CHAPTER XVI.

For peace is with the dead, and piety Bringeth a patient hope to those who mourn O’er the departed.

SOUTHEY’_s Roderick_.

With the guide-book in his hand, Algernon proceeded in his search. It was the time of year when London was very empty, and at many houses he found the family were out of town. On such occasions he ascertained the address of the master of the house, resolving to write his inquiries should other means fail. At one large mercantile house in the city, he found a portly old man, who said a brother of his had a natural son, who had been abroad some years ago, and was now in India, he believed; but “he had been a wild chap, and he did not rightly know what had become of him.” This sounded as if he might be the person in question; but if so, the prospect was most unsatisfactory. Still Algernon was not disheartened. The next house at which he continued his inquiries was that of a widowed lady, in Upper Quebec Street. He knocked at the door. He asked for Mrs. Maitland. He was shown up-stairs into a small, two-windowed drawing-room, very tidy, very clean, and very formal. Not a chair was out of its place; the sofa was against the wall. At one side of the table, with her knitting, sat an oldish lady, very neatly dressed, and with a sweet but melancholy expression of countenance. On the other sat a younger person, evidently her daughter; but pale and faded, and decidedly past the bloom of youth. She was engaged in needlework.

They both rose on the entrance of the stranger, and the elder lady begged him to be seated, with a gentle formality, while she and her daughter resumed their seats, and mildly awaited what he had to say. Their calmness and their politeness made him experience a sensation more akin to awkwardness than was usual to a person so accustomed to the world, and so gifted with a prepossessing manner. Moreover, a sort of intuitive conviction came over him, that he spoke to a widow who had lost her son, whether or no, she might be the parent of him of whom he was in search.

It was with a certain degree of hesitation that he opened his story, and explained, that for reasons which were of the most vital importance to himself and others in whom he was deeply interested, he was anxious to know what had become of a young Mr. Maitland, who had been a _détenu_ at Verdun, and had effected his escape thence in the beginning of the year 1804. He saw the daughter look anxiously at the mother, and drop her work. He saw the mother’s hands shake as she knitted two or three more stitches before she spoke.

His kind heart grieved for the pain he had evidently given, but yet he felt a throb of pleasure as he hoped he had succeeded in discovering the object of his search. Mrs. Maitland laid down her knitting, and taking off her spectacles, replied in a calm voice,—

“My only son was a _détenu_, sir, and he never returned to me. He was lost in an open boat, off the coast between Antwerp and Bruges.”

The mother slightly clasped her two hands, as they fell quietly on her knee, in the attitude of a person who is meek, and resigned, and accustomed to her sorrow.

He turned to the daughter.

“It gives me infinite pain, madam, to continue to ask questions upon a subject which must be so trying to your mother’s feelings, but if you knew how much the peace and respectability of the person on earth most dear to me is implicated in the replies to my questions, you would pardon me for persisting.”

He then briefly stated his and Ellen’s story to Mrs. and Miss Maitland. They listened with kindness and attention, and told him, in return, that young Maitland had been travelling in France for pleasure, and to see the world; that in a year he would have been of age, when he would have come into a large property which was strictly entailed upon him. That he would then have placed his mother and sister in a situation of comfort and affluence. But the war broke out. He became a _détenu_. She said that he had often mentioned Mr. Cresford’s name in his letters, and had alluded to the impatience with which he bore his imprisonment. That they had never heard from him, from the time of his making his escape, but that from all they could learn, he had reached Bruges in safety. That he had there waited for some time in hopes of being able to row to some English vessels which were cruising off the coast. That at length he and some companions had one night made a desperate attempt to do so. But the weather was too tempestuous for the small fishing-boat which they had succeeded in unmooring from the shore, especially as it was manned by young men who were not accustomed to the perils of the sea. That only two, out of the five, had survived, having been picked up by the English vessels when the daylight dawned.

The young man having thus perished before he came of age, the mother and sister had continued to live in poverty and seclusion. Care had long since impaired the bloom of his sister, who it seems was some years older than the youth, who had been the hope, the joy, the darling of them both.

The parties had become mutually interested for each other, and Hamilton easily obtained from them a promise of committing to paper their statement of young Maitland’s death, and allowing it to be produced upon the trial. If possible, he would spare them the unpleasantness of being subpœnaed to appear in person.

They parted in kindness, and Algernon returned home, anxiously expecting his answer from the Horse Guards. He was informed that Colonel Eversham’s leave would be granted; that he should be allowed to return to attend at the assizes, and, wind and weather permitting, there was every prospect he would arrive in time. He despatched a letter to Colonel Eversham to inform him of the purpose for which his presence was so necessary, and entreated him to use all diligence in reaching England.

In the course of time, the newspaper was found which contained the account of Cresford’s death, and Algernon felt some satisfaction in reflecting that every thing was now in a fair way to clear his Ellen from any suspicion, or shade of blame. He obeyed her injunctions by communicating only with Captain Wareham. His whole soul was bent as devotedly as hers could be, to the object of making her innocence shine forth untarnished.

The report of the trial which was to take place soon became public, and excited the greatest sensation and interest in the whole neighbourhood. Every one felt for Ellen, and all were anxious to prove their pity and their personal respect for her. Captain Wareham’s humble door was literally besieged with carriages and inquirers. Every one of any note in the vicinity left their names, as a sort of homage to her character.

Lord Besville, who had so kindly come forward at the first moment, offered his carriage to conduct her to the court, when the awful day arrived, and his offer was accepted with thankfulness.

These tokens of approbation, and the support of all around, were some consolation to poor Ellen. She hated notoriety; she had rather have retired into obscurity, and, hoping that her fate was unnoticed and undiscussed, have hid her head in peace and humility: but, if she must be brought before the world, these testimonies of the esteem of her friends and neighbours in some measure soothed her feelings. People are seldom so wretched, that the proofs of sympathy in their fellow-creatures are not agreeable to them. The list of the inquirers is read with interest and gratification, by the sick and by the mourner. No feeling more bitter than that your sufferings, whether mental or bodily, are uncared for.

Ellen had written her wishes to Algernon. She knew that every measure which human zeal and foresight could pursue to clear her fame would be adopted: upon that subject, therefore, she rested in security, and she passed her time schooling her mind to bear the worst and seeking strength and assistance from the one only unfailing source of consolation, under misfortunes such as hers.

She believed her father, when he told her it was next to impossible that, supposing the sentence of transportation should pass, it would be carried into execution; and yet she thought it would be wiser to accustom her mind in some degree to such a possibility, than to allow herself to be so completely taken by surprise as she had been, when first the idea of undergoing a trial had opened upon her. Visions of the hulks, of foreign lands, of being associated with horrible criminals,—a thousand half-defined, ill-understood horrors would visit her. In her dreams she fancied herself torn from her remaining child, a stranger, and an outcast, at Botany Bay; and though, when she woke, and shook off the images conjured up by sleep, she assured herself that such a result was most improbable, she could not be certain that such was impossible. She knew not what farther evidence Cresford might adduce of his having duly warned her of his intentions: her proofs were all negative; and sometimes the anticipations of what might be her future fate were so appalling, that her ardent desire to exercise the virtue of resignation, and her fear of increasing the misery of others, were not strong enough to save her from paroxysms of terror and despondency.

Mrs. Allenham had, upon the first intelligence of what was to take place, hastened to her sister. Captain Wareham was so full of care, and so unhappy, that he rejoiced in the presence of some one who should spare him the task of giving hopes, which, from the despondency of his own nature, he was far from feeling. Ellen would weep by the hour together, with the sympathizing Caroline, who, as usual, was all kindness and gentleness. Matilda, who was younger, and scarcely able to enter into the full and complicated miseries of the case, attempted to inspire Ellen with a proud feeling of disdain for her unjust accusations, and a confident expectation of an honourable acquittal. The three sisters were one day sitting together, and Ellen was bidding Caroline watch tenderly over her little Agnes, if their worst anticipations should be fulfilled, when Caroline could not help saying—

“But, Ellen, if you really believe there is a chance of any thing so dreadful, I almost think, if I were you, I would fly the country with Mr. Hamilton, and your child. You were married to him too, after all.”

“Caroline, I resisted Algernon when he pleaded. If Algernon’s voice, if Algernon’s beseeching countenance, if Algernon’s eyes, failed to persuade me, fear will not! No; my fair fame shall be tarnished by no wilful act of my own.”

“That is right, Ellen!” exclaimed Matilda; “I would die sooner! Respected as you are by everybody now, I would die sooner than be looked down upon!”

“Well, you are quite right; it was very wrong of me to have thought of such a thing. And I, a clergyman’s wife too! But, I am afraid, if Mr. Allenham was to try and persuade me, I should not be so firm as you are.”

“But he is your husband, Caroline.”

“Yes, quite true; and then if he said it, it must be right, whatever it might be.”

Time stole away. Hamilton watched with anxious eyes the vane of the neighbouring church, the smoke of each chimney of the houses opposite. He had arranged everything with Ellen’s counsel, and a fortnight before the day fixed for the trial he went to Falmouth, there to look out for the arrival of every packet, every transport, every fishing vessel, that he might be sure not to miss Colonel Eversham.

The wind had been favourable for conveying the despatches which contained Colonel Eversham’s leave of absence, but it continued in the East, long after Algernon had wished it to veer round. Steam-vessels were not then in use, and every thing depended on the elements.

The morning of the 18th arrived. Colonel Eversham had not yet appeared—Algernon was in despair—but leaving his servant to watch for him, he could no longer remain absent from the spot where his beloved Ellen’s fate was to be decided, and he hastened to ——. On the evening of the 19th he had an interview with Captain Wareham, and was obliged to tell him that Eversham had not yet landed, but that he had Mrs. Maitland’s account of her son’s death, and that their counsel was confident of success. Mrs. Maitland was in the town, that in case her statement was not considered sufficient she, if necessary, might be called into court.

Hamilton was so painfully interested, and so occupied with business, that it was not till the busy streets were quiet, the tumult of the well-filled hotel hushed, and midnight approaching, that he had time to reflect how short a space divided him from Ellen and from his child.

How his heart yearned towards them! how he longed to be allowed to see them! but he determined to do nothing, till the eventful morrow was passed. His counsel should be able to aver, with truth, that they had never met from the time they heard that Cresford was living. He would not even indulge himself by walking before the house, and looking at the exterior of the dwelling which contained his soul’s treasures, lest any one might recognize him, and might fancy he had visited her clandestinely. He passed the night, however, in restless sleeplessness. He sat at the window of his bedroom, and having thrown open the sash, he gazed out upon the clear deep blue, quiet heavens: the busy hum of men had subsided; the streets were deserted; the lights one by one had been extinguished; not a sound was to be heard but the monotonous call of the watchman, pacing his rounds. A gentle breeze just whispered through the poplar trees of a neighbouring garden, and brought with it the refreshing smell which the dews of evening extract from them. It was a season for gentle and holy musings.

“And yet,” he reflected, “how many beings are now enduring the utmost pangs of human anxiety! The culprits in the gaol—their relatives—my poor Ellen—her father, and myself—Cresford too—the wretch whose very name makes my blood boil; he—even he, must suffer! He must feel remorse, repentance—he must have been hurried into this act of unreasonable, useless cruelty, by a sudden impulse of passion. I pity the unfortunate man! Yes, I pity him—for he has lost her! Is not that enough to madden him? Oh! what will the morrow bring to us all? What will be our fate?” His eyes glanced to the heavens; “Whatsoever may be our fates on earth, that placid Heaven, those innumerable stars, those signs of Omnipotence, speak to us of another world, in which happiness must assuredly be my Ellen’s portion, and where I may humbly hope to share in that heavenly joy, which we cannot conceive nor comprehend, but in the truth of which we may firmly place our trust!”

Ellen, meanwhile, was in some measure spared the overwhelming anxiety of that night, by another source of disquiet. Agnes was feverish and unwell: perhaps it was a fortunate occurrence for her, that such was the case; under any circumstances she could not have slept. While sitting by the sick bed of her little girl, her thoughts were drawn away from her own miseries; and when, at length, the child dropped off into a calm and easy sleep, the sense of relief almost resembled joy. But to this succeeded the dreadful thought,

“If I should be torn from her! If this should be my last night of watching over her! If she should be worse to-morrow, and I far away! Imprisoned! alone! and my sick child away from me! It is possible—very possible! and I shall survive this; for I have survived being torn from Algernon, and from my poor George and Caroline!”