham’s just as he, Matilda, and the Allenhams, who were at this moment paying him their annual visit, were seated at their dessert. They were surprised at hearing an unusual bustle in the house, and still more so when Ellen, leaning on her brother, entered the apartment. They all pressed round to greet her. Matilda, with youthful delight at this agreeable surprise, Caroline and her husband with kindness, Captain Wareham with some kindness but more annoyance, which annoyance was, however, in some degree tempered by the respect he had felt for Ellen, ever since she had made so good a marriage as he considered that to Mr. Hamilton.

“Well, my dear Ellen, this is really very good of you to take us so by surprise, but you certainly do take us by surprise. I do not know how in the world we are to lodge you, and the dinner is just gone. And you too, Henry?” (annoyance was rapidly preponderating) “I do not know what we can do with you. And I suppose Hamilton is of the party; you might have given one a line. I should have thought, Ellen, you must have remembered how inconvenient this kind of thing is in a small establishment.”

By this time Ellen had sunk in a chair, and Caroline began to be alarmed at her paleness, and at the altered expression of her countenance. The children had just landed from their vehicle, and their voices were heard in the passage.

“Mercy on us! and the children, too!” exclaimed poor Captain Wareham, in a tone of despair, annoyance having thoroughly mastered the vague respect inspired by the superior style of all which surrounded the Hamiltons. “Well, this certainly is rather inconsiderate, Ellen; but when people make great matches they grow fine, and you seem quite to forget your poor old father’s means are not quite so ample as Mr. Hamilton’s.”

He turned round, but started at the ghastly appearance of Ellen. Henry had suffered agonies for his sister, and had tried to lead his father aside, that he might briefly explain to him the case, without proclaiming it to the whole household. Ellen answered with the composure of despair.

“You must let me stay in this house, father—I do not care where—only I must have the shelter of your paternal roof.”

“I can go to the inn perfectly well, dear father,” added Henry.

“And Ellen can have her old room,” interposed Matilda; “little Caroline can sleep with me, and George can sleep on the sofa in Mr. Allenham’s dressing-room; and now it is all arranged, so don’t you be cross, papa. Ellen looks quite ill, and I dare say she is faint for want of something to eat, so leave it all to me, and don’t make a fuss, that’s all, papa,” and she gave her father a playful tap on the cheek. She was a high-spirited, warm-hearted, ingenuous girl, in many respects the precise opposite of her sisters. If her father was cross, her spirit rose; and she consequently possessed that sort of control over him which the most decided, positive, and wilful, generally obtains over the less resolute temper, whatever may be their relative positions. She was also an excellent manager, always had cold meat in the house, and was never at a loss for an expedient on any emergency.

Caroline was exceedingly uneasy at the appearance of Ellen, and remembered her fainting fits when she had been last at Belhanger. Her look of settled grief, coupled with the absence of Mr. Hamilton, made her fear that, notwithstanding the affection which had formerly subsisted between them, their quarrel must have been a serious one, and that her unannounced arrival must mean that they were separated. She found, also, that only the two Cresford children accompanied her; and this served to confirm her fears.

Even Captain Wareham began to be alarmed at the subdued yet resolute manner of Ellen; and looked from one to the other, perplexed, amazed, and annoyed.

“I suppose you want something to eat, Ellen?”

“No, father! I could not touch any thing.”

“And the children must have supper.”

“Matilda, you will give them some tea, poor little things?” she answered, turning towards Matilda.

“I could not eat a mouthful either,” said Henry, “so do not get any thing for me, father. I wish you would just step this way, I want to consult you which inn I had best go to.”

“My dear boy, it is very chilly to-night, and you may just as well consult me here by the fire.”

“Ellen,” added Henry, “would you not be better up-stairs on the sofa? Ellen is not well, father, and we must take great care of her!”

“You do not seem well indeed, Ellen. Why, you look ten years older, girl, than when I saw you last!”

Ellen had risen from her seat, and was mechanically obeying Henry in walking up-stairs, when he said,

“Do give Ellen your arm, Allenham, she is faint and weak. I have some things to arrange, and will follow you presently.”

Captain Wareham, whose parental tenderness had been awakened by the expression of suffering in Ellen’s face, was following also, when Henry laid his hand upon his arm, and forcibly detained him. He closed the door after them. Captain Wareham turned round.

“What does all this mean, Henry? Really it is very disagreeable, and you quite frighten me; I wish you would not be so odd and mysterious.”

“Listen to me, father. I scarcely know how to break to you the news I have to impart.”

“Speak, for Heaven’s sake. I always hate being kept in suspense.”

“Cresford is alive! alive, and coming home, as he thinks, to the arms of his beloved wife!”

“Impossible, Henry! you are jesting;” and Captain Wareham attempted to smile; but he dropped powerless into his chair, and clasped his hands, adding, “If this is a jest, it is a cruel one!”

Henry then, in a few words, gave him an outline of the case, and told him that Ellen and he had agreed, that until Cresford arrived, and that the truth was past all hope of concealment, it was best to treat it as an amicable separation on the score of temper. Henry had advised Ellen not even to confide the truth to Mrs. Allenham; for amiable and kind-hearted as she was, still she was not free from an inclination to gossip, and she would never be able to prevent such a secret from escaping her lips, to some of her old and dear friends in her native place.

Captain Wareham, whose good heart and high feeling of honour rendered him, in fact, an estimable man, approved of all that his unfortunate daughter had done; and was cut to the soul when he looked forward to the miserable fate which probably awaited her.

“And when Cresford does return, Henry, how will he conduct himself? I dread his violence!”

“I dare say he will make her a liberal allowance,” answered Henry; “for he was always noble about money; but at the same time I cannot help fearing he will take the children from her. In common justice, he cannot visit upon her, farther than that, the consequences of his own rash imposture.”

“I hope not; but you were too young when he went to France, to know the full violence of his character—the vehemence of his ungoverned passions. But we must go to my poor, poor unhappy child.”

Her sisters had been all kindness to Ellen, though Matilda, in her thoughtless fondness, had asked a thousand painful questions concerning Mr. Hamilton, her pet Agnes, &c.; but Caroline, who was quite persuaded she understood the whole case perfectly, discreetly avoided every thing that led to such subjects, till Matilda went to see to her hospitable arrangements for their accommodation, and they were left alone.

“Dearest Ellen!” Caroline then said, “I was afraid it would come to this, when I left you a month ago. Who would ever have thought that Mr. Hamilton could have turned out so ill, for I am sure you could never have been the one to blame; nobody ever saw you out of temper in your life.”

Ellen looked up.

“Breathe not a word against him, Caroline: he is the most perfect, the most faultless of human beings! I always thought my happiness was too great to last, and it has proved so. May Heaven, in its mercy, protect and bless him!”

“Ah, you always were a gentle, forgiving creature!” answered Mrs. Allenham.