CHAPTER XVIII.

Cher petiot, bel amy, tendre fils que j’adore, Cher enfançon, mon souicy, mon amour, Te voy, mon fils, te voy, et veux te veoir encore, Pour ce trop brief me semblent nuiet et jour.

CLOTILDE DE SUUVILLE, 13th _Century_.

The next morning Captain Wareham, at Ellen’s request, wrote a note to Algernon to tell him she was well, and that little Agnes was rapidly recovering, and also to assure him that Ellen’s mind was comparatively at ease. In his answer to Captain Wareham he told him that having heard so satisfactory an account of those in whose welfare his every feeling was centered, he should quit * * *, as he feared his presence in the town might occasion Cresford’s also remaining there, in jealous irritation; but that he trusted, when every thing was quiet, and Cresford (as he flattered himself he would) had resumed his habits of business, he might be allowed to visit his child; that he likewise claimed some pity, and that a father’s heart yearned towards his only child. He said no more. He wished to accustom her to the idea that he must, that he ought to see Agnes, and he hoped by degrees to persuade Ellen to allow him an interview herself.

Cresford, as Hamilton had anticipated, left * * * when he had ascertained his rival’s departure, and he returned to London. He then entered with ardour into the concerns of the house,—peremptorily insisted upon the speedy adjustment of the affairs, which had been rendered perplexed by his return, and resolved that he would make himself a name as the first and greatest of English merchants. If, in private life, he stood in the contemptible position of the discarded, the deserted husband, in the world he would be respected as one of the most leading men in the city. But his mind, weakened, excited, and unsettled by what he had undergone, was not equal to accomplishing all he undertook. His schemes were wild and visionary, and neither added to the stability nor to the consideration of the house.

Henry Wareham, who had lost no time in withdrawing himself, had found little difficulty in gaining admittance into another establishment of equal, if not greater, note; his capital, which, though not large, had increased during the time he had formed one in the Cresford partnership, his character for steadiness and industry, and his clear practical head, making him an acquisition in any concern, while the cause of his retirement from his present business excited an interest in his favour.

There is no want of generous and kind feeling in this country. A case of undeserved misfortune, if once known and understood, rarely fails to create friends and protectors.

Ellen’s ardent desire to see her elder children increased, rather than diminished, with time. The savage wildness of Cresford’s eye and manner filled her with uneasiness for their fate. Henry had ascertained that he had taken for them a small house at Brompton, and that he visited them once or twice a week. The _bonne_, whom she had placed about them, she knew to be a good creature, although not possessed of much information, nor by any means the person to whom she would willingly have entrusted the complete guidance of their minds and characters. Still she was grateful that he left them under her care, and she rejoiced that he did not habitually live with them, and that consequently they were not exposed to the starts of passion which, even in better days, had been formidable.

She thought if she could once see them, unknown to themselves,—merely see them as they passed by, and ascertain that they looked healthy and happy, that she should feel more contented.

She opened this idea one day to Captain Wareham, who treated it as fanciful and romantic. The irritability of temper, which, during the time of great and serious distress completely subsided, had gradually again grown into a habit. He was too old to alter, and although his heart was most kind, his feelings for Ellen tender, yet in the every-day intercourse of life she could not avoid sometimes perceiving that she brought much trouble and discomfort upon him in the decline of life.

She proposed a visit to Caroline and to Mr. Allenham, who had urged her completing the cure of little Agnes by trying change of air. She knew that the kind-hearted Caroline would willingly agree to any plan which might promise her a moment’s comfort, and, if Mr. Allenham would give his consent, she could not have more respectable sanction and assistance.

Caroline, as she expected, was all good-nature, nor did Mr. Allenham disapprove of the idea. He saw that she was in so restless a state, that she was so possessed with the notion that if her children were sick, she would not be apprised of their illness,—that they might be dying, and she remain in ignorance,—that he really thought it desirable her mind should be relieved upon this subject. One thing he premised,—that she should not make herself known to them. If it ever came to Cresford’s ears, he might secrete them where she would have no means of hearing or knowing about them; and at all events it would be wrong to excite curiosity, useless regrets, or premature sensibilities in the children; still more so to accustom them to mystery and concealment. She saw the reason of his arguments: all she begged was to be allowed to disguise herself in the dress of a common maid-servant, and to walk in the street near which they lived, till she could once see them pass along, healthy and cheerful.

In compliance with her wishes, they all three repaired to London. Ellen and Caroline dressed themselves in the most homely apparel, and Ellen solemnly promised Mr. Allenham to do nothing which might cause herself to be recognised. They entered a shop nearly opposite the dwelling which contained her children. Mrs. Allenham busied herself bargaining for threads, tapes, and ribbons, while Ellen stood near the door, half out of sight, watching with a palpitating heart, and eyes which were almost blinded with intense gazing, the windows, the doors of the house.

After some time the sash was thrown up, and she saw her own little Caroline run into the balcony. The child looked well and blooming; her fair hair hanging down her back in glossy ringlets, her laughing eyes sparkling with gaiety, her cheeks glowing with health! Those ringlets which she had so often fondly twisted through her fingers, those eyes she had so often kissed, those cheeks which had so often been pillowed to rest upon her bosom!

She had pledged herself to do nothing to attract attention,—and she kept her word. But a fearful chill ran through her. Where was George? Why was not he playing with his sister? Was he ill? She could no longer watch every graceful movement of Caroline, so agonizingly did she look for her boy. George, the playful, the high-spirited George, what could keep him within? The suspense was almost too much to endure without betraying herself. She had nearly made up her mind to ask the shop people, in as unconcerned a tone as she could command, whether they had lately seen the little boy who lived opposite. She had approached Mrs. Allenham, and had grasped her arm in almost speechless tremor, when she saw George appear for one moment at the window, and beckon his sister in. She breathed again, and, seating herself for a few moments, recovered her self-possession. Mrs. Allenham had turned round with an anxious look of inquiry.

“It is nothing,” whispered Ellen, “it is all right now!”

“Are you ready to go,” rejoined Caroline.

“Yes—oh, no, wait a few minutes longer.” She returned to the door to look once more. All was quiet—no one was to be seen at the window. At length Caroline could devise no fresh articles to purchase, and they left the shop. At that moment the door opened, and bounding down the steps, she saw both children with rosy cheeks and active forms, and radiant faces.

She stopped, trembling, and gazed till they were out of sight. They passed on, unconscious and contented, each holding a hand of the good old _bonne_, and jumping as they went with the light-hearted merriment of childhood. She faithfully made no sign, nor movement that should attract attention, and turned her steps towards their temporary domicile, satisfied and relieved; but, such is the inconsistency of the human heart, that, anxious as she was to know them happy, a painful feeling shot through her to think how joyous they were without her. While she—yet she wished them to be joyous, though it was bitter to think her children should grow up without any love for her, any recollection of her.

If such thoughts did cross her mind, they found not utterance in words. She professed herself satisfied, and they returned to Longbury. She loved Longbury; it was there she had first seen Algernon. It was there he had first breathed his vows of love; it was there she had, as she then fancied, bound herself to him by ties, which death only was to sever.

Since the trial, Cresford insisted upon her receiving alimony from him. It was painful to her to do so; but he would have been furious at the idea of her being beholden to Hamilton. Her father, though he had the will, had not the means of supporting her; and feeling also that her miseries tended rather to depress him, and to throw a gloom over the youth of Matilda, she retired to a very small cottage in the outskirts of the town, and there resided in the deepest retirement, seeking consolation in the performance of the few duties which remained to her to fulfil,—devotion to her child, and attention to the poor around her; her only amusement, the cultivation of her tiny flower-garden.

The neighbouring peasants soon learned to look upon her as their friend, and applied to her in all cases of distress. She had heard Algernon’s opinions upon the mischief produced by indiscriminate charity, and she tried so to regulate her’s, as not to reward the idle and complaining, while the frugal, industrious, and contented, were unnoticed, and unassisted. She felt, while making this her study, that she was in some measure executing his wishes. How well she succeeded in doing real good, is another question. The task is one of great difficulty; but she succeeded in making herself loved by all the best of her poor neighbours, though she might occasionally be imposed upon by some of the worst.

Her gentle words, her good advice, her attempts to convert the wicked, and to console the suffering, could do no harm, even when they failed of effecting good.