Beauchamp; or, The Error.

by G. P. R. James

For about twenty minutes Sir John Slingsby remained talking with Dr. Miles, and then the party which had set out from Tarningham Park, so happy and so gay, not two hours before, returned sad and desolate. Even the old baronet's good spirits failed him, but his good humour did not; and while Isabella retired with Mary to her own room, he called Widow Lamb and Stephen Gimlet into his library, after having assured himself that the little boy was taken good care of by the housekeeper, he repeated his sage commendation of the old woman's conduct, saying "You are a good woman, Widow Lamb, a very good woman, and you have rendered very excellent service to us all this day. Now I am not so rich as I could wish to be just now; but I can tell you what I can do, and what I will do, Widow Lamb. Stephen, here, has his cottage as keeper. It is a part of his wages at present; but I might die, you know, or the property might be sold, Widow Lamb, and then those who came in might turn him out. Now I'll give you a lease of the cottage and the little garden, and the small field at the side--they call it the six acres field, though there are but five acres and two roods, and the lease shall run for your two lives. You may put in the little man's life too, if you like; and the rent shall be crown a year, Widow Lamb. I'll have it done directly. I'll write to Bacon to draw the lease this minute," and down sat Sir John Slingsby to his library table.

"I beg your pardon, Sir," said Stephen Gimlet, approaching with a respectful bow, "but I think it would be better not to give the lease just yet, though I am sure both I and Goody Lamb are very much obliged; but you recollect what that bad fellow, attorney Wharton, said about the papers being forged, and if you were to give us any thing just now, he would declare we were bribed; for he is a great rascal, Sir, as I heard this morning."

"You are right, yon are quite right, Stephen," replied Sir John Slingsby; "and Wharton is a great rascal. I am glad that Ned Hayward horsewhipped him; I dare say he did it well, for he is a capital fellow, Ned Hayward, and always liked horsewhipping a scoundrel from a boy. But what was it you overheard this morning, Stephen? I hope you were not eavesdropping, Ste. That is not right, you know."

"Not I, Sir John," answered the gamekeeper, "but I could not help hearing. I'll tell you how it all was in a minute. Yesterday morning I was coming over here with the papers which Goody Lamb gave me for Lord Lenham; but I took a bit of a stroll first, and just when I was close upon Chandleigh Heath, Captain Moreton jumped out of a hedge upon me in front, and young Harry Wittingham pinioned my arms behind, and before I could do any thing for myself, they had a rope tight round my elbows, and got me away to the lone cottage, where they shut me up in a room with bars to the windows, and kept me there all day and all last night. I did not sleep much, and I did not eat much, though the captain crammed some bread into my mouth, and gave me a pail of water, out of which I was obliged to drink like a horse; but they never untied my arms. However, I heard a good deal of going about, and a carriage-wheels, and some time after--it must have been twelve or one o'clock at night--there was a great ringing at the bell, and people talking, and I heard young Wittingham's voice, and then some one galloped away on horseback. But nobody came to let me out, and I sat and looked at the day dawning, wondering when all this would come to an end. I looked long enough, however, before I saw a living soul, though about six I heard people moving in the house. About an hour after I saw poor Billy Lamb out of the window, creeping about in the garden as if he was on the look out for something, and I put my foot to one of the panes of glass, and started it in a minute. That was signal enough for the good lad, and he ran up and put his face to the window, whispering to me to make no noise, for Captain Moreton had just come in in a gig, and had met Mr. Wharton at the door, and they were both in the drawing-room together. I was not going to stay there, however, like a rat in a trap a minute longer than needful; so as soon as I found that Bill had his knife in his pocket, I made him put his arm through the broken pane, and cut the cords round my elbows. I then got his knife to open the door, but the one I came in by was bolted as well as locked, so I couldn't get out that way. But there was another door at the side, and I forced the lock back there soon enough. That let me into the dining-room which had two doors too. Through one of them I could hear people talking loud, and the other was locked. I could not manage to open it, and though I had a great longing to go in and give Captain Moreton a good hiding, yet as they were two to one, and I was half-starved, I thought it might not turn out well, and stayed quiet where I was. Then I heard them talking, and Wharton said he could hang the captain; and I thought it very likely. But the captain said to do that would put nothing in Wharton's pocket, and he had better take his post obit, as he called it, for five thousand pounds, which would give him a chance of something, and come over with him to Winterton, and keep the lady quiet if she would go to the church. There was a good deal of dirty haggling about it, but I made out that the woman whom he called Charlotte was going to be at the wedding, and that she had a great spite at his lordship, and I guessed all about the rest from what Goody Lamb had told me. So as soon as they had gone off in the gig together, which was not more than two or three minutes after, I walked out through the drawing-room, half-scared the servant girl into fits, and came away to little Tarningham church, sending Billy Lamb up to my cottage. That is the whole story, Sir."

The old baronet commended his keeper highly, and vaticinated that attorney Wharton would be hanged some day, in which, however, he was mistaken, for that gentleman lived and prospered; and his tombstone assures the passer by that he died universally regretted and respected!

The day passed heavily at Tarningham Park, and Isabella remained all the morning in her own room. It was a very bitter cup that she had to drink; for to apprehension and disappointment was added another painful sensation. To her it was inexpressibly distressing to be made the talk of the common public, She had felt that the very announcement of her marriage in the public newspapers, the gazing crowd in the church, the spectacle and the rumour in fact which attend such events, were any thing but pleasant. But now to be the topic of conversation, the object of tales and rumours, to be pitied, commiserated, perhaps triumphed over--be even slandered, added deeply to all she suffered both on Beauchamp's account and her own. However, she made a great effort to conquer at least the natural expression of her feelings. She knew that her father, her aunt, her cousin, all felt deeply for her, and she was resolved to cause them as little pain as possible by the sight of her own. She washed away all traces of tears, she calmed her look, she strove not to think of her mortification, and at the dinner-hour she went down with a tranquil air. Her room was on the side of the house opposite to the terrace, and the principal entrance, but she had to pass the latter in her way to the drawing-room. As she did so, she saw a carriage and post-horses at the door, and as she approached the drawing-room she heard a voice loved and well-known. She darted forward and entered the room. Beauchamp and Captain Hayward were both there, as well as her father and Mary Clifford. The very effort to conquer her own feelings had exhausted her strength, and joy did what sorrow had not been able to do. Ere she had taken two steps forward she wavered, and ere Beauchamp could reach her, had fallen fainting to the ground.

CHAPTER XLII.

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."