With bitter disappointment at his heart, with the dark shadow which had hung so long over his existence, turning all the rosy hopes of life to the leaden gray of the grave, now returned after a brief period of brighter expectations; with the cup of joy snatched from his hand at the very moment he was raising it to his lips, Beauchamp leaned back in his carriage, and gave himself up for a few minutes to deep and sorrowful meditation. He remembered well when first the feeling of love was springing up in his heart towards Isabella Slingsby; that upon mature consideration of his fate he had determined to crush it in the bud, to batter down the fountain of sweet waters, which he feared some malific power would turn to poison, and never attempt to link the fate of that dear girl to his sorrowful one, even by the gentle tie of mutual affection; and now he almost regretted that he had not kept his resolution. It is true, circumstances had changed; it is true, there were good hopes that the evil star of his destiny seemed likely to sink, and a brighter one rise; but yet a mind long accustomed to disappointment and sorrow, can with difficulty be brought to listen to the voice of hope without having the warning tongue of fear at the same time. All seemed to promise well; for the removal of that heavy weight which had oppressed his heart, kept down his energies, crushed love and joy, and left him nought in life but solitude and disappointment, and despair. But still his experience of the past taught him to expect so little from the future, that he dared not indulge in one vision of relief, and although he had used the words of hope to Isabella, he could not apply the balm to his own wound.
Ned Hayward sat beside him quietly, and let him think for about ten minutes; and he did so for two reasons. In the first place, he knew that it was very vain to offer consolation so soon after a bitter mortification had been received; and, in the next place, he did not wish to rouse his companion from the reverie till they had passed Tarningham Park; for he judged that the sight of scenes, associated in memory with happy hopes now removed afar, would only add poignancy to disappointment. However, when the park was passed (and the four horses went at a very rapid rate), he commenced the conversation in a way the most likely to lead Beauchamp's mind from the more painful points of his situation, to fix them upon those more favourable.
"Of course, Lenham," he said, with an abruptness that made his companion start, "before you act even in the slightest particular, you will consult some counsel learned in the law. This seems a case in which, with management, you have the complete command over your own fate; but proper where a few false steps might be very detrimental, so far, at least, as delay in the determination of the affair for some months."
"I know not, my dear Hayward," answered Lord Lenham, "how this may turn out; but circumstances have rendered me, once the most hopeful and light-hearted of human beings, the most desponding. I have a sort of impression upon me, that the result will not be so favourable as you anticipate. I have to oppose long practised cunning and the most unscrupulous use of every means, however base and wrong. I must remember, too, that this business has been long plotting, and, depend upon it, that nothing which a perverted human mind could do to obliterate every trace of this former marriage, has been left undone. Depend upon it the conspiracy has been going on for some time, and that the concealment of this woman's existence has been intentional and systematic. In fact nothing could be more artful, nothing more base, but nothing more evidently pre-arranged than all the steps which they have taken within the last two or three months. Even on the very sale of her goods, which took place in Paris about a month ago, it was announced by public advertisement that they had been the property of the late Charlotte Hay, Lady Lenham. I am afraid neither I nor any lawyer, however shrewd, will be found equal to encounter this woman, whose cunning and determination I never knew matched."
"She seems a precious virago indeed," said Ned Hayward; "but never you fear, my dear lord. I don't setup to be a Solomon, but there's a maxim which I established when I was very young, and which I have seen break down very much less frequently than most of his proverbs that will go in your favour, if we but manage properly. It is this: 'Rogues always forget something.' Depend upon it it will hold good in this instance. Indeed we see that it has; for these good folks forget completely the marriage certificate in the hands of Goody Lamb. Doubtless that certificate will be easily verified, so as to put its authenticity beyond all doubt; then nothing will remain but to prove the existence of your predecessor in the fair lady's affections at a period subsequent to her pretended marriage with yourself."
"That may be difficult to do," said Beauchamp.
"Not in the least," cried Ned Hayward. "He has written to the good old widow within two years, it seems. Of course they will try to shake her testimony, and, though I don't think that can be done, we must be prepared with other witnesses. Now you and I don't in the least doubt the old woman's story, and if that story is true, her husband's cousin, this fair lady's husband, was living, and the clergyman of a place called Blackford, not two years ago. Every body in his parish will know whether this is true or not, and a Scotch minister's life is not usually so full of vicissitudes as to admit the possibility of a difficulty in identifying that Archibald Graham, of Blackford, was the husband of Charlotte Hay."
"You should have been a lawyer, Hayward," said Beauchamp, with a faint smile, "at all events, you prove a very excellent counsellor for my hopes against my fears."
"A lawyer! Heaven forefend!" exclaimed Ned Hayward, laughing; "a soldier is a much better thing, Lenham; aye, and I believe when he knows his profession, more fit to cope with a lawyer than almost any one else. It is always his business to mark well every point of his position, to guard well every weak part; and then, having taken all his precautions, he advances straightforward at the enemy's works, looking sharp about him that he be not taken in flank, and he is almost sure to carry the field if his cause be good, his heart strong, and his army true."
Such conversation was not without its effect upon Beauchamp's mind. Hope is the next thing to happiness, and hope returned, becoming every moment more and more vigorous from the cheerful and sanguine character of his companion. At length Ned Hayward looked out at the window, exclaiming,
"Here we are coming to Winterton, I suppose, where we change horses. Devil take those post-boys, if they go at that rate through the crowd they will be over some fellow or another."
"Crowd," said Beauchamp, and he too put his head to the window.
The little solitary inn at Winterton-cum-Snowblast was on the side of the road next to Ned Hayward, but when Lord Lenham, leaning forward, looked out, he saw some forty or fifty people, principally country folks, ostlers, and post-boys collected round the door of the house. There was a sprinkling of women amongst the various groups, into which they had fallen, and in the midst appeared a common post-chaise with the horses out, while a man on horseback was seen riding away at a jolting canter.
"There's something the matter here," said Beauchamp, "I will tell one of the servants to ask."
As he spoke the chaise dashed on towards the inn-door, and Ned Hayward's prediction of the consequences likely to ensue had nearly been verified, for so eagerly were many persons in the crowd engaged in conversation, that they did not change their position until the last moment, and then a general scattering took place, which in its haste and confusion had well-nigh brought more than one man or woman under the feet of the leaders.
"Horses on," cried the wheel post-boy, as he drove up, speaking to the ostler of the inn, whose natural predilection for post-horses called his attention to the carriage sooner than that of any other person in the crowd.
"We ha'n't got two pair in," he said, in reply, "without that pair which is just off the shay; we been obliged to send off one this minute to the magistrates about all this here business."
"What is the matter, my man?" said Ned Hayward, out of the carriage-window, "what business is it you are talking of?"
"I had better call master, Sir," said the ostler, pulling the brim of his old hat with a somewhat renitent look, as if he did not like to answer the question; "he'll be here in a minute."
"This seems something strange," said Beauchamp, "we had better get out and see. Open the door, Harrison."
The servant, who was standing with his hand upon the silver knob of the carriage-door, instantly did as he was ordered, and threw down the steps with a degree of vehemence customary to lackeys and serviceable to coach makers. Ned Hayward being next to the door got out first, and as he put his right foot to the ground, the landlord of the inn came up, bowing low to the first occupant of a carriage which had two servants behind and a coronet on the panel. The bow would have been much more moderate to a simple yellow post-chaise.
"What is the matter here, landlord? Has any accident happened?"
"Why, yes, my lord," replied the landlord, supposing our friend to be the proprietor of the vehicle, "a terrible accident, too--that is to say not exactly, either--for it is clear enough the thing was done on purpose by some one, who, it is not for me to say till the magistrates come."
"But what is it? what is it?" said Beauchamp, who followed; "you seem to be very mysterious."
"Why, you see, my lord," replied the landlord, who thought he could not be far wrong in honouring both gentlemen with the same title, "it's an awkward business, and one does not like to say much, but the gentleman's got his throat cut that's certain, and whether he did it himself or whether the lady did it for him seems a question. All I can say is, I saw him sound asleep on the sofa five minutes before she came back. He had a glass of brandy-and-water and two fried eggs just after she went away with attorney Wharton, and seemed quite in his right mind then, only a little tired with sitting up so late last night and getting up so early this morning--but you don't seem well, Sir," he continued, seeing Beauchamp turn a look to the countenance of Ned Hayward, with a cheek that had become as pale as death--"had not you better come in and take something?"
"Presently, presently," said Beauchamp, "go on--what were you saying?"
"Nothing, Sir, but that the lady seems dreadfully wild, and I can't help thinking she's out of her mind--I always did for that matter."
"Is the gentleman dead?" asked Beauchamp, in a low tone.
"No, Sir, not quite dead," said the landlord, "and the surgeon is a sewing up of his throat, but it is no good I'm sure, for the room is all in a slop of blood."
"Do you know his name?" said Beauchamp.
"Why, Captain Moreton, I believe, Sir," said the landlord; "I've heard so, I don't know it for certain."
"I will go in and see him," said the young nobleman, and he added, seeing a look of hesitation on the landlord's countenance, "I am his first cousin, Sir, my name is Lord Lenham."
The announcement removed all doubt upon the good man's mind, and Beauchamp and Ned Hayward walked forward into the inn guided by the landlord. He conducted them at once upstairs to the rooms which had been occupied by Captain Moreton and Charlotte Hay. At one of the doors on the landing-place they saw a man standing with his arms folded on his chest, but the landlord led them past to the room in front of the house, first entering quietly himself. It was a ghastly and horrible scene which presented itself when Beauchamp and Ned Hayward could see into the room. The floor, the carpet, the sofa, were literally drenched with gore, and even the white window-curtains were spotted with dark-red drops. On the sofa, with an old white-headed man and a younger one leaning over him, was the tall, powerful frame of Captain Moreton. His face was as pale as death, his eyes sunk in his head, with a livid-blue colour spreading all round them. His temples seemed as if they had been driven in; the features were pinched and sharp; the eyelids closed; and the only sign of life apparent was a slight spasmodic movement of the muscles of the face, when the hand of the surgeon gave him pain in the operation he was busily performing. Two or three other persons were in the room, amongst whom was the landlord's wife, but they all kept at a distance, and the man himself advanced to the surgeon's side, and whispered a word in his ear.
"Presently, presently," said the old gentleman, "it will be done in a minute," but Captain Moreton opened his eyes and turned them round in the direction of the door. It is probable that he did not see his cousin for they closed again immediately, but nevertheless his lips moved as if he fain would have said something. Beauchamp did not advance till the old surgeon raised his head, and the young man who was assisting him took his hands from the patient's arms. Then, however, Lord Lenham moved forward, and in a low tone asked the medical man the extent of the injury. At the same moment Ned Hayward, judging that his presence there was useless if not inconvenient, advanced to a door at the further side of the room, saying to a person whom he instantly judged to be the mistress of the house,
"I think we had all better go in here for a minute or two."
"The lady is in there, Sir," said the landlady, "we have put somebody in to watch her, for Heaven knows what she may do next."
Nevertheless, Ned Hayward, who thought that perhaps some information valuable to his friend might be obtained, opened the door to go in; but the sight he beheld made him suddenly pause, though it had none of those very striking and horrible objects which were presented by the chamber he was just quitting. Yet there was something still, quiet, and awful about its dark features, which perhaps affected the mind still more. The room was a bedroom with one window and a door, which Captain Hayward easily distinguished as that at which he had seen a man standing on the outside. On the end of the bed sat Charlotte Hay, dressed exactly as he had seen her in the church, and nearer to him appeared a strong dull-looking young man seated in a chair with a constable's staff in his hand. The unhappy woman's position was calm and easy, and she sat perfectly motionless, with her high colour unchanged, her hands resting clasped together on her knee, her head slightly bent forward, and her eye with the peculiar dull glassy film over it, which we have already mentioned more than once, fixed earnestly upon the floor. She seemed in deep thought but yet not the thought of intelligence, but rather the dreamy, idle, vacant pondering of mental imbecility. There was an indefinable something that to the eye at once distinguished her state from that of deep reflection, and a curl of the lip, not quite a smile, yet resembling one, seemed to mark out the idiot. The shutters of one of the two windows were closed, so that the room was in a sort of half-light, yet on the spot to which the gaze of Charlotte Hay seemed attached the sunshine was streaming gaily, and the contrast between her fate, her prospects, her history, and the warm, pure light of Heaven, was more painful than the harmonising gloom of the dungeon could have been.
When the door was opened by Ned Hayward, though it creaked as inn-doors will do, upon its hinges, she took not the slightest notice; indeed, she seemed unconscious of every thing, but the constable who had been placed to watch her rose and advanced towards the door to say that nobody could have admission there.
"When the justices come, Sir," he said, addressing the young officer in a low tone, "they can do as they like, but nobody shall speak with her till then."
As he uttered these words he heard a slight sound and turned his head, but he turned it too late. Charlotte Hay had instantly taken advantage of his eyes being withdrawn. She was already near the window, which was partly open, and as he darted across to lay hold of her she threw it up and with one leap sprang out. Ned Hayward instantly closed the door that no sound might reach the other room, and ran forward to the young man's side, who stood with his head leaning out and his eyes gazing down below. The house was built on a slight slope, so that the back was a story higher than the front, yet the height from the window to the stable-yard could not be more than twenty feet. But the court was paved with large irregular stones, and there lay the form of Charlotte Hay still, motionless, and silent. No groan reached the ears of those who looked down from above--not even a quiver of the limbs was to be seen. Some of the men in the yard were running up in haste, and the young officer and the constable hurried down. It mattered little, however, whether they went fast or slow, for when they reached the yard they found three men lifting a corpse. Ned Hayward gazed upon that countenance where fierce and untameable passions had nearly obliterated mere beauty of feature, but no trace of passion was there now. All was mournfully calm, and though the eyelids moved once up and down, there was nought in the eyes when they were for an instant displayed but the glassy stare of death. The bonnet, which was still upon her head, was dented in at the top, and a small red stain in the white silk showed where the blood was issuing slowly forth from some hidden wound received in the fall.
They carried her slowly into the house, and placed her on a sofa in what was called the parlour, while Ned Hayward ran up stairs to call down the surgeon. When he opened the door, the elderly man whom we have mentioned was washing his hands at the table, and Beauchamp was seated by the sofa on which his cousin lay, bending down his ear to catch the faint words of the wounded man, who seemed speaking to him eagerly.
The surgeon raised his eyes as the door opened, and perceiving the sign which Ned Hayward made him to come out, dried his hands in haste and went to the door.
"You must come down directly," said the young officer, "the unhappy woman has thrown herself out of the window, and though I believe all human aid is vain, yet it is necessary that some surgeon should see her at once."
The old man nodded his head with a grave look, returned for his instruments which were on the table, and then followed down to the parlour. He paused a moment by the side of the sofa, and gazed upon the face of Charlotte Hay with a thoughtful air, then placed his hand upon the wrist for a few seconds, withdrew it, and said aloud,
"I can be of no use here--life is extinct. I will examine the head, however," and taking off the bonnet and cap he pointed with his finger to a spot on the back of the skull, where the dark brown hair was matted and dabbled, saying, "Look there! I cannot make a new brain!"
Ned Hayward turned away with a slight shudder, for though he had faced death many a time himself, and had seen men fall dead or wounded by his side, he had never beheld a woman subject to the fate which man is accustomed to brave.
"This is a terrible business altogether, Sir," said the surgeon, following the young officer to the window, "do you know any thing of it?"
"Nothing," replied Captain Hayward, "except that I believe the unhappy woman was mad, for her conduct through life was that of a person hardly sane. Do you think Captain Moreton likely to live?"
"Three or four hours, perhaps," replied the surgeon, "certainly not more. She did her work very resolutely and with a strong hand. The hemorrhage cannot be entirely stopped; he has already lost an awful quantity of blood, and he will sink gradually."
"Then yon think that there is no doubt of her hand having done the deed?" asked Ned Hayward.
But the surgeon would not exactly commit himself as far as that.
"He did not do it himself," was the reply, "that is quite impossible. The wound is from left to right, and drawn so far round that he could not have inflicted it with his own hand. He must have been lying on the sofa, too, when it was done--probably asleep, for the stroke of the razor was carried beyond the neck of the victim, and cut the horse-hair cover through and through. The gentleman upstairs with him is his cousin, I believe?"
"I believe so," answered Ned Hayward, "but I am not acquainted with your patient, and therefore cannot say exactly."
The next moment steps were heard coming down, and Beauchamp and the landlord entered the parlour.
"Will you have the goodness to go up to Captain Moreton, Sir," said the young nobleman, addressing the surgeon, before he saw what the room contained, "the bleeding from the throat has recommenced and nearly suffocates him. Hayward, I must stay till this is over," he continued, as the old gentleman hurried away, but then his eyes fell upon the sofa, and he caught Ned Hayward's arm and grasped it tight without uttering a word. For a moment or two he stood motionless as if turned into stone by the sight before him, and then walking slowly up to the side of the corpse, he gazed long and earnestly upon the face. His feelings must have been strange during that long, silent pause. There before him lay the being who had been the bane of his peace during all the early brighter years of life; the woman who, without ever having obtained the slightest hold of those affections by which the heart when they are misplaced is usually most terribly tortured, had by one infamous and daring act acquired the power of embittering every moment of his existence. The long, dreadful consequences of one youthful error were at end, the dark cloud was wafted away, the heavy chain broken. He was free! but by what horrible events was his liberation accomplished! What a price of blood and guilt had they who had enthralled him paid for their temporary triumph ending in complete defeat! He could not but feel that by the death of that woman sunshine was restored to his path, and yet pain and horror at the means of his restoration to light and happiness quelled every sensation of rejoicing. Mingled as almost all human feelings are, perhaps never did man's heart experience such mixed emotions.
After what seemed a long time to give to any contemplation, he turned towards Captain Hayward, inquiring in a low tone,
"How did this happen, Hayward, and when?"
"A few minutes ago," replied his friend; "the constable who was watching her came to the door to speak with me, and taking advantage of his back being turned she threw herself out of the window. Perhaps, Lenham," he continued, with that good feeling which always in matters of deep interest sprang up through the lighter things of Ned Hayward's character--"perhaps it is better that this is as it is. The act was undoubtedly committed in a state of mind which rendered her irresponsible for her own conduct. Had she survived, her fate might have been more terrible, considering another deed in regard to which it might have been difficult to prove her insanity."
"God's will be done," said Beauchamp, "that unhappy man is in no fit state to die, and yet I fear death is rapidly approaching. All his hatred of myself seems to have given place to the implacable desire of vengeance against this poor tool of his own schemes. He says that there is no doubt that she committed the act; that he was sleeping on the sofa, having sat up late last night and risen early this morning, and suddenly found a hand pressed upon his eyes and a sharp instrument drawn furiously across his throat. He started up crying for help, and beheld the wretched woman with the razor in her hand, laughing, and asking if he would ever betray her secret again. It is, in truth, a terrible affair; but I fear his deposition must be taken, and if he is to be believed she must have been perfectly sane."
"I wonder if she was ever perfectly sane?" said Ned Hayward, "from all I have heard I should doubt it--but here comes one of the magistrates, I suppose, or the coroner."
It proved to be the former, and the worthy justice first entered the parlour and examined the corpse of Charlotte Hay as it still remained stretched upon the sofa. Country justices will have their jests upon almost all subjects, and though he did it quietly, the gentleman in question could not refrain from saying, after looking at the body for a moment,
"Well, we are not likely to obtain any information from this lady, so we had better see the other person, who is capable of being more communicative. Which is the way, landlord? Have this room cleared and the door locked till the coroner can come, he will take the evidence in this case. I must get, if possible, the deposition of the gentleman whom you say is dying."
Thus saying, with the landlord leading the way and Beauchamp, Ned Hayward, and one or two others following, he walked slowly upstairs and entered the room where Captain Moreton lay. The surgeon was bending over him and holding his head up on his left-arm. But the moment the old man heard the bustle of many feet, he waved his right-hand as if to forbid any one to approach. Every body paused for an instant, and in the midst of the silence that ensued an awful and very peculiar sound was heard, something like that made by a horse taking a draught of water, but not so long and regular. It ceased, began again, ceased; and the surgeon laid Captain Moreton's hand down upon the sofa-cushion and looked round.
The magistrate instantly advanced, saying,
"I must take the gentleman's deposition, Mr. Abbot."
"You come a little too late, Sir," said the surgeon, "he will make no more depositions now."
It was, indeed, as he said. Captain Moreton had just expired, and all that remained for the magistrate, who was soon joined by one of his worshipful brethren, was to gain all the information that could be obtained from the persons in the house regarding the deaths of Charlotte Hay and her paramour. Beauchamp and Ned Hayward answered the questions which were addressed to them, but entered into no unnecessary details. The rest of those who were called upon to give evidence or volunteered it, were much more garrulous, and as the two gentlemen remained to hear the whole depositions they were detained for some hours at Winterton.
When all was at length over, and Lord Lenham and Ned Hayward stood before the inn-door, they gazed at each other for a moment or two without speaking. At length Beauchamp's servant came up from the side of the carriage, which was ordered some time before, was already before the house, and inquired, in a commonplace tone,
"Where shall I tell them to drive, my lord?"
There was a momentary look of hesitation in the young nobleman's face, but the next instant he answered in a decided tone,
"To Tarningham Park," and turning to his friend as soon as they were once more in the vehicle, he said with a sigh,
"I will at least carry her the tidings, Hayward, and then--"
He paused, and Ned Hayward asked, in his usual cheerful tone,
"And what then, Lenham?"
"Once more on the way to London," said Beauchamp, adding gravely but firmly, "there must not be a doubt in her mind as to the validity of her marriage. I know how one drop of such bitterness can poison the whole cup of joy; but tell me, Hayward," he continued, in a more cheerful tone, "when is your own marriage to take place? You have told me nothing of it yet, but you must not suppose that my eyes have been shut either yesterday or this morning."
"I did not mention it because I imagined that you had enough to think of, Lenham," answered Ned Hayward, "not from either want of frankness or want of regard, believe me. But to answer your question--the day is not yet fixed. Mrs. Clifford has consented much more readily than I expected, Sir John when he heard of it was over-joyous, and Mary's two guardians, knowing that their power is soon coming to an end, have determined to use it leniently. Heaven only knows when we first became acquainted, about three months ago by the side of Mrs. Clifford's carriage, I little thought therein was my future bride. Had I known that I stood in peril of love, and that with an heiress, too, I believe I should have turned my horse's head and galloped all the way back to London. Nay more, there has not been a day during the last month, till about a fortnight ago, that finding myself in imminent danger, I have not been ready to depart, but circumstances--circumstances, my dear Lenham, those chains of adamant kept me here, till one day, without at all intending it. I told the dear girl I loved her, and she bade me stay, so I had nothing to do but to obey, und now I think in three weeks more, thoughtless Ned Hayward will be the husband of the sweetest and loveliest girl in the world."
"With one exception," said Beauchamp, smiling; "and one of the best husbands in the world will he make her. But one thing more let me say, Hayward; as little as you thought of finding marriage on your onward path when first we met, so little did I think of finding friendship, as little did I hope for or even wish it; and yet there is nought on earth I value more than yours except the love of her I love best. Should the sage lawyers have a doubt as to the validity of my marriage with Isabella, should they even think it better that the ceremony be repeated, with the fair lady's leave we will choose the same day, and stand at the altar like brothers as we have been to one another for some time past."
Beauchamp and Isabella were left alone together for a few minutes before dinner, for Sir John Slingsby and the rest of the party were considerate. She lay upon the sofa still weak from the effects of the fainting fit, into which she had fallen, and Beauchamp sat beside her, holding her hand in his. He had told her all that had happened, gently and kindly, not dwelling upon dark and horrible particulars, but showing her simply that the aspect of their fate was altered. He then went on to tell her his plans, informing her that it was his intention that night to set off once more for London, in order to ascertain by the best legal opinions he could obtain, whether their marriage was really valid, and, in case of finding, that there was even a doubt on the subject, to have the ceremony performed again; but Isabella changed all his purposes.
"Beauchamp," she said, for thus she still always called him, "I think I know you love me, and will not refuse me a request. It is this: Do not go to London at all; do not make any inquiries about the validity of our marriage. Look upon it as invalid, and let it be renewed. In a few weeks, a very few weeks, Mary is going to give her hand to your friend Captain Hayward. Let us wait till then, and go with them to the altar. There may be some painful circumstances to me, some painful memories. I do not love to be made the subject of conversation and gossip, and in the church the scene of this morning will come terribly back to my mind; but in the meantime you will be with me everyday, and that will compensate for a great deal."
So it was arranged, and in six weeks from that time the two cousins were united to the men whom they loved. Difficulties and dangers have their interest in telling; calm and tranquil happiness has too few incidents for record. Ned Hayward and Mary took up their abode with Mrs. Clifford, and the fair bride had never any cause to repent that she had discovered in her husband something deeper, finer, nobler than those who had given him the name of thoughtless Ned Hayward. Certainly there were some changes came over him. He was as cheerful, as sunshiny, as frank and ready as ever; but he was not quite so fond of fishing, shooting, and hunting. He liked a quiet walk or ride with Mary better. He found out for himself a new employment also, and devoted a great part of his time to the regulation of Sir John Slingsby's affairs, easily gaining his old friend's consent, upon the plea that he wanted occupation. His rapid perception of the bearings of all things submitted to him, his strong good sense and quick resolute decision, soon brought those affairs into a very different condition from that in which he found them; and Sir John Slingsby found, that by proper regulation, with an income diminished by the careless extravagance of many years, he had really more to spend than when his revenue was nominally much larger.
Isabella and Beauchamp were as happy as the reader has already judged they would be. He was looked upon by his acquaintances as a grave and somewhat stern man; but Isabella had reason to know, that in domestic life he was cheerful, gentle, and kind; for it was only in the heartless bustle and senseless chatter of ordinary society that there came over him a shadow from the long consequences of one only error.
We have but few other characters to dispose of. Mr. Wharton's history has already been told. Mr. Bacon did much better in life than might have been expected. Although he was an honest man, he met with a tolerable degree of success, strange to say. Aiding Ned Hayward in the regulation of Sir John Slingsby's affairs, he became in the end a sort of agent or law-steward to the baronet. Beauchamp, who bought the Moreton property in the end, employed him in the same capacity; and two other gentlemen in the country finding that matters throve in his hands, made him their agent also. He never gave them any cause to complain, and derived a very comfortable income from the exercise of this branch of his profession; but, what is far more extraordinary, in no instance did the property of his employers pass from them to him.
Stephen Gimlet in course of time became the head keeper to Sir John Slingsby, was well to do in the world, and gave his boy a very good education. Widow Lamb lived for nearly ten years after the events which have been lately detailed, and she had the happiness of seeing her poor boy William, by kind assistance given when most needed, and judiciously directed when given, rise from the station in which we first found him to be, at six-and-twenty years of age, the landlord of the White Hart at Tarningham; and often on a summer's evening, when there was not much to do in the place, he would stand at his inn-door, and thinking over all the strange events he had seen in his youth with a melancholy feeling of the difference between himself and other men, he would whistle the plaintive melodies of which he was so fond in boyhood, as if imagination carried him altogether away into the realms of memory.
There is but one other character, perhaps, that deserves any mention; and, though his career was brief, we may speak of it more at large. Harry Wittingham took possession of his father's large property with title undisputed. A pompous funeral excited half-an-hour's wondering admiration in the people of Tarningham when the old gentleman was committed to the grave; and for some short time hopes were entertained even by wise and experienced persons, that young Wittingham would change his mode of life, become more regular and careful in his conduct, and cast away the vices and follies that had disgraced him. For a fortnight he remained almost entirely at home examining papers, looking into affairs, and showing no small talents for business. A number of small sums, lent out by Mr. Wittingham on interest, were called in rather sharply, and some considerable purchases of land were made, showing a disposition on the part of the young gentleman to become a county proprietor. His reputed wealth, as is always the case in England, whatever a man's character may be, procured him a good deal of attention. People of high respectability and good fortune, especially where there were two or three unmarried daughters, called and left their cards; but Harry Wittingham's chief visitor and companion was his friend Mr. Granty, and two or three county gentlemen of the same stamp, who wore leather breeches and top-boots, rode handsome horses, and sported a red coat in the hunting season. The establishment kept up by old Mr. Wittingham was greatly increased, even within a month after his death. There were two more grooms in the stables, two more footmen in the hall, but this was no sign of extravagance, for the property could well afford it, or even more; but yet there was a sort of apparent uneasiness of manner, an occasional gloom, an irritability upon very slight occasions, upon which neither prosperity nor the indulgence of long thwarted tastes had any effect; and Mr. Granty himself, in conversation with a friend, thought fit to wonder what the devil Harry Wittingham would have, for he seemed never contented, although he possessed as good a fortune as any man in the county.
At length Harry Wittingham gave a dinner party, and fixed it, without any knowledge of the coincidence, upon the very same day when Mary Clifford bestowed her hand upon Ned Hayward. When he discovered that such was the case some short time before the party met, he became very much irritated and excited, but pride would not permit him to put the dinner off, and his friends assembled at the hour named. Seven persons appeared punctually as the clock struck the hour, and shortly after descended to the dining-room, where delicacies and even rarities were provided in abundance, with the choicest wines that could be procured from any quarter. The soup was turtle, brought expressly from London; but Harry Wittingham himself did not taste it. He ate a good deal of fish, however, and asked several persons to drink wine, but it appeared as if he determined to keep his head cool, for he merely bowed over his glass and put it down. Mr. Granty, who well knew his old habits, was surprised at his abstemiousness, and thought it hardly fair, for he had himself determined to have a glorious night of it at the expense of Harry Wittingham's cellar, and such conduct in the host seemed likely to chill the drinking propensities of his guests.
"Come, Wittingham," he cried at length, "let us have a glass of champagne together."
"With all my heart," answered his entertainer, and the champagne was poured out.
"Now, Wittingham, drink fair," said Mr. Granty, laughing; "for hang me, if you have tasted a drop to-day--this way, at one draught."
"With all my heart," answered Harry Wittingham, and raised his glass. He held it to his lips for a moment, and then with a sudden and very apparent effort, drank the wine, but a sort, of convulsive spasm instantly spread over his whole face; it was gone in a moment however, and as if to conceal it, he said something sharply to his butler about the wine not being good. "It was corked," he said; and Mr. Granty laughing, cried,
"Try another bottle."
Another bottle was brought, and the glasses filled all round. Harry Wittingham raised his with the rest, but instantly set it down again, and pushed it away from him, murmuring with a haggard look, "I can't!"
As may be easily expected, this very peculiar conduct had its effect upon his guests. The party was a dull one, and broke up early, every one remarking, that Mr. Wittingham tasted not one drop of all the many wines that circulated round his table.
When every one was gone, he rang the bell sharply, and told the servant to go for Mr. Slattery.
"Tell him to come directly, I do not feel well."
In ten minutes more the surgeon was in the house, felt his pulse, looked at his tongue, asked a few questions, and then said with a smile,
"A little fever!--a little fever! I will send you a cooling draught, and all will be quite right to-morrow, I dare say."
"Don't send me a draught," said Harry Wittingham, "I can't drink it."
"Oh, it shall be as good as wine," said Mr. Slattery.
"Good or bad, it does not matter," answered the young gentleman, staring somewhat wildly in his face; "I tell you I can't drink it--I drink not at all--I hate the very thought of drinking."
Another quick, short spasm crossed his countenance as he spoke; and Mr. Slattery, sitting down beside him with a somewhat dubious expression of countenance, hemmed for a moment or two, and then said,
"Why, what can one give you then? But tell me a little more of the symptoms you feel," and he put his hand upon the pulse again. "Have you any headache?"
"No," answered Harry Wittingham, "I have a sort of burning in my throat."
"Great irritation of stomach?" said Mr. Slattery, in a solemn tone. "Have you met with any accident lately? Run a nail into your hand or foot, or any thing of that kind?"
"No," answered Harry Wittingham, "but a damned dog bit me just above the heel six weeks ago, and it is not quite well yet."
"Let me look at the wound," said Mr. Slattery, "it may be producing irritation."
The shoe and stocking were soon removed, and Mr. Slattery perceived four distinct marks of a dog's fangs in the tendon and muscles of Harry Wittingham's leg. At each there was a round lump raised above the skin, and from two of them a small, sharply-defined red line was running up the leg towards the body.
Mr. Slattery bled him largely immediately, and telling him he dared say he would be quite well in two or three days, returned home, and sent off a man on horseback to the county town for a bottle of the Ormskirk medicine. The Ormskirk medicine arrived; but instead of being well in two or three days, in not much more than a week after Harry Wittingham was in his grave.