Sir Henry, however, was gone!—The moment he left the letter, he sprang into a boat which was putting off for the shore; nor with the strictest search and inquiry could they trace the way he had taken. For three days the Captain experienced the torture of suspense, when he received intelligence, that the corpse of a youth, answering the description of Sir Henry, had been washed on shore about two miles from Lowestoff. Alarmed by this account, he went to the cottage where it had been conveyed, accompanied by his nephew and Mr. Talton; and where their fears were fully confirmed, by the people producing the clothes, and a watch the Captain had himself presented to the unfortunate Sir Henry: who, they informed him, had that morning been interred.
A tear fell on the cheek of the Captain as he resigned the hope so lately raised, of hearing of—and seeing his Ellenor; accompanied by one for the unhappy fate of his favourite St. Ledger: nor did the severity of Mr. Talton refuse the tribute of a sigh: the faults of Sir Henry sunk beneath the sod which encircled him, and left to his remembrance only the youth he regarded for the sake of his mother.
With his mind deeply depressed, the Captain returned on board; long had he experienced unhappiness, but the events of the last week had struck the shaft still deeper in his heart; nor could the friendship of Mr. Talton, or the affection of Frederick, preserve him from a corroding melancholy.
The death of Sir Henry, as St. Ledger, was universally regretted; even the obdurate Harland, for a moment, forgot his enmity, and expressed a sentiment of pity; whilst the generous Frederick, who had regarded him with fraternal friendship, paid that tribute to his memory his merits demanded; and whilst he dwelt with praises on the name of his friend, the faltering accent and half-suppressed sigh evinced the sincerity of his grief for his loss.
Mr. Talton finding the impracticability of his endeavours to alleviate the sorrow of the Captain, took his leave, and set out for London, to acquaint Lady Corbet with the death of her son: as, however disagreeable the task, he rather chose to inform her himself, than hazard an abrupt disclosure from an uninterested person, or even by epistolary communication.
The Captain felt relieved at his departure, as he wished to visit the grave of Sir Henry, but was unwilling to betray the weakness of his heart, even to his friend. The ensuing morning, therefore, he went on shore, and, unattended, pursued his way to the church-yard; where a simple flag of fragrant turf marked the spot where the remains of the unfortunate youth were laid.
"Humble indeed is thy bed of rest, my poor St. Ledger," he exclaimed: "by far too humble for the virtues which I am certain were the real possessors of thy breast!—In thee my Ellenor has lost the friend she too, perhaps, fondly hoped, would one day have restored her to the arms of her Edward. With thee rested the knowledge of her retreat; and with thee—it may have perished!"
The idea was too much: he sank on his knee by the grave—to Heaven his heart was open.
"Oh God!" he cried, "immutable are thy decrees, nor can the proudest knowledge of man explore the mystery of thy ways! Greatly against thee have I offended, and just is the punishment thou hast inflicted: yet still let mercy blend with thy power, nor crush the head thou hast deigned to rear from the dust! Mine was the guilt; on me let thy vengeance fall: but spare my Ellenor the anguish which swells my heart; and if thy justice prohibit more, let me at least prove (however late the date) a friend to her I deceived, a parent to the offspring of our love!"
He bowed his head on his knee, and for some minutes continued in mental supplication; till a sigh, responsive to that which burst from his own bosom, aroused him, and, on raising his head, he beheld his nephew within a few paces of the grave.