Beauchamp; or, The Error.

by G. P. R. James

CHAPTER XLIII.

Sweeping out the Ball-room.

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.