Lord Ashborough's servant found him pale and exhausted; for the first energy of anger had passed away, and the languor which it leaves behind had taken possession of a frame already weakened by an organic disease, the attacks of which had lately been more frequent and severe than they had ever proved before.
"Well!" said the earl, as the man entered--"Have you been to the prison!"
"I sent Johnstone, my lord," replied the valet. "I thought your lordship might want me."
"Well, well!" cried the earl, impatiently. "What does Johnstone say!"
"The governor sends his respects, my lord," answered the valet; "and although it is past the hour, he will of course admit your lordship, especially as the man has asked several times, he says, whether you had arrived or not."
"Order the carriage!" said the earl. "But stay--is it far to the prison!"
"Not two hundred yards," replied the servant; and Lord Ashborough declared he would walk thither. The valet, however, took the liberty of remonstrating, with that tender interest in his master's health which he thought might add two or three hundred pounds to the legacy he firmly expected to find in the earl's will. "I hope you will remember, my lord, that you are not well. Sir Henry said you were not to make any great exertion, or take too much exercise; and your lordship is looking very pale to-night."
"I dare say I do," answered the earl. "However, I must go. Give me my cloak, Peregrine; and call Johnstone to show me the way."
The valet, of course, made no farther opposition; and Lord Ashborough was soon on his way to the county jail, with a footman lighting him on--for the town was very dark--and with a most fervent wish in his heart that the felon he was going to see might place it in his power to fix at least one damning spot of suspicion on the name of Delaware. The governor of the prison received him with deep respect; and doors opened, and keys turned, for the Earl of Ashborough, throughout the long passages and chilly courts of the county jail.
"We have given this man every convenience in our power," said the governor, as he led Lord Ashborough along toward the condemned cells, "because he seemed to be a person of superior mind; and he assured the sheriff so earnestly, that he had something to communicate to your lordship, which might probably influence his majesty in regard to his fate, that it was thought indispensable to trouble your lordship on the occasion."
"Pray, has he seen Mr. Beauchamp since his condemnation?" demanded the earl.
"No, sir! Nor has he expressed any wish to do so," answered the governor; "but the sheriff thought it best to consult that gentleman ere he troubled you. This is the cell, my lord. Here, Nixon, open the door. I will attend your lordship's return in the waiting-room; and the turnkey will be at the door when you wish to come out of the cell. Mr. Harding," he added, as the door was opened, "here is the Earl of Ashborough kindly come to see you. Stand away from the door, sirs," continued the governor, to two of his satellites, "and leave the prisoner to speak with the earl at liberty."
The culprit rose as Lord Ashborough entered, looking somewhat annoyed, however, at the noise made by his fetters, as he did so. He was composed and calm as usual; but the hollow eye, and sunken cheek, betrayed the secret of the heart within; and showed that his stoicism--as all stoicism probably ever has been--was all on the surface.
"Your lordship is very kind," he said, in a quiet, tranquil tone; "to attend so promptly to my request."
"The information sent me by the sheriff," replied the earl, "made me hold it as a duty to come without loss of time. But, let me know, what have you to communicate to me?"
"I have first to make a request, my lord," answered Harding, who knew Lord Ashborough far better than Lord Ashborough knew himself, and therefore counted his expressions in regard to duty, &c., at exactly their true value.
"When you have granted or denied my petition, I will tell you what I have farther to communicate."
"And pray, what may your petition be!" asked the earl. "I must not waste time in many words, sir--for it is short."
"No one should know that better than myself, my lord," replied the prisoner; "but my petition is simply, that you would personally apply to his majesty for my pardon."
The earl was surprised; but not so much as might have been expected; for he anticipated some discovery which might give the culprit a claim to mercy. "Your request is a most extraordinary one, my good friend," he replied, "considering the evidence which has been brought against you. Nevertheless, I will do as you desire, if you will give me any excuse for doing so. In short, if you are not the real offender, and can point out who is--or if you only participated in the crime which another, more criminal than yourself, led you to, or committed with his own hand--and if you can give me any proof, or can lead in any way to the detection and punishment of the guilty, I shall feel myself justified in pleading strongly in your behalf."
"Sorry I am to say, my lord," answered Hardin, coolly, "that I can do none of all these things."
"Then, sir, in the name of every thing impudent," exclaimed the earl, angrily, "how came you to ask of me to plead for you to his majesty?"
"I think I can show your lordship a strong reason for doing so," replied Harding, with a slight sneer curling his lip; "and I must then leave it to your lordship's ingenuity to discover some motive to assign to his majesty for granting me his gracious pardon; although, let me remark, that you may well say the case is a very doubtful one; for certain I am, that not one of the twelve jurors who condemned me, did not lie down on his bed last night with a doubting heart, as to my guilt or innocence."
The earl listened with no slight degree of anger to the prisoner's cool and impudent harangue; but curiosity kept him silent, or at least taught him to conceal his contempt and indignation, till he had heard the circumstances to which the culprit alluded. "Well, sir! well," he said, as Harding paused--"Pray, what are the extraordinary motives which you suppose will prove capable of inducing me to furnish his majesty with reasons for pardoning a convicted felon? What is there, sir, that should tempt me to undertake such a task?"
"Simply, my lord, that scrupulous care for your lordship's reputation," Harding replied, "which you have displayed through life."
Lord Ashborough laughed aloud; but Harding maintained the same calm and somewhat sneering aspect, as if he had made up his mind to every turn that his conference with the earl might take, and could not be turned aside from his direct object for a moment, by either scorn or anger.
"And pray, sir," demanded his noble visitor, when he had exhausted his scoffing laugh--"Pray, what has my reputation to do with your situation? Do you intend to accuse me, in your last dying speech and confession, of having committed the murder myself, or of having aided you to commit it?"
"Neither one nor the other, my lord," answered the prisoner; "but if I do make any confession at all, which will depend upon your lordship's conduct, I intend to state that the robbery was first suggested to me by the following letter, written to me by your lordship's lawyer on your account, in order to persuade me to delay or carry off a sum of money which my master was to receive through the hands of the old man at Ryebury."
Lord Ashborough turned deadly pale; and taking a step forward, while he advanced his hand toward the paper which Harding held, he exclaimed, "Let me see, sir--Let me see!"
"Your pardon, my lord!" said the prisoner, drawing back the paper. "One does not usually give such valuable documents out of one's own hand. I will read it to you, however;" and in a calm, sustained voice, he proceeded to treat the ears of Lord Ashborough, sentence by sentence, with the whole of that letter which had been formerly written to him by Mr. Peter Tims, in regard to the money which Beauchamp had expected from London, to pay off the annuity on Sir Sidney Delaware's estate. "Your lordship will see," continued the prisoner, "that such a letter was very well calculated to induce me to commit a robbery; you will see, also, that Mr. Tims uses your lordship as his authority throughout; and I look upon myself as extremely lucky in having always preserved this letter in the lining of my waistcoat, as it now gives me the hope that so highly respected and honorable a nobleman as yourself may interest himself in my favor."
Now, in Lord Ashborough's mind, there was a great portion of that very same principle which had led Beauchamp to make the most uncompromising declaration of his purposes toward Blanche Delaware, as soon as he found that his uncle held out a threat upon the subject. Or, as the matter would be explained in one word by the phrenologists--who, if they have discovered nothing else, have at least, by the clearness of their definitions and their classification of human passions, rendered great services to moral philosophy--Lord Ashborough had no small development of combativeness in his brain; and the very idea of being bullied by a felon into demanding the royal mercy for a murderer, without one plausible motive to allege, instantly armed him to resist, though at the same time he felt terribly the additional wound his character might receive from such a paper being published as that which Harding had read.
"You are mistaken, sir," he replied, sternly. "You are entirely mistaken in your anticipations. That letter was totally unauthorized by me; and the rascal who wrote it, for that and several similar acts has been dismissed from my employment."
Harding heard him with the same cool smile, and then replied, "Your lordship's memory is short, I know; but luckily I can refresh it, for Mr. Tims has favored me only last night with this authentic and original copy of the letter, containing numerous corrections and improvements in your lordship's own handwriting."
Lord Ashborough saw that the day was lost, and that his discarded agent had triumphed. He had not committed himself in regard to the Delawares, it is true; but he had committed himself hopelessly in regard to the very man who now stood before him a convicted felon; and he felt that the reputation, of which he was proud just in proportion as he little deserved it, was gone forever. He made no reply, however; but with a slight, and--as Harding fancied--scornful movement of the lip, he turned suddenly toward the door, struck it sharply with his hand, and exclaimed "Open the door, turnkey! Open the door!"
It was instantly thrown wide to give him exit--but Lord Ashborough never went out! The one word, "Villain!" was all that he pronounced in the hearing of the turnkey; and he then fell forward at once, across the threshold of the door.
All was now confusion. Both jailers started forward to raise the nobleman, whom they believed to have tripped his foot in the doorway. Harding gave one longing look toward the open door and the embarrassed turnkeys; but then, turning his eyes to the fetters upon his own limbs, he sat down with a sigh of infinite compassion for himself, while the earl was raised, and the door locked.
"He has fainted, Mr. Jones!" said one of the jailers. "Here, take his feet, and help me to carry him along to the waiting room."
"He looks deadly pale!" replied the other, stooping forward, and gazing in Lord Ashborough's face, while he aided to bear the earl onward through the passage. "He looks mighty like a dead man."
The consternation of the governor of the prison was excessive when he saw the state of the noble visitor; and, while physicians were sent for from every quarter, he himself pressed his hand upon the earl's wrist, and upon his heart; but no pulse made itself felt in return; and all the usual restoratives were applied in vain.
A moment or two after, the surgeon of the prison appeared; but, as soon as he beheld the countenance of him to whose aid he was called, he shook his head, declaring that he believed him to be dead. He attempted to bleed him, however; but by this time no blood was to be obtained, and two or three medical men, from different parts of the town, arriving soon after, confirmed the opinion of the first. Nevertheless, various means were still resorted to in the hope of restoring animation, while messengers were dispatched to the different inns to ascertain at which the earl had alighted, and to inform his relations and servants of what had occurred.
Henry Beauchamp was still musing over the fire when Lord Ashborough's valet opened the door, and, with a face of grief and terror, extremely well compounded, exclaimed, "Sir, I am sorry to tell you that my lord has been taken very ill at the prison--"
Beauchamp started up, and took his hat, while the servant added, "Indeed, they seem to fear, sir, that he is dead!"
"Good God!" cried Beauchamp, as he rushed past the man--"Good God!" and, darting down stairs, he proceeded with rapid steps to the prison, into which, on giving his name, he was instantly admitted.
He found what had been Lord Ashborough extended on a table with a pillow under his head, and the surgeons still busy about the body; but one glance at his uncle's countenance showed him that the spirit had fled; and for a moment he gazed upon him without question or remark, while busy memory did her work, and gathered from the past every kind act of the dead, to build him up a monument in his nephew's heart.
"How did this happen, sir!" demanded Beauchamp at length, in a low tone, as if afraid of disturbing that deep sleep that had fallen upon, his uncle.
The governor told all he knew, and Beauchamp anxiously requested that the prisoner, Harding, might be asked if he could assign any cause for the accident that had befallen the earl. One of the turnkeys was accordingly sent to his cell; and while he was absent. Beauchamp, perceiving that the medical men were addressing all their means of restoration to the head, informed them that Lord Ashborough had been for some years subject to spasms of the heart.
"If that be the case, then, sir," replied one of them, "we may abandon the attempt, as the earl is certainly dead."
"Nevertheless," replied Beauchamp, "leave no means untried, while there is even the most remote hope."
The surgeon shook his head, but still made some more efforts; and the turnkey, returning almost immediately from the condemned cell reported that the prisoner could only be brought to say, that the earl had fallen into a violent passion, and that he himself desired not to be farther troubled upon the subject.
After a pause of a few minutes more, the principal surgeon again addressed Beauchamp saying, "As I imagine, sir, from your manner that you are a near relation of the earl, I feel my duty to tell you positively that he is no more and that to continue all these efforts in your presence, would be but to harrow up your feelings for no purpose. All men must die, and the nobleman will never have to endure that pang again."
Beauchamp bowed his head, and crossing his arms upon his bosom, remained for a few moments in silence. Then begging that one of the younger surgeons would remain with the body all night, and that the elder person who had addressed him would accompany him to the inn, he added a few words of course to the governor of the prison, and departed from the chamber of the dead.
We generally, through life, write the actions of each of our friends and acquaintances on the two sides of one leaf in the book of memory, the good upon one side, and the bad upon the other, so that it is scarcely possible to see both at once. With an amiable weakness, however man most frequently suffers the death of any one he has known to turn the leaf forever, and reads the character of him that is no more as if the good were alone recorded. Beauchamp's heart would not suffer him to do otherwise; and, after he had spoken with the surgeon in regard to several points of all the sad ceremonies that were to follow, he sat down in solitude, giving way to feelings that were far more bitter than he had anticipated. Even had he not felt his uncle's loss deeply, on the ground of personal regard, there was in his bosom another motive for regret which would have pained him much.
He asked himself whether the angry discussion which had taken place between himself and the earl, so shortly before the decease of the latter, might not have hastened that catastrophe; and although he was obliged to acknowledge that, were the same circumstances to come over again, he could not, and would not act otherwise than he had done, yet he was deeply grieved that the disagreement should have taken place so immediately previous to the death of his uncle, and that they had parted from each other forever in anger and ill-will.
We shall pass over Beauchamp's grief, however, merely saying that he grieved sincerely. Nor shall we dwell upon the details of the funeral of the Earl of Ashborough--nor treat the reader to the full, true, and particular account of the execution of three criminals, against whom we have seen that a jury of their countrymen pronounced a just verdict, and to whom a judge had awarded a righteous punishment. Suffice it, that they died!
In regard to Harding alone, a few words must be said. To all appearance, he met his fate with the same determined coolness which he had shown through life; rendered, perhaps, a degree more stern and intense from the awful situation in which he was placed. One circumstance, and one circumstance alone, seemed to show that the drop of better feeling which almost every man has at the bottom of his heart was not entirely polluted by the poisonous streams that flowed around it. On the night before his execution, after having obdurately rejected those religious consolations which were offered with persevering piety by several zealous clergymen, he suddenly desired to speak with two magistrates; and then, in their presence, made a full and clear confession of all the particulars connected with the murder at Ryebury, confirming in every point the testimony of Walter Harrison. This he signed in the presence of the magistrates, and caused them to affix their names as witnesses; which being done be added, "I have made this confession, gentlemen, because the act for which I am to die has been attributed to a young gentleman who had nothing to do with it; and because--that gentleman, being well calculated to do service to himself and his country, if every shade of imputation be removed from his character--I think the general considerations of utility require--or rather," he said, breaking off abruptly the tirade in which he was about to indulge--"or rather, I do it because I have learned what mental as well as bodily suffering is, and therefore would spare it to another where there is no occasion for its infliction. So now, gentlemen, I have done with this world forever, and I wish you good night."
In the various accounts of the execution, which every one must have seen in the newspapers, a number of contradictory statements appeared; some journals affirming that Harding had died, maintaining his innocence to the last; some, with more truth, that he had made a full confession. His statement, however, was immediately sent up to London, properly authenticated, together with the case of Walter Harrison, and both were laid before the Home Secretary, for the consideration of his majesty.--The necessary measures for issuing a free pardon to the young sailor were immediately taken; and when it was presented for signature, the great personage paused for a moment, to ask some questions in regard to Captain Delaware, expressing considerable indignation that so grave a charge should have been brought against a distinguished officer on such light grounds. "Had that officer not run off," he said--"a point of which it may be as well to take no notice--had he not run off, it might have been necessary to make him some compensation. But that was a great error--that was a great error, to flinch from trial--a brave man, too--a very brave man!"
"Sir A---- B----, the judge who presided at the trial, sir," replied the secretary, "informs me, that it was lucky he did make his escape, alleging that he would have been hanged to a certainty, before evidence of his innocence could have been procured. So that your majesty has, at all events, saved a good officer."
"Always a great gain, sir," replied the personage whom he addressed; "and if that was the case, Captain Delaware did very right. Always stay in the ship till the very last moment, but don't go down with her, if you can help it."
With these observations the pardon was signed, and dispatched to the country town where the young sailor was still confined. Being set at liberty, he immediately took his way on foot toward the village of Emberton, where so many of our scenes have been laid. It was by this time winter, and a hard frost rendered the road firm and dry, so that Walter Harrison, though greatly debilitated, walked on better than might have been expected. Night, however, had fallen ere he reached Emberton; and glad he was that darkness hid him from the cold and abhorrent eyes he must otherwise have encountered in the streets. But what tongue could tell the many painful and thrilling memories that were awakened in his bosom by every spot, as he passed through his native town, and saw again all the scenes of youth and innocence--as he marked the various resorts of his boyish hours, and felt that a night, far darker than that through which he wandered, had fallen over his life forever.
At the door of his mother's cottage garden he paused, and gazed wistfully over the house, with feelings that would scarcely let him enter the gate. There was a light, however, within; and his step over the gravel of the footpath had instantly caught the mother's unerring ear--the light moved--the door was thrown open--and the worn and weary lad, weighed down with sin, and sickness, and sorrow, was pressed in his mother's arms, and his cold cheek bathed in her tears!
It was long ere either could speak, and for nearly half an hour the young sailor sat gazing upon the fire, while thick recollections of all the past held him dull and voiceless. All the time his mother stood by his side, and fixed her eyes upon him, tracing every line that remorse had written, and every hue that sickness had spread over his face; but at length she laid her hand upon his arm, and said, "Walter, my beloved boy, we must go hence. You must not stay in this hateful place, which has seen our ruin, our poverty, and our shame. We must go across the sea, and I will lead you to a place that you will like to see."
"You forget, mother! You forget!" said the youth, with a deep sigh; "people travel not without money; neither can they live without it in foreign countries, more than here. I am sure you do not think that I am going to take the reward the people offered me, for giving up the murderers.--No, no! I will not take a price for their blood!"
"I would not have you, Walter!" cried his mother, eagerly. "I would not have you touch it with the tip of a finger, if they offered you a world of gold on such an account. But fear not, my boy, I have the means. Look here--what I received but yesterday--two hundred golden sovereigns, and this kind letter; and this deed of annuity to you and me, for one hundred pounds a year, as long as either of us live, charged upon the estates of Mr. Henry Beauchamp."
"God bless him!" said the youth, fervently. "God bless him!"
"God will bless him, my boy!" replied the widow. "God will bless him and make him happy, I am sure; for if ever there was a friend to the friendless, it is Mr. Beauchamp. Only three days after the trial he sent me this;" and she put into her son's hands a letter, in which Henry Beauchamp explained to her that the young sailor, having been severely wounded in turning away a pistol which had been directed toward his head, he was not only bound, but pleased to make him a return, which would place him above temptation from poverty.
Beauchamp, who hated that any one should feel he was conferring an obligation upon them, added many a reason to show that he was rather pleasing himself than loading them with benefits; and, as he read, the young sailor shook his head with the first smile that had curled his lip, for many weeks. "Ay!" he said, "he is a noble gentleman as ever lived; but he need not have said so much to make us take the money, mother; for if there is any body in the world I could be proud to take it from, it is from Mr. Beauchamp; and I declare, mother, if I get over it all, I will try all my life long to do nothing but what is right--just to show him that I am grateful."
"It is far the best way that you can show it, Wat," replied his mother; "and oh, my boy, it is the only way that ever you can set your mother's heart at peace again!"
"Well, I will, mother, I will!" cried the lad, grasping her hand; "and I am sure Heaven will help me, if I try--for since I have had this wound through my side, I have not felt half so wild and willful as I used to do; and when I was in the prison of a night, I tried to pray many a time--and if it had not been for that, I don't think I should have got through the whole of that bad business steadily. So, I will try and do right; indeed I will!"
The tears streamed down his mother's cheeks; for the relief that Beauchamp's liberality had given her was nothing to that which those words afforded, and the night passed over in peace. The next morning, the news spread through Emberton that the widow's son had returned; and one or two of the ladies of that place, suddenly smitten with an interest in the widow's fate, called at the cottage they had never entered before, just to ask after her and her son. They carried no gossip back into the town with them however; for the widow coldly, though civilly, replied that her son was not well, and dismissed them with a brief answer to more impertinent questions. Three days after that again, the fresh tidings fluttered on the air of Emberton, that Widow Harrison and her son had left the place, and had gone to France. Every one opened their eyes--every one conjectured--and then the nine days' wonder was over, and the whole affair was forgotten.
Only one person in the neighborhood saw the young sailor after his return. This was Dr. Wilton, who, having delivered in person the packet which Beauchamp had sent to the widow, was now visited by both herself and her son, ere their departure, with a request that he would convey to their benefactor the expression of their deepest gratitude. The worthy clergyman, on first hearing who it was that awaited him in his library, had meditated an exhortation to the young sailor on his future conduct; but when he saw the worn and haggard look, and the evident traces of ruined health which his countenance displayed--all that was severe in the good man's oration died away, and it breathed nothing but hope and consolation.
"You say you are going to France," he added; "and I will give you two books to take with you, which, after your Bible, I should wish you to read attentively. They contain neither cant nor affectation," he added; "but they point out the best way for one who has been led astray to return unto right."
Both mother and son received the books with gratitude; and after having promised to let him know where they settled in France, they left the worthy clergyman in the act of muttering to himself, "He'll not live three months, poor, unhappy lad!--There is consumption in his eyes and on his cheek!"
Scarcely were they gone, and scarcely was Dr. Wilton's comment on the young sailor's appearance pronounced, when the rush of wheels was heard before his windows, and in a moment the servant announced Lord Ashborough. The doctor started up, bewildered; but as Beauchamp entered the room, dressed in deep mourning, the events that had lately taken place recurred to his old preceptor's mind; and, shaking him by the hand, he exclaimed, "Welcome, my dear Harry, and let me pay my tribute to your new rank; though, to tell you the truth, when the servant announced the Earl of Ashborough, I scarcely knew who to expect. I had forgotten all about it, and have been calling you Mr. Beauchamp for this half hour, with two pensioners of yours--Widow Harrison and her son. But with me, I am afraid, you will be Harry Beauchamp to the end of your days."
"Let me never be any thing else, I beseech you, my dear sir," replied Beauchamp. "The poor widow and her son, too, know me by no other name; for the deed was drawn up before my poor uncle's death. But I must go and see them when I visit Emberton."
"You will hardly find them there," replied Dr. Wilton; "for apprehensions of the rude curiosity and brutal scorn of that most gossiping place, have driven them to seek an asylum on the continent. But tell me, Harry, what is the meaning of your looking so ill and so anxious!"
"In regard to my ill looks," answered Beauchamp, smiling, "you must remember, my dear sir, that, as I wrote to you, I have been seriously indisposed since we last met; and as to my anxious looks, I have certainly had many a subject, both of care and anxiety, pressing heavily upon my mind. The sudden death of my uncle, and all the consequent trouble--both in examining his affairs, and in punishing a rascally agent, who endeavored to throw the basest imputations upon the memory of his benefactor--have occupied more of my time and attention than was at all pleasant to me."
"I hope at least you have succeeded in doing justice upon the agent," replied Dr. Wilton; "I have seen something of the affair in the newspapers."
"I have not punished Mr. Tims quite so well as I could have wished," Beauchamp answered, "though he thinks the retribution more than severe. The fact is, I am afraid my uncle suffered him to make use of his name with too great freedom, and the lawyer has of course taken advantage of it to screen himself at his patron's expense. Nevertheless, I compelled him to refund every thing that he had unjustly appropriated; but, although I believe we had proof sufficient of one or two direct frauds to have had his name struck off the roll of attorneys with disgrace, and perhaps might have punished him still farther, I have been obliged to compromise that matter, and suffer him to make his retirement from business a voluntary act."
A slight glow upon Henry Beauchamp's cheek showed Dr. Wilton plainly that there had been parts in the conduct of the late Earl of Ashborough which his nephew did not feel to have been quite justifiable; and therefore, turning the conversation from a topic which he saw was disagreeable in some of its details, he answered, "That the man was a rogue in grain I have never had any doubt since all the business relating to the murder of his unhappy uncle, and the charge he preferred against poor William Delaware. But pray, Harry, can you tell me what has become of Sir Sidney and his family--you of course know?"
"Indeed, my dear sir, I do not," answered Beauchamp; "and one great reason of my coming down here was to ask you the very question that you have asked me. I have caused my solicitor in London to apply to the trustee of Captain and Miss Delaware, to ascertain their present residence. He replied, however, that he was as ignorant upon the subject as any one. The ten thousand pounds that they inherited from their mother, he had sold out, he said, at a moment's notice, and transmitted to Sir Sidney at Mrs. Darlington's, since which time he had heard nothing of their movements."
"Strange enough!" replied Dr. Wilton; "but we must make inquiries in the neighborhood while you stay with me; and of course we shall find some one who knows their address--some of the farmers, or Mr. Johnstone, who used to collect Sir Sidney's rents, or some one."
"I am afraid it will be a more difficult matter than you anticipate," replied Beauchamp; "I sought them in vain when I was in France, though I knew that they must have landed at Cherbourg; but I found that, as they had undoubtedly gone to join William Delaware himself, their route had been studiously concealed. Several weeks have now elapsed since the trial; and yet, though Captain Delaware's character stands as clear as ever it did, we have heard nothing of him."
Dr. Wilton did not now require to be told what was the chief cause of that expression of anxiety which he had remarked in Beauchamp's countenance; but he knew that to a lover, and an ardent one--which he felt sure his pupil would be wherever he did love--the subject of his hopes and fears could never become painful or tiresome when once it had been spoken of; and he therefore went on boldly to ask, whether Beauchamp had or had not discovered since, that he was right in thinking that Blanche's conduct, in rejecting his hand, had proceeded from some misapprehension.
"No, indeed, my dear sir!" replied Beau champ. "As I told you at the time, there could be no misapprehension in the business. Nor have I discovered any thing since, on any subject which would lead me to think so. Indeed, I have but had the pleasure of meeting Miss Delaware once since I last saw you."
"Nay, nay! if you speak of her in such set and formal terms, poor girl," cried the clergyman, with a gay smile, "I shall think that your lordship's new dignity has changed your views in regard to such an alliance. Is it so, my noble lord?"
Beauchamp laughed, but faintly. "No, no!" he replied. "My views are the same. All I can hope is, that the new dignity you speak of may change hers--and yet," he added, "that would make it all worthless together."
"Take care, Harry! Take care!" cried Dr. Wilton, with a warning shake of the head--"Many a man has frittered away his happiness with just such sentences as that. But I will insure you, that your title will make no difference in the views of Blanche Delaware; so that, if you have no other recommendation than that, you may give yourself up to despair. But you young men are so impatient. Here you are fretting yourself to death, because you do not discover the residence of your ladye-love as soon as you think fit to seek it."
"Indeed, my dear sir, you are quite mistaken," answered Beauchamp. "My chief desire is to see William Delaware and his father; and--showing them that every difficulty which surrounded them in life is now removed--to share in the happiness that such a change must occasion them--that is all, indeed!"
"Poo! my dear Harry! Nonsense!" cried his old preceptor. "I never saw a man yet who could cheat his own understanding so completely as you sometimes do. You are just as anxious to see Blanche Delaware as ever man was to see the woman he loved best in the world. But we will find her, my dear boy! We will find her!"
Their search, however, in the neighborhood of Emberton, proved entirely in vain. Neither agent nor farmers knew any thing of the track of Sir Sidney and Miss Delaware; and at the end of a week, Beauchamp's last hope was reduced to the information possessed by Mrs. Darlington.
"Maria!" said the Earl of Ashborough, addressing Miss Beauchamp on the morning after his return from Emberton, "what say you, dear sister, to a tour on the continent for six months or a year?"
"Why, personally, I should have no objection, Henry," answered Miss Beauchamp; "but you forget, my dear brother, there are nine very respectable gentlemen, young and old, expiring for me at this present moment. Now, what would they do if I were to go abroad?"
"Expire for somebody else, I suppose," replied Beauchamp; "I can not perceive any other event."
"Henry! Henry!" cried his sister, "you are perfectly insulting. But to tell you the truth, I think it is the best thing you can do, to travel to the south; for during the past month you have looked so like a gambler, or a member of the Lower House, or some of those people that sit up all night, and come home pale and thin in the morning, that I am ashamed to be seen with you. But seriously, I will go where you like, noble brother," she added, leaning her two hands half affectionately, half maliciously, on Beauchamp's arm, and looking up in his face; "I will go where you like, and help you to search for sweet Blanche Delaware, with all my eyes."
Beauchamp smiled, much less annoyed than his sister had expected; but gliding his arm round her waist he held her tight, while he answered, "Will you, indeed, Maria? Well, then, as a reward for your disinterested kindness, I trust you may find William Delaware with his sister."
Maria Beauchamp turned as red as an infantry regiment, and struggling away from her brother's grasp, ran into her own room, where, strange to say, she wept like a child. But Beauchamp, by his retort, had, at all events, insured that not one teasing word upon the subject of Blanche Delaware should pass his sister's lips; and as soon as he could arrange his affairs--which of course kept him three weeks longer than he had expected--with two carriages, as little baggage, and as few servants as his sister would suffer him to take, he was once more rolling away toward Dover.
Following the invariable rule of looking in, instead of looking out, we shall much prefer giving a sketch of what was passing in the heart of Henry Beauchamp, Earl of Ashborough, to depicting the beauties of the Canterbury road, or expatiating on the sublimities of Rochester and Chatham.
As Dr. Wilton had imagined, Beauchamp certainly was as impatient as human being could be, to see Blanche Delaware, and to make one more effort for happiness; but there were many points in Beauchamp's situation, and many feelings at Beauchamp's heart, which the good rector had not taken at all into account. Ever since he had parted with Blanche at the Prior's Fountain, he had been placed in the painful circumstances of a rejected lover, while just a sufficient degree of hope had been left to keep love alive, to render the feeling of disappointment perpetual, and to aggravate its bitterness by doubt. In seeking her he loved, therefore, he knew not what he was to expect; but as he was not one to be satisfied with any thing less than love for love, he determined that he would not suffer his exertions in favor of William Delaware to be urged as any tie upon Miss Delaware's affection; but that he would have the clearest assurance that the heart was his, before he again asked the hand, which, in his eyes, would be worthless without it. He felt, indeed, that it would be difficult to press Blanche upon the subject of her former rejection of his suit, and yet he perversely determined that the rejection ought to be explained before the suit could be renewed. These thoughts, however, and the many contending emotions with which they were connected, both agitated and depressed him; and the hopes which his short interview with Blanche at the inn, as well as several previous considerations had excited, waxed weak and faint as he crossed the channel and found he was approaching nearer to her dwelling.
In Paris, however, he was destined to meet another disappointment--slight, indeed, but calculated to increase the impatience that was glowing upon him. He found, on inquiring at Mrs. Darlington's hotel, that she had left the French metropolis two days before for Italy; and, as the people of the house had informed him that her departure had been somewhat sudden, he immediately settled it in his own mind that she had heard some tidings of the Delawares, and had proceeded at once to join them. Now, although, when Beauchamp came to reflect upon this supposition, he found that it did not very well agree with the indifferent, comfort-loving, bonnet-and-cap sort of character of Mrs. Darlington, yet it was a favorite fancy, and he did not chose to give it up. He therefore intimated his wish that his sister would agree to pursue their way toward Italy without delay; and Miss Beauchamp--although she was really fatigued with a long journey over a road that can never have been mended since the days of _Klovigh_, as Chateaubriand calls the French king--acquiesced at once without farther question. She did it so sweetly and good humoredly, too, that it opened her brother's heart at once; and, sitting down beside her, he told her all his motives, and all his wishes, and all his hopes, in a way that defied her taking advantage of him even by a smile. In return, he gained a world of good advice, which, as it came from a woman, and related to a woman, Beauchamp wisely treasured up for service.
With scarcely a day's interval, the whole party were once more upon the road; but as the way or ways from Paris to Geneva are each and all as well beaten by English travelers as that between London and Dover, we shall not pause to itinerarize even here. At only one small town on the road shall we take the liberty of stopping, inasmuch as an accidental circumstance induced Beauchamp to stay there longer than he had at first proposed. He had chosen the road by Dijon instead of that by Macon, and, after sleeping at Dole, set out early in the morning, in hopes of reaching Geneva that night. The first stage from Dole, if we remember right, is Mont sous Vaudrey. At all events, if it be not the first it is the second; and perhaps the reader and the guide-book will excuse us if we make mistake. Here, however, Beauchamp changed horses about half-past ten, and then rattled on through that neat little village, entered a part of the forest of Rahon, and then, after winding on up and down the wavy hills at the foot of the Jura, reached the small village of Aumont, at the distance of about five or six miles from the relay. Without stopping there, however, the postillion trotted on, and, driving through the Crozanne, paused for a moment to let his horses pant, while Beauchamp and his sister gazed out upon a wide and very beautiful scene of hill and valley, lighted up by the soft sunshine of spring, with an occasional wreath of morning mist hanging upon the brows of the mountains.
"What town is that?" demanded Beauchamp, speaking out of the window to the postillion. "There--before you--a little to the left, leaning its back against the hills, with two or three neat châteaux scattered on the slope."
"C'est Poligny, monsieur!" replied the postillion; and, adding that they changed horses there, rode on.
As they approached the little town, the country became richly cultivated in vines and corn; and the aspect of the whole scene, backed by mountains and sparkling with a thousand streams, was gay and engaging.
"What a beautiful spot!" cried Miss Beauchamp. "I really think, Henry, when you marry, and turn me out of your house to die an old maid, I will buy yon gray château on the hill--looking something between a village church and a farm house--and spend the rest of my days at Poligny."
"See it first on a rainy day, Maria!" replied her brother, whose increasing anxiety and impatience did not afford the brightest medium through which to view the world.
"Out, cynic!" cried his sister; "I will never see things on a rainy day when I can see them on a fine one; and now, tell me, whither are you going to whirl me at this violent rate? What particular spot of the earth's surface is the ultimate object of this journey, my lord? Or are we to go on rolling forever?"
"Why, I think, my dear sister," replied Beauchamp, musing; "I think it is not unlikely to end in Sicily--I have some reason to imagine--"
"Goodness!" exclaimed Miss Beauchamp, interrupting him, "that must surely be an English woman in the widow's dress."
"Hai, postillion! Arrettez! Arrettez donc!" was all the young earl's reply to his sister's observation; and the next moment, much to her surprise, he was out of the carriage, and speaking kindly to the woman whom she had noticed, and who had turned round to take a casual glance of the two gay carriages that came dashing up into the little quiet town of Poligny.
"Indeed! Is he so ill!" said Beauchamp, gravely, as he listened to widow Harrison's account of the journey she had lately taken, and her son's present situation. "I sill really sorry to hear it--but you can not have good medical advice here. It would be much better to get him on to Geneva."
"Oh, but indeed we have very good advice, sir!" answered the widow. "There is good Dr. Arnoux here, who was in England in the time of the war--an emigrant--and lodged for three years in our house in Emberton, before our misfortunes. I have just been getting Walter's medicines while he is asleep."
"Well, Mrs. Harrison," replied Beauchamp, whose natural kindness of heart was not to be mastered even by impatience. "I will stay here at the inn to-day; and whenever you think that your son is likely to be awake, I will come down and see him. But you must point me out the house."
The poor woman replied that the young sailor was generally more drowsy in the morning, and seemed much better and more lively in the evening; and, with many unobtrusive but heartfelt thanks she described to Beauchamp the way to her dwelling.
"Well, then, I will come down in the evening," answered Beauchamp, "and we will see whether we can not devise some plan that may improve his health."
With this promise, he returned to the carriage; and, while it drove on to the auberge, satisfied his sister's curiosity in regard to the poor widow. "So now, Maria," he said, "you will have the day's rest you have been sighing for so long."
"Granted out of compassion to the widow," cried his sister; "but not out of pity for me, though my whole frame has been aching for the last three days, and my maid was very nearly expiring at Dole."
Notwithstanding this complaint, Miss Beauchamp, after luncheon, showed herself quite willing to accompany her brother on an expedition in a _char-à-banc_ of the country, among the neighboring hills; and as they descended the stairs of the auberge to enter their little vehicle, they heard another female tongue asking one of the servants, in provincial English, who was the owner of the two splendid carriages that stood before the house? The young earl smiled as he listened to his title, given with vast pomposity by his courier, remarking to his sister, that if his new rank was of no great use to himself, it was at least of some service to his servants. By the time they had reached the door however, both the inquirer and respondent had made themselves invisible; and getting into the _char-à-banc_ without any other attendance than the driver, the earl and his sister proceeded on their expedition. Of it we shall say nothing, but refer our readers to the indispensable Mrs. Marianna Starke. On their return, however, they found their dinner prepared; and after somewhat hastily concluding that meal, Beauchamp said he would leave his sister, and walk down to the widow's cottage. But Miss Beauchamp, whose heart was not always as light as it seemed, declared that she would accompany him, protesting that men were worth nothing upon a charitable errand.
It was a sweet, bright evening in the end of March, with the sky, through which the sun was dipping down toward his rest, so rich and warm, that one might have taken it for the beginning of October, had it not had been for the almanac, and for the tender green of the trees, and the flood of untaught melody that came pouring from every bush. The road led down to where there are two or three scattered houses of a better class--which they call _les maisons bourgeois_--built upon the slope of a little dell at the back of the town, between it and the rise of the mountains. In one of these, with the face looking through the valley of the Glantine to the open country beyond, was the house now occupied by the widow. It was easily found, and Beauchamp and his sister paused ere they entered, to gaze for a moment on the rich view, lying calm and purple under the evening sky, while the dark masses of hill on the other hand--rising up from a base of mingled wood and mature, with the small château that Miss Beauchamp had so much admired, breaking the line of the trees--towered up in solemn majesty above the whole.
The door was open, and Beauchamp entering first, proceeded into one of the rooms, where he heard some one speaking. The widow and her son were sitting together near the window, and both rose (though the latter moved with difficulty) to receive their benefactor.
"Here is my sister come to see you, Mrs. Harrison," he said, as he entered. "Sit down, Walter. I am sorry to hear that the journey has made you so ill, my poor fellow;" and taking a seat opposite to him--while Miss Beauchamp beckoned Mrs. Harrison out to the door, in order to leave her brother's conversation more at liberty--he gazed upon the sunk but hectic cheek of the young sailor, and the dazzling brightness of his feverish eye.
"It was not the journey, sir," replied the young man with a shake of the head, mournful, but not discontented--"it was not the journey;" and then, looking round to see that his mother was not there, he added--"I told you sir, it would not last long, and I thank God for it! for I have never forgiven myself--and every hour that I linger on is a reproach to my heart. So now that I know mother will be cared for, and that I have shown my gratitude to you and to the captain, God bless him!--and that I have learned to think better than I used--I don't care how soon it comes to an end. But, sir," he continued, quickly, as if he had forgotten to do so before, "I ought to thank you deeply for all your kindness; and especially, I am sure, for taking the trouble to come and see me to-night, when there are so many things you must have to do and talk about."
The young man's eyes gazed vacantly out upon the prospect as he spoke. "He wanders!" thought Beauchamp. "I have heard physicians say that it is the sign of approaching death with consumptive people."
"Oh no!" he added, aloud; "I have but little business of any kind to do; and, indeed, I should have been here before, but your mother said you were sleeping."
"I sleep more in the day than at night," replied the young man; "the cough keeps me awake. But I hope, Mr. Beauchamp," he continued, in the same abrupt manner--"I hope you will forgive me every thing I ever did or said amiss to you. Indeed, I am very sorry for every wrong thing that I have done through life--and hope God will forgive me!"
"Your offenses toward me," answered Beauchamp, "if there have been any, which I do not know, are easily forgiven; and in the Almighty we are sure of a more merciful judge than man can be. Mrs. Harrison," he said, wishing to change the subject, and hearing the door behind him open, "I should wish much to see this Dr. Arnoux whom you mentioned to me. Where does he live?"
As Beauchamp spoke, he turned round slowly in his chair, in order to address the widow; but the words had scarcely passed his lips, when he started up. Looking in at the door, indeed, was the figure of his sister, with the poor widow behind her; but between him and them were two other figures--and darting forward, with all his doubts, and apprehensions, and restitutions swallowed up in joy, Beauchamp clasped the hand of Blanche Delaware in his own, while his left was pressed almost as warmly by Captain Delaware.
"Good God!" he exclaimed. "Blanche! William! Is it possible!"
"Yes, yes, indeed!" replied Captain Delaware. "Beauchamp, our friend, our benefactor, our guardian angel I may call you, we have met again, at length!"
Blanche Delaware said not a word; and though her eyes sparkled with joy that would not be kept down, and her cheek glowed like crimson at the joy her eyes betrayed, she trembled like an aspen in the wind, and, sinking into a seat, a few sweet, happy tears rolled over her fair face.
"Well," said Miss Beauchamp, advancing from the door, "I must acknowledge that this is hardly fair--that I, who drew Mrs. Harrison out of the way when I heard who was coming, in order that this merry meeting should have none of its surprise anticipated, can find no one to welcome _me!_ Blanche Delaware, my dear cousin," she added, taking Blanche's hand, and kissing her as a sister, "How have you been this many a day? We have not met since we were no higher than that stool; but I have learned to love you, nevertheless. Have you quite forgotten Maria Beauchamp?"
Blanche wept outright.
"What then, Mr. Beauchamp, have you not seen Sir Sidney?" asked the widow's son, almost at the same moment. "It was very kind indeed of you to come and see me first."
As he spoke, a violent fit of coughing seized him; and Beauchamp, seeing that the excitement of all that was passing around was too much for him, proposed to depart at once, telling him that he would come early the next day, after having seen the physician. Miss Beauchamp, holding Blanche's hand kindly in her own, led her toward the door of the cottage, while their two brothers followed; and perhaps there was never a congregation of happier faces went forth into the world, than those which then stood looking over fair France from the borders of Switzerland.
Maria Beauchamp turned toward the town; but Blanche hesitated, and looked up to her brother.
William Delaware caught her glance immediately, and, straightforward as ever, came at once to the point. "The truth is, Beauchamp," he said, "it might be somewhat painful for us to go up to Poligny with you; for, this morning, we learned a circumstance from our old housekeeper, which, in fact, kept us from coming down to widow Harrison's at an earlier hour--though, indeed, I should personally care nothing about it."
"But what is it? What has happened now?" demanded Beauchamp, in the eager and apprehensive tone of one who fears that the cup of happiness just offered to his lip may be snatched away before he can drink. "What, in fortune's name, has occurred now?"
"Nothing of any consequence," answered Captain Delaware. "Only we understand--and you, who know all that has passed, will comprehend our feelings on the occasion--we understand that the Earl of Ashborough is here."
"He is, indeed, I am sorry to say," replied Beauchamp, pointing to the deep mourning that he wore. "But let us forget, I entreat, that any one who has ever borne the title that I now bear, felt differently from myself toward the name of Delaware."
Blanche looked up to heaven, and her lips moved; but her cheek glowed eloquently again as Maria Beauchamp's hand clasped somewhat tighter upon her own, and she saw a smile, half sad, half playful, shining on her fair cousin's lip.
Still the whole party paused in silence; for there was so much to be said that there was nothing said at all. Each heart was full of feelings that would have taken days to pour forth; and at length William Delaware proposed the wisest thing for all parties, that they should part for that time, as night was coming on, and meet again the next morning.
"You know," he said, "what delight my father will have in seeing you, Beauchamp; and, indeed, I feel as if we were wronging him in anticipating any part of all that we have to talk to you about. Yonder is our residence," he added, pointing to the identical château that Miss Beauchamp had fixed upon in entering the town; "and I am sure I need not say that the sooner you come the greater will be the pleasure to us."
"I shall not be late," answered Beauchamp; "depend upon it, I shall not be late."
"But, Maria, you will come also," said Blanche, looking up in her cousin's face.
"Oh, certainly! dear Blanche," replied Miss Beauchamp; "as your brother can tell you, I am a very early person in my habits. You may expect to see me at six in the morning."
Captain Delaware smiled, and could have said something in reply; but as he began to divine that, whatever might be the result, he should have more than one opportunity of seeing Maria Beauchamp again, he reserved his rejoinder, and after another lingering pause, they parted.
"Henry, I admire your taste," said Miss Beauchamp, as they walked back to the inn; "she is a beautiful, sweet girl, indeed, and will do very well to make a countess of."
"Hush, hush, Maria!" said her brother. "Spare your raillery yet for a while. There is much to be got over, before we come to such conclusions as that. The game is yet to be played, and I will give you leave to laugh if I win."
"You will be a sad bungler, my dear brother, if you lose such a game as that," replied Miss Beauchamp; "for you have all the cards in your own hands; but let us arrange our plans, Harry. At whatsoever hour you please to-morrow, you take some vile beast of a horse from the inn, and ride over by yourself. I will come to breakfast at my own time in the carriage. Nay, I will have my way this time at least; for I do not choose to have any lover in the carriage with me--except it were one of my own."
Beauchamp yielded, of course; for there were more cogent arguments in his own breast in favor of his sister's plans, than any she thought fit to produce. He had now food enough for thought during the evening; but he did not forget to send for good Dr. Arnoux, from whom he received a confirmation of his worst apprehensions in regard to the widow's son. From that worthy man, also, he learned that it was at his suggestion that Captain Delaware, and Sir Sidney--who had been an old friend of his while he lived as an _emigré_ at Emberton--had fixed their abode at Poligny, the retired situation of which, and its immediate proximity to both Switzerland and Germany, rendered it peculiarly advantageous under the circumstances in which they were placed for the time.
This conference ended, Beauchamp retired to bed, and obtained such sleep as lovers usually are supposed to gain while their fate is in suspense.