CHAPTER XL.
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.