We must go back to an early hour of that same Sunday morning, and to the cottage of Stephen Gimlet, near the little church. Both Stephen himself and his mother-in-law had risen betimes; and the boy was still sleeping in his bed. The old lady spent three-quarters of an hour in writing an epistle, with her spectacles on her nose; while her son-in-law ate his breakfast; and when the act of composition was over, she folded up in the letter an old piece of paper, partly printed, partly written, the very same in fact, which had flown out of her family Bible one morning, when poor Billy Lamb, coming in, had found the book in the hands of Stephen Gimlet's little boy. She then added thereto an old, somewhat crumpled, and well-worn letter, first reading over the address attentively, got a light and a small piece of red sealing-wax, sealed the letter, and stamped it with the end of her thimble.
"There, Stephen," she said, giving the letter to her son-in-law, "he is back now, that's certain; take that up to him, and tell him, that if he wants to hear any more about it, I can give him information of the whole. I know all the names, and I believe the minister is alive still.--I would not go out of the house, if I were you, till I saw him; and, if by any chance he should not be come down yet, I would hang about and catch him, when he arrives; for it is only just right he should know how the whole matter stands, before he goes any further."
"I won't miss him this time, goody," said Ste Gimlet; "so you and the boy get your dinner, if I should not come back in time. I am very uneasy at its not having been done before; for we poor people cannot tell what may become of such things with great folks, and after all you tell me, I am very sure, that blackguard fellow Moreton is not hanging about here for any good."
Thus saying, Stephen Gimlet put the letter carefully up, and went away, as usual, with his gun in his hand, and his dog following. It was not yet more than half-past five o'clock; and, recollecting that the servants of Sir John Slingsby were not very matutinal in their habits, the gamekeeper thought he might as well go upon one of his rounds, which led him near to Chandleigh Heath, and see if he could get any inkling of Captain Moreton's proceedings. He walked slowly along up the lane from his own house, crossed the high-road from Tarningham to London, and then taking a path across the fields, soon came to another lane, which led him to a sandy way, having a high hedge with elm-trees on the left, and Chandleigh Heath on the right. It was sunk down some way beneath the rest of the country, so as to give no prospect over the common; but, a couple of hundred yards further on, a footpath went up over the bank and divided into two, something after the fashion of a bird's merrythought, one branch leading to an old tumulus, topped with firs, and the other, which was much shorter, running down to the cottage inhabited by Captain Moreton. About twenty yards before he reached this turning, the dog, which followed at Stephen Gimlet's heels, began to growl in a somewhat angry manner; and the gamekeeper turned round to look in what direction the beast's eyes were bent. Before he could ascertain, however, a man suddenly sprang over the hedge, and cast himself upon him, seizing the barrel of his gun with both hands. A fierce struggle ensued; for Stephen Gimlet at once perceived who his adversary was; and the gamekeeper, though taken unawares, was decidedly getting the better, when he suddenly found his arms seized from behind, and a cord passed quickly round them. The next instant the cord was drawn tight in spite of all his efforts; but at the same moment he had the satisfaction of hearing the voice of Harry Wittingham exclaim: "Damn the dog, he has bit me to the bone;" and, as his legs were free, he made so strenuous an application of his thick-nailed shoes to the shins of Captain Moreton, that the respectable gentleman let go his hold; and, darting away, Stephen Gimlet ran forward, as fast as he could, in the hope of meeting some one, who would render him assistance. I have said, that his assailants sprang upon him from behind; and, consequently, the only paths open for the fugitive were those which led towards the cottage or to the tumulus on the heath. In the latter direction he was not likely to find any one to help him; but down the lane, which passed close by the cottage, were a number of poor men's houses, the inhabitants of which usually went out to work about that hour. It is a pity that Stephen Gimlet did not recollect that it was Sunday; but so it was; and the good labourers were taking an additional nap to refresh them after the toils of the week. No one knows how much one limb aids another, even in the peculiar functions of the latter, till some deprivation has taken place. Now, at the first consideration, we should say, that a man did not run with his arms; but yet the arms help a man very much in running; and Stephen Gimlet soon found to his cost, that he could not run as he was accustomed to do, without them. He was much swifter of foot than either of those who followed; but yet, by the time that he had got three hundred yards down the lane, they had recovered their hold of him and thrown him down. In fact, it was a great convenience to them, that he had run; for every step that he had taken was in the direction which they had intended to carry him; and when they overtook him, he was not thirty yards from the garden-gate of the cottage. He was easily dragged along for that distance, brought into the house, and put into a room, which had been constructed by the retired hosier for what he called the butler's-pantry, though it is by no means to be understood that he ever had, or expected to have, such a thing as a butler, or any thing the least like it. Nevertheless, as the room was destined to contain a certain amount of silver spoons, tea-pots, and other little pieces of the precious metal, strong bars had been put up to the windows; and the butler's-pantry now formed a very convenient little cage for the bird, which the two gentlemen had caught out upon the common.
Before they shut the door upon him, Mr. Henry Wittingham made some proposal to Captain Moreton in a low voice, to which the other replied:
"No, no; he'll make an outcry and wake the women; and then we shall have it all over the place. You can lick him well before we let him out, if you like. Let us attend to the main business first, and, having got him in, keep him in; nobody knowing any thing about it.--Good morning, Master Wolf; you shall have some bread-and-water, if you like, but nothing else for the next four-and-twenty hours."
Stephen Gimlet answered not; and it is to be remarked, that--whether, because he thought that shouting would be of no use, or that he chose to imitate the beast, whose name he had acquired, in its taciturn habits under adversity--not a word had he uttered from the beginning of the fray until the end. He suffered the door to be shut upon him in silence; and while he remained revolving what was to be done, or whether any thing could be done, his two captors retired to the little drawing-room, where they sat down and laughed for a moment at the success of their scheme. Their first merriment, however, soon gave way to some uneasy sensations. Captain Moreton rubbed his shins, which had suffered considerably from the contact with Stephen Gimlet's shoes. Harry Wittingham unceremoniously pulled off his boot, and found his whole stocking stained with blood, and the marks of four large fangs very apparent in the heel and tendon.
"Come along with me," said Captain Moreton, when he saw his companion's state; "we'll get a little salt and water; you shall wash your heel with it, and I will wash my shins, for that d--d fellow has kicked all the skin off--salt and water is the best thing in the world."
While they go to perform the part of surgeons upon themselves, I will, with the reader's leave, return to speak of one of the actors in the scene of Stephen Gimlet's capture, who has not had as much notice as he deserves. The dog, who had followed him from his own cottage, after having paid due attention to the heel of Mr. Wittingham, and received a severe kick for his pains, gave chase to the pursuers of his master down the lane, tore Captain Moreton's coat with a spring and a snap; but then suddenly, as if he saw that his own unassisted efforts could do little, and judged, that it might be right to seek assistance, he darted off at a right angle across the common, with his head hanging down, his tongue out, and some angry foam dropping from his mouth. He ran straight through a farm-yard on the opposite side of the heath, bit at a woman who was going to milk the cows, but only tore her apron, wounded the farmer's dog with a sharp snap, went clear over the wall and straight on toward Tarningham, biting at every living thing that came in his way, but never stopping to ascertain whether he had inflicted much or little evil. This misanthropical spirit soon called the attention of the people, and excited their indignation. They gave the poor dog a bad name; and, though no one could be found to undertake the exact task of hanging him, they followed with pitchforks, sticks, shovels, stones, and a very miscellaneous assortment of other weapons, such as pokers, tongs, &c.; and, driving him into the court-yard of the mayor's house at Tarningham, succeeded in killing him without doing any other further mischief.
Such is the tragic history of Stephen Gimlet's poor dog; but of none of the particulars were Captain Moreton and Harry Wittingham made acquainted at the time; for both those gentlemen thought fit to keep themselves strictly to the house during the whole morning. Of much and many things did they talk; they comforted the outward man, as had been proposed, with salt and water; they comforted the inner man with toast, coffee, eggs, and broiled ham. The broiled ham left them thirsty; and at twelve o'clock they tried to assuage such unpleasant sensations by a glass of cold brandy-and-water; and, finding that not succeed according to their expectation, they tried another glass hot. After that, Harry Wittingham declared he felt tired and sleepy with getting up so early, and retired to lie down for a time; but he continued sleeping in a broken sort of confused slumber for between three and four hours, when he was roused by hearing some very high tones, and apparently sharp words proceeding from the neighbouring room. Without difficulty he recognised the voices of Captain Moreton and his fair companion, who had seemed in no very good humour when he supped with him the night before; but he could not distinguish the subject of dispute on the present occasion; and, looking at his watch, he found that it was past four o'clock. Knowing that the dinner-hour at the cottage was five, he washed his face and hands, arranged his hair, as best he might, and went down to the drawing-room, still hearing the strife of tongues raging in the adjoining room.
It was some quarter of an hour before Captain Moreton joined him; and he was then informed by his worthy friend, that dinner would be half an hour later that day, as the maid had been sent to Buxton's Inn, for the purpose of ordering a chaise to be at the door at nightfall.
This announcement startled Harry Wittingham a good deal.
"But where the devil are you going to, Moreton?" he inquired; "you are not going to leave me alone with this fellow, are you?"
"Only for a short time, Mr. Wittingham," answered Captain Moreton, in his easy, nonchalant way, "not long enough for him to eat you, or for you to eat him. You know what obstinate devils these women are; and I have got to do with the most pigheaded of the whole race. The fact is, Wittingham, we have got in our hands, if we do but use it properly, the means of having full revenge upon one or two good friends of ours; amongst the rest, that fellow, who, as you ought to remember, was second to Captain Hayward in his duel with you, Mr. Beauchamp, he calls himself."
"Why, I hear he has turned out a Lord Lenham, and is going to marry old Sir John's pretty daughter."
"Exactly so," answered Captain Moreton, drily; "but if he doesn't mind, his wedding tour will be a different one to what he expects; however, I have the greatest difficulty in preventing my fair friend Charlotte from spoiling the whole business; for she is in one of her violent fits, and then she gets as mad as a March hare. She and I must act together; but I must not appear in the business; for you see there are two or three little things that the people might bring against me. I have resolved, therefore, to get over to Winterton, till to-morrow's work is blown over; for she will be present to witness the marriage, do what I can to stop her. As the mischief would have it, however, I threatened to blow the whole matter up, if she would not submit to management; and so she will not let me out of her sight, threatening at the same time to cut my throat, or some pretty little thing of that kind by way of making herself a pleasant companion. However, she must go with me, that's clear, and come over in a chaise tomorrow to the wedding. If she does not spoil all, and this man here can be kept in, we have got them completely in our power."
"Why, what in fortune's name can he have to do with Lord Lenham's marriage?" asked Harry Wittingham.
"I don't know, exactly," answered Captain Moreton, musing gravely; "but I have a good many suspicions about him, which it won't do to mention just yet. All I ask, is to have him kept in here, till after the marriage is over; and you will have nothing further to do with it, than to keep the key of the room and prevent any of the girls from going in. By so doing you will punish him ten times more than if you licked him for an hour. I know you are not given to be afraid of any thing; but, if people should make a fuss about it, it is very easy to say you did it, to punish him for knocking you down the way he did."
Harry Wittingham smiled; and the moment after Captain Moreton continued: "Here she comes, by Jove; I'll get out of the way for the present, and cram some meat down that fellow's throat without untying him. You'll stay, Wittingham, won't you? I shall be back to-morrow night."
"Why, I must stay, I suppose," said Harry Wittingham; "for good old Dame Billiter thinks I shall be here till to-morrow night; and I expect her to send me up some money, if she can get it."
Captain Moreton did not wait for any thing further than this assent, but disappeared by the right-hand door; and the moment after, the fair lady, whom I have so often mentioned, entered by the other. Her face was somewhat redder than usual; but that was the only sign of agitating passions that could be discovered in her demeanour. Her step was calm, stealthy, and cat-like; her eyes looked cold and flat, with a meaningless sort of glassy glare about them, as if purposely covered by a semi-opaque film to veil what was passing beneath. She looked slowly round the room, without taking any notice of Mr. Wittingham, though she had not seen him that day; and, walking round to the mock-rosewood sofa, she sat down in silence and took some papers out of the drawer of the table. Harry Wittingham wished her good morning, and addressed to her some commonplace observation, to which she replied with a forced smile, and then busied herself with her papers again. When Captain Moreton re-entered the room about a quarter of an hour afterwards, a sudden fierce gleam came into her eyes and passed away again; but she uttered not a word; and, dinner being announced soon after, she took Mr. Wittingham's arm and walked into the small dining-room. When the meal was over, and she left the gentlemen to their wine, she passed by Captain Moreton's chair, and bending down her head, she said in a low voice, but loud enough for Mr. Wittingham to hear:
"Remember, Moreton, remember! You know me!"
Captain Moreton only laughed, though the words were said with a threatening manner; and, as soon as she was gone, he plied Harry Wittingham with wine, which was followed by brandy-and-water; and in the pleasant occupation thus provided, the two worthy compeers continued to exercise themselves, till the sky grew grey, and the roll of a chaise was heard before the garden.
"There, Wittingham," cried Captain Moreton, starting up, "there's the key of the little cellar--small enough, but there's sufficient in it to lay you dead-drunk for a fortnight. There's the key of the cage, too; keep the bird safe till ten or eleven o'clock to-morrow. I will try to keep my grey mare in hand; and, if we can manage both, you will hear some news tomorrow night, that will make you laugh heartily--Farewell, my good fellow," and going to the door, he shouted aloud, "Where's the portmanteau?"
"I put it in the shay, Sir," said the girl; and, turning once more to Harry Wittingham, Captain Moreton told him that he should see him before ten the following night, and went to seek his fair companion.
In a few minutes more they were gone; but the gentleman they left behind did not see any reason why he should not finish the bottle of wine on the table, "just to take the taste of the brandy out of his mouth." After that he fell asleep in an armchair; and so sound was his slumber, that the maid came in twice and looked at him; but seeing that there was no probability of his waking for some hours, she put a fresh pair of candles on the table, and went to bed.
Harry Wittingham slept and dreamed: He thought he had committed some horrible act, that the hue and cry was raised, the whole county in pursuit, and that he could hear the galloping of horses coming close after him. He struggled to spur his own beast forward, but its legs would not move; and, looking down with horror and consternation, he found it was a rocking-horse with little bells at its ears and its tail. Suddenly a constable seemed to grasp him by the shoulder; and, starting up in agony, he found the servant-girl shaking him.
"Please, Sir," she said, "Mrs. Billiter has sent up the man to say, that your father is dying, and you must go down directly."
Without a moment's thought or consideration, Harry Wittingham ran out, snatched up his hat in the passage; and, telling the man to follow on foot, mounted the horse and rode away to Tarningham.
The sun shone bright in Stephen Gimlet's cottage for a couple of hours after dawn, till about an hour before evening's close. For the first three or four hours the same sunshine seemed to pervade the interior house, that glowed without. Widow Lamb seemed contented with what she had done; her meek face wore as warm a smile as ever now shone upon it; and she busied herself during the morning in all the little household arrangements, and in teaching the boy his letters. The boy himself played about merrily, whilst she was occupied with the inanimate things of the place, and then came and said his letters, infamously ill, indeed, but still somewhat better than usual. When the sun got round to his southern-most point, Widow Lamb, not at all surprised at her son-in-law's absence, as its probability had been announced beforehand, gave the boy his dinner, and took a very moderate portion of food herself; but, when the day had three or four hours declined from its prime, she wondered that Stephen had not come back, and, at the end of an hour, grew somewhat uneasy. She consoled herself, however, by supposing, that Lord Lenham had not yet returned from London, and that Stephen was waiting for his arrival; but another hour passed, and another; and at length her son, Billy Lamb, made his appearance, inquiring somewhat anxiously for his brother-in-law.
Mrs. Lamb simply told him, that Stephen was out, adding that he had been away all day.
"It is droll I haven't seen him," said the boy, "but I dare say he is vexed about his dog."
"Why, what has happened to the dog?" asked Widow Lamb. "He took it out with him this morning early."
"Ay, but the people of Tarningham killed it for a mad dog," said Billy Lamb, "I dare say the poor beast was not mad at all. I saw it afterwards and knew it directly; but I have seen nothing of Stephen."
"He is up at Sir John's," said Widow Lamb, "and I dare say is waiting till the young lord comes down from London."
"No, that can't be, mother," replied her son, "for the gentleman came down yesterday evening; one of our post-boys drove him."
"That's very odd," said Widow Lamb, "I wonder Stephen has not come back then. I hope nothing's the matter."
"Oh, dear no," replied the deformed lad; "you know Ste was always fond of wandering about, and would, at times, be out for a couple of days together; but I wanted to tell him that I have found out nothing about that Captain Moreton, except that he is going away from the cottage somewhere to-night. I did not see him myself, when I took up the letters to him to-day; but the servant-girl told she had been sent up to Buxton's Inn to order a chaise, and that it was to be down there just at nightfall."
"Ay, ill birds fly at night," said Widow Lamb; "but I wish Stephen would come home, for he has been now gone well-nigh twelve hours."
"Oh, he is safe enough, mother," reiterated her son, "it is not like if it were night-time, or winter either--but I must get back; for there will be all the supper-beer to carry out;" and, after a few more words, he departed.
Hour after hour, however, went by; and Stephen Gimlet did not appear, till the good old lady's apprehensions increased every minute. She put the boy to bed and sat up and watched; but eight, nine, ten o'clock came, and no one approached the cottage-door. A terribly anxious night was that which followed; and, though about midnight Widow Lamb went to bed, sleep did not visit her eyes for some hours. She lay and revolved all, that could have happened. She was anxious for her son-in-law; anxious for the result of his mission to Beauchamp; and she had resolved to set off early on the morrow morning for Tarningham Park, taking the boy with her. At about half-past three, however, weariness overpowered the old woman, and she slept. Her frame was not very strong; and, exhausted with both watching and anxiety, the slumber that fell upon her was profound and long. The first thing that awoke her was the little boy pulling her by the arm and saying, "Granny, granny, you are a sluggard now, as you called me the other day. I am very hungry, I want my breakfast."
Widow Lamb started up, and looking at her old round watch in its tortoiseshell-case, she saw that it was half-past seven o'clock. Vexed and angry with herself, she hurried on her clothes, and proceeded to give the boy some food, urging him to hasten his meal, as she was going to take him a walk. The temptation was strong, and at about a quarter past eight they were out of the cottage, and on the way to Tarningham Park. She heard village-bells ringing merrily, as on a day of festival; but Widow Lamb's heart was sad. The whole country was smiling in the morning light; but, though to a fine mind the beauties of nature never lose their charm, yet to the old there is, at all times, a melancholy mingled with the pleasure they produce; and to the spirit cast down with apprehension, or affliction, the very loveliness becomes a load. The boy lingered, and would fain have played by the way; but his grandmother hurried him forward as fast as his little legs could carry him; and they reached the mansion of Sir John Slingsby a few minutes before nine. There were carriages already at the door. Servants were seen bustling about; but all were too busy to take notice of the old widow and the little boy, till, going into the court-yard, she addressed herself to one of the helpers in the stable, whom she had seen and known, and told him her apprehensions about her son-in-law.
The man kindly undertook to make inquiries, and let her know the result; and leaving her there for some minutes, he came back shortly after with the butler, who told her, that Stephen Gimlet had certainly not been there the day before. "I can't stop to talk with you, goody," he said, in an important tone; "for you see Miss Slingsby is just going to set out, to be married to Lord Lenham; but, as soon as they come back from church, I will tell Sir John; and depend upon it he will have Stephen sought for."
"If I could speak with Lord Lenham for one minute," said Widow Lamb; but the man interrupted her, laughing. "You must go down to Tarningham, then, goody," he said, "for his lordship slept there last night; or else you can go down to the church of Little Tarningham, where, I dare say, he is waiting by this time; or, what is better than all, wait here till they come back; and I'll give Ste Gimlet's little boy a bit of bride-cake."
As he spoke, he hurried back again into the house; and Widow Lamb paused and thought, with the tears in her eyes; but at length she said aloud, "I will go down to the church;" and, taking the little boy by the hand, who did not at all like the idea of losing the bride-cake, she hurried out of the gates of the court, and pursued one of the small footpaths leading towards Little Tarningham. She was within fifty yards from the park paling, when Sir John Slingsby's carriages drove past at a quick rate; and Widow Lamb, though little able from much exertion, hurried her pace, till the boy was forced to run, to keep up with her. The church, as the reader knows, was at the distance of somewhat less than half a mile; and, when Widow Lamb reached it, there stood before the gates of the little churchyard, two or three handsome carriages and one post-chaise. Passing quickly along the path through the cemetery, the old woman approached the door, which was ajar, and heard the full sonorous voice of Dr. Miles reading the marriage-service. She pushed open the door gently and went in. There were a great number of people in the church, collected from Tarningham and the neighbourhood, some in the little gallery, where they could see best; some in pews in the body of the church; and one or two in the aisle. The latter, however, did not prevent the old lady from seeing straight up to the altar, around which was congregated the bridal party, with Beauchamp and Captain Hayward on the one side, and Sir John Slingsby with his family on the other. Just as Widow Lamb entered, Dr. Miles, standing before the altar, was saying aloud, "I pronounce that they be man and wife together."
It was evident the ceremony was nearly over; the marriage in fact completed. The benediction was then given, and the psalm said; and, after all those parts of the service, which are usually read, Beauchamp drew the arm of Isabella through his own and led her down the aisle towards the little vestry which stood on the right hand side of the church. The people in the pews rose up to look over; but, to the surprise of many, one of the pew-doors opened, before the newly-married couple had taken two steps; and a lady issued forth, and, turning her face towards the altar, stood right in the way of the advancing party. Her eye fixed straight upon Lord Lenham, flashing and fierce; her lip curled with a smile of contemptuous triumph, while her brow appeared knit with a heavy frown. At the same moment a voice, which some persons near recognised as that of Mr. Wharton, the attorney, exclaimed from the pew which the lady had just left, "Now she has spoiled it all."
But what was the effect of this apparition upon those in whose presence it so suddenly appeared? Beauchamp staggered and turned deadly pale; and Isabella recoiled in alarm from that menacing look and flashing eye, saying in a low tone, "Good Heaven, who is this?"
"Who am I, girl?" said the lady, aloud, "I will tell you who I am, and let him deny it if he can. I am this man's lawful wife whom you have just married--look at his face, pale, dastard conscience is upon it. He is well aware of the truth that I speak and the crime that he has committed."
But Beauchamp instantly recovered himself, and while a dead silence prevailed in the whole church, he put Isabella's hand into her father's, advanced a step towards the person before him, and fixing his eyes firmly upon her, he said,
"Charlotte Hay, you have laid once more a dark and horrible scheme to injure me. By cunning artifices and long concealment you have taught me to believe you were dead for some years, and have waited for this moment for your revenge--you know it, you dare not deny it--but you may yet find yourself deceived. In one point you are already deceived; for, doubtless, judging from your own heart, you imagine I have concealed previous events from this lady and her family. Such is not the case; and now you force upon me that which I have always avoided, the trial whether there ever was any marriage at all between myself and you."
"Avoided it, because you knew it could not be questioned," answered the lady, scornfully. "Your father and yourself took lawyers' opinion enough, and the reply of every one was that the marriage was perfectly good and valid."
"Not worth a straw," said a voice behind her, and turning round with the look of a demon the eyes of Charlotte Hay lighted on Widow Lamb, who had walked quietly up the aisle at the commencement of this scene. For a moment or two she gazed at her as if striving to recall her face, and then gave a short scream, muttering afterwards to herself,
"I know who has done this, I know who has done this!"
"What is this, my good woman?" cried Mr. Wharton, stepping out of the pew, and putting himself at the side of Charlotte Hay.
Sir John Slingsby was darting forward towards him with wrath in his countenance, but Doctor Miles held him by the arm, and Widow Lamb replied boldly,
"What I said, Mr. Wharton, was that this lady's pretended marriage with Lord Lenham, then Mr. St. Leger, was no marriage at all."
"But why? were you present? what can you know about it? are you one of the judges of the ecclesiastical court?" asked Mr. Wharton, with amazing volubility.
"I am no judge, and was not present though I was in the house," answered Widow Lamb; "but it was no marriage at all, and I can prove it, so you need not be terrified, dear young lady, for you are his lawful wife at this very moment."
Charlotte Hay turned towards Isabella with a look of withering scorn, and exclaimed,
"You may be his concubine, girl, if you like, but you can never be his wife as long as I live."
"I say she is his wife," cried Widow Lamb, indignantly, "just as much as you are the wife of Archibald Graham, the minister of Blackford, my husband David Lamb's first cousin. You thought all trace of that marriage was removed; you knew not that there are people living who witnessed the marriage; you knew not that I had your marriage lines now in my possession, and a letter from your real husband written long after Captain Moreton took you away from him, and after your pretended marriage with this gentleman."
"Produce them, produce them," cried Mr. Wharton, "let us see what these wonderful documents are. Such papers often turn out mere moon-shine in a court of law."
"At all events, Sir, this church is not a court of law," said Dr. Miles, advancing, "such matters must not be argued here, and I must remark that if this lady had any just cause to oppose this marriage she was bound to state it when called upon in the solemn manner which the ritual prescribes. How the fact of her not having done so may affect the legal questions implicated is not for me to say, but I must declare that her not having tendered her opposition at the proper moment was highly wrong, and does not give a favourable impression of her case."
The lady turned her fierce eyes upon the rector, and then glared over the rest of the party, but seemed without a reply, for she made none. Mr. Wharton came to her assistance with a falsehood, however.
"The lady was too much overpowered, Sir, to speak," he said, "and I was not formally authorised by her to do so. But as to this old woman, I demand that the documents she mentions be produced, for I have every reason to believe that this is a mere pretext, in fact a case of fraud originating in conspiracy, and I shall not scruple to give the good lady into custody if I can find a constable, unless she instantly produces the documents." He looked full at Widow Lamb while he spoke, and then added, "Have you got them? can you produce them?"
"I have not got them here," answered the old woman in a faltering tone, somewhat alarmed at the threat of a man who had ruined her husband, "but they are safe enough, I am sure, and they shall be produced whenever there is a trial."
"Oh, oh!" cried Mr. Wharton, "what time to manufacture them! But I will take care of you, my good lady. I will see for a constable directly, and--"
"Nonsense, you rogue!" cried Sir John Slingsby, "you know very well that such a thing is out of the question. You can manufacture no charge upon such a ground, whatever others may manufacture."
"Rogue, Sir John," cried Mr. Wharton, furiously, "that man is the rogue who does not pay his just debts, and you know whether the name applies best to me or to you."
"To you, lawyer Wharton," said Stephen Gimlet, coming up the aisle, "there, hold your tongue, for I heard all your talk with Captain Moreton this morning, and how you settled all your differences upon his promising you what you called apost obit bond, to pay you five thousand pounds upon the death of Lord Harcourt Lenham. There, Goody Lamb, there is the letter you gave me yesterday; I'll tell you how it all happened that I could not deliver it by-and-by."
"Here are the papers, here are the papers!" cried the widow, tearing open the letter; "here are the marriage lines, as the people call them in Scotland, between Charlotte Hay and Archibald Graham, and here is poor Archy's letter to my husband written long after."
"You had better get into the chaise and go," whispered Mr. Wharton to the lady, who now stood pale and trembling beside him, and then raising his voice as if to cover her retreat, he continued: "take notice, Sir John Slingsby and all persons here present, that I charge the noble lord there with the crime of bigamy in having intermarried with Isabella Slingsby, his wife Charlotte Hay being still living, and that I at once pronounce these things in the old woman's hands merely forgeries got up between her and Viscount Lenham while he was staying at the cottage of her son-in-law Stephen Gimlet,aliasWolf. You will act as you like, Sir John, but it is only a friendly part to say that if you have any regard for your daughter you will separate her at once from one who is not and cannot be her husband."
Thus saying he walked with a well-assured air to the door of the church, neither turning to the right nor to the left, but the moment he turned away Ned Hayward quitted the side of Mary Clifford, and with a quick step followed the lawyer. He let him pass through the churchyard and open the gate, but then going up to one of the post-boys standing by Beauchamp's carriage, the young officer said,
"Lend me your whip one moment."
The man at once put it in his hand, and the next instant it was laid over Mr. Wharton's shoulders some five or six times with rapid and vigorous reiteration.
"I think the price is five pounds," said Ned Hayward, nodding his head to the smarting and astounded attorney; "it is cheap, Mr. Wharton, and perhaps I may require a little more at the same price. Good morning," and he re-entered the church, while the servants and post-boys gave a grand shout, and Mr. Wharton sneaked away vowing vengeance for a future day.
"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 hispost 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.