Beauchamp; or, The Error.

by G. P. R. James

  CHAPTER XXX.

  We must go back to Stephen Gimlet's cottage and the preceding night.Beauchamp and Captain Hayward stood together by the table, when theirtwo fair visitors had left them, waiting for the return of thegamekeeper, and they both remained silent for several minutes. Thereare times, when great things just accomplished, of whatever kind, orcharacter, seem to oppress the spirit and keep it down, as it were,under a heavy weight. Nor is it altogether uninteresting to inquirewhat is the cause of this oppression--the remote, often unseen, evenindistinct cause. It is not sorrow, it is not regret; for the weightof thought seems cast upon us as often by a joyful as a sorrowfulevent; and I speak not at all of the effect of misfortune, but simplyof that which is produced upon the mind by a great deed done--great,at least, to the person who has performed it. I am inclined to think,that the sort of load which I speak of, may be traced to theconsciousness of all the vast multitude of consequences of which everyact is the source. Not the slightest thing we do that does not send athrill vibrating along the endless chains of cause and effect to theutmost limit of time through the whole grand machine of futureexistence. Man dies, but not one of his acts ever dies, eachperpetuated and prolonged for ever by interminable results, affectingsome beings in every age to come--ay, even the slightest. But thatwhich is to follow only becomes a question with man when the deed isto his own cognizance important as affecting himself and those aroundhim. The eye of God sees all; but it is merely when the consequencesare visible to our own limited ken, that we feel the strangeinvolution of our destiny with that of others, and, when what we havejust done is in its immediate results likely to affect us and those welove profoundly, that we pause to consider all the wide extent of thefuture which that act implies. Then we feel as if we had plungedheadlong into an ocean of endless waves, and the weight of the watersoppresses the heart and spirit. We ask, what next? and then, what willfollow? And in the game of chess that we are playing against Fate,look for the next move of our great adversary, and all theconsequences of that which we have ourselves just made.

  Both Beauchamp and Hayward had done an important thing that night. Thelatter had stripped himself for a friend's benefit of the treasuredresource of after-life. Never rich, he had left himself but a scantypittance which was not likely to be increased by any means but his ownpersonal exertions. From that moment, he felt that his course of lifemust be changed, that his views, his feelings, his habits, mustundergo a severe scrutiny, and be subjected to a hard discipline; thatthe careless ease, the light-hearted indifference to the morrow was atan end; that the small cares he had never yet known, the looking toshillings and to pence, and all the sordid minutia; of difficulteconomy were to be his companions for life, as inseparable from hisfootsteps as his shadow. Honest poverty may be a very fine thing incontemplation, but let its admirers understand that it is a difficultthing in practice; for honesty and poverty are like Adam and the devilin the garden, ill-suited tenants of one house, the latter of whom isalways laying out snares to reduce his companion to his own level. Ifsuch be the case where the circumstances of birth have made the evilsof poverty habitual, and given its temptations no factitiousadvantages, how much more is it so, when a knowledge of, a taste for,and a long education in ease and comfort, have both engendered a habitof expense, and rendered the restraints of poverty privations. It isthen that honesty has to struggle with a host of foes, and too often amurder and suicide are committed: honesty killing itself after anattempt to get rid of its comrade.

  But Ned Hayward was a very honest man, and his first thought was howto bear his poverty rightly. He gave not one thought to the money hehad just given away--for so he believed it to be--he would haveperformed the same act over and over again a dozen times if he had hadthe means and the motives to do so; and would each time have done itwillingly; but that did not prevent his feeling the painful situationin which he had left himself; and he contemplated with deep thoughtand stern resolution all that was to issue from the deed he had done.

  With Beauchamp, the feelings might be different, but the sources fromwhich they sprang were the same. He, too, had taken a step, which wasto influence the whole of his future life. He had said words toIsabella Slingsby, of which he felt all the import at the moment theywere spoken--which he spoke purposely, that there might be no doubt orhesitation on her mind in regard to his sensations or purposes, andyet which, as soon as they were uttered, filled him with a vaguefeeling of apprehension. Yet Beauchamp was a resolute man incharacter; and had performed acts of persisting resolution, which fewmen would have had the determination to carry through. He lovedIsabella too dearly; and had the whole world been subject to hischoice would have selected her. He was anxious, likewise, to call herhis own, for he was not without the fire of passion, and was verydifferent from those idle triflers, in whom love is a vanity lightedup by the cold _ignis fatuus_ of a volatile and fugitive desire. Buthis previous history furnished materials for doubt and alarm; and whenhe paused to contemplate all the innumerable consequences of the fewwords he had spoken, there was a mist over one part of that sea ofmany waves, and he asked himself, with awe, "What is beneath?" Thethought, however, that he was loved in return, was consolation andcourage; and though, for his part, Ned Hayward did not venture toindulge in any such sweet dream, yet the image of Mary Clifford, likethat of the Virgin in the old legend, shed a light which dispelled thedarkness along one bright path, through the obscure future, for himalso.

  The contemplations of both gentlemen, however, were speedily brokenthrough by the return of Ste Gimlet, who, turning to Mr. Beauchamp,inquired,

  "Please, Sir, what shall we do with the man locked up in the vestry?"

  "Oh, have him out," cried Ned Hayward, "and hand him over to aconstable."

  Beauchamp did not reply so quickly; but at length he said, "There maybe difficulty, Hayward, in finding a constable at this time of night;and not only difficulty, but also danger to ourselves, if we take anypart in the business. Is the place where the man is confined secure?"he continued, addressing the gamekeeper.

  "Pretty well, Sir, I think," answered Gimlet; "there are bars to thewindows, and the door is locked tight enough. Then we can lock thechurch-door too."

  "I locked it, Stephen," said Mrs. Lamb; "there hangs the key."

  "Then let him stay there the night," rejoined Beauchamp, "I willnot interfere to screen him; and Gimlet can get a constable earlyto-morrow morning, without our taking any part in the affair."

  This proposal was agreed to by Ned Hayward, though the expressionwhich his friend used, in regard to screening the offender, struck himas somewhat strange. It is wonderful, however, how often in life we dowhat is vulgarly termed, reckon without our host. The two gentlemenretired to rest in the rooms above, which had been prepared andfurnished for them in haste, since the duel with young Wittingham; andStephen Gimlet and Widow Lamb also sought repose. Early the nextmorning, however, the gamekeeper rose to seek a constable; but firsthe thought it expedient to look at the temporary prison in which hehad confined Captain Moreton. The doors, both of church and vestry,were still closed and locked; but passing round, towards his owncottage again, by a little grass-grown path, that ran under the churchwalls Ste Gimlet was surprised and confounded to perceive that threeof the bars covering the window of the vestry, had been forced out ofthe old mortar in which they had been socketed; and, jumping up on atombstone to look in, he soon saw that the bird, as he expected, hadtaken wing from its cage.

  Stephen Gimlet, notwithstanding this discovery, did not return to hiscottage at once, to communicate the intelligence to those within. Hepaused and thought; but, to say truth, it was not of the event whichhe had just ascertained that he meditated. That was done and over: theman was gone, and might never be caught again; but the words whichBeauchamp had spoken the night before had made a deeper impressionupon his mind than they had upon Ned Hayward's, and naturally, for theyoung officer had never remarked or heard any thing before, whichcould lead his fancy to perceive any connexion between his
friend andCaptain Moreton. Stephen Gimlet, on the contrary, had observed muchthat excited his imagination, and it was one of a very activecharacter. He remembered the interest which Beauchamp had displayed inthe monuments of the Moreton family; he remembered all the inquirieshe had made regarding their former property; and he did not forgeteither his mother-in-law's ancient connexion with one of the membersof that house, or the somewhat mysterious expressions she had used inregard to Beauchamp himself. It was a tangled skein, difficult tounravel, but yet he resolved to unravel it; not exactly fromcuriosity, though curiosity might have some share therein, but ratherbecause, in his wild fancy, he dreamed that the knowledge which GoodyLamb possessed of his guest's previous history, might afford him somemeans of serving a man he looked upon as his benefactor. He waspeculiarly susceptible of kindness or unkindness, of gratitude or itsreverse, resentment, and he thought that it would be a happy day forhim if he could ever return to Mr. Beauchamp, even in a small degree,the kindness he had received. He pondered upon these things for fullfive minutes, and then returned to his cottage, where he found the oldlady in the inner room, making the little boy repeat a short prayer athis bedside, after having washed and dressed him. It was a sweet andwholesome sight to the father. He contrasted it with former days, andhe felt the balmy influence of honest peace pour over his heart. Oneof the first rewards of a return to virtue from any of man's manydeviations, is an appreciation of its excellence. He stood and gazed,and listened, well satisfied, while the words of holy prayer rose upfrom the sweet tongue of his own child; and if the boy had prayed forhis father's confirmation in his return to right, the petition couldnot have been more fully granted.

  When it was done, Ste Gimlet kissed the child and sent him out to playin the little garden. Then, shaking hands with Widow Lamb, he said,

  "I wanted to ask you a question or two, goody. Do you know who the manis that I locked into the vestry last night?"

  "To be sure I do," answered the widow; "do you think, Stephen, I couldforget one I have seen in such times and known in such acts as thatman? No, no; I shall remember him to my dying day."

  "Well, then," replied her son-in-law, "I want you to tell me, goody,what there is between him and Mr. Beauchamp; for the man has got outand is off, and I have great doubts that he is Mr. Beauchamp'sfriend."

  "I had better hold my tongue, Stephen," said the old woman; "I hadbetter hold my tongue, at least till I see and understand more. Onething at least I may say, and say truly, that the bitterest enemy everMr. Beauchamp had was that Captain Moreton."

  "Do you think, Widow Lamb," asked the gamekeeper, in a low, sterntone, "that he has any cause to wish Mr. Beauchamp dead?"

  The old woman started, and gazed at him, demanding,

  "What makes you ask that?"

  "I'll tell you, widow," replied the man. "Have you not heard of a shotfired into Sir John Slingsby's dining-room? Well, that shot wentwithin a few inches of Mr. Beauchamp's head, and that is the man whofired it."

  The old woman sank down on the stool by the bedside, and clasped herhands together, exclaiming,

  "Is it come to that! Ay, I thought it would, sooner or later. He couldnot stop--no, no, he could not stop!"

  She paused for a moment, and rocked herself backwards and forwardsupon the seat, with a pained and bewildered look.

  "I see how it is, goody," said Gimlet; "and now I'll tell you. Thatfellow shan't get off. I'll never give it up till I've caught him.I'll track him, like a hare, to his form, and he shall be punished.Mr. Beauchamp has been kind to me--one of the first that ever were;and I'll not forget kindness, though I'll try to forget unkindness."

  "Take care what you are about, Stephen," answered his mother-in-law,"or you may do harm instead of good. Watch him, if you will, toprevent mischief; and above all, let me know every thing that you seeand hear. I will talk with Mr. Beauchamp, as you call him, this veryday. I wonder if the woman is living!"

  "There was one woman with him, at all events," answered StephenGimlet, "when he was down here last."

  "Ah! what was she like?" inquired Widow Lamb, eagerly; "what was shelike?"

  "I only saw her for a minute," replied the gamekeeper, "but she seemeda fine handsome lady as one could wish to see--somewhat reddish in theface; but with fine, dark eyes, and mighty gaily dressed. She wastall, too, for a woman."

  "Yes, her eyes were dark enough," said Widow Lamb, "and she was alwaysfond of fine clothes--that was her ruin; but red in the face!--that isstrange; she had the finest and the fairest skin I ever saw."

  "Well, the redness might come from drink," said Ste Gimlet, "for sheseemed to me half drunk then. He called her Charlotte, I recollect."

  "Ay, that's her name," exclaimed the widow; "and so they have cometogether again? It is for no good, I will answer; for two bolder orworse spirits never met to plot mischief."

  "You had better tell me all about it, goody," said Stephen Gimlet; "dosomething to that fellow I will, and it's bad to work in the dark."

  "Not till I have spoken to the gentleman upstairs," said the oldwoman. "Watch the man, Stephen: find out where he is, what he isdoing, all about him, and about her too; but do not meddle with himyet. Hark! they are coming down. You go away, and I will talk with himthis very day."

  "I must tell them he has got out, before I go," answered thegamekeeper, going into the other room, and bolting the outer door, toguard against intrusion while the two lodgers were below.

  No one, however, appeared but Beauchamp, whose first words were,

  "I wish, Stephen, you would send some one down to Tarningham, to tellMr. Slattery to come up. Captain Hayward is not so well this morning,and says he has not slept all night."

  "I will go myself, Sir," said Gimlet; "but I just wanted to tell youthat Captain Moreton has got out during the night. He has wrenched outthree of the bars of the window, and is off."

  Beauchamp mused.

  "Well, it does not much matter," he said, at length; "but you hadbetter inform Doctor Miles of what you saw in the church, and let himtake whatever steps he may think necessary to insure that no fraud hasbeen committed. I can have nothing to do with the affair. Bring up Mr.Slattery as soon as you can, for I am somewhat anxious about CaptainHayward's state this morning."

  Gimlet did not reply. He uttered no expression of sorrow or ofsympathy; but yet he felt as much grieved and alarmed as if NedHayward had been his brother; and his countenance showed it though hiswords did not.

  As soon as he was gone, Mr. Beauchamp was turning to go upstairsagain; but Widow Lamb at the moment came out of the inner room, andstopped him, saying,

  "I wish to speak a word or two to you, Sir."

  "Well, my good lady," answered Beauchamp, with a smile; "can I do anything to serve you?"

  "No, Sir," replied the old woman, "it is not that. But I see you donot recollect me--and, indeed, how should you! It is a long time sincewe first met."

  Beauchamp gazed at her for a moment in silence, and then said,

  "I think I do remember having seen you somewhere before I met youhere. Your face struck me as familiar to my recollection when first Isaw you; but I cannot remember where I saw it long ago. Were you everin India?"

  "Oh! no, my lord, it was not there," answered Widow Lamb; "when firstI saw you, you were quite a young gentleman; the Honourable CharlesSt. Leger, they called you; and you had come down with CaptainMoreton, your cousin, to shoot on the grounds of his great-aunt, MissMoreton."

  Beauchamp's face turned somewhat pale, and his fine broad browcontracted; but he did not speak, and the old woman continued,

  "Do you not recollect, my lord, Davie Lamb the grieve, as they calledhim, and your coming down with a gay party to the grieve's house, oneday? It was the eleventh of August, twelve years ago this summer; andthe lady was with you, Miss Charlotte Hay, as they called her--"

  "Hush! hush!" cried Beauchamp, almost fiercely; "do not mention hername in my hearing. You do not know--you do not know, good woman--"

  "Oh yes, my lord, I
do," answered Widow Lamb; "I know more than youthink--more than you know, perhaps, yourself. I can tell you manythings about her."

  "Tell me nothing," said Beauchamp, sternly; "you can say nothing ofher conduct, infamous and bad, that I do not know or do not guess. Iwish never to hear her name again;" and he turned once more towardsthe stairs.

  "Well, I beg your pardon, my lord," said Widow Lamb, with adisappointed look, "I did not mean to vex you, but if ever you shouldwish to hear more, I can tell you better than any one; for there isnobody now living knows so much as I do, and I think--"

  The conclusion of her sentence was wanting, for some one opened thecottage door, which had not been bolted since Stephen Gimlet had goneout. The next moment, the head of Mr. Slattery appeared, and enteringwith an insinuating smile, the worthy surgeon saluted Beauchampreverentially, saying,

  "I met my good friend Wolf, Mr. Beauchamp, and was sorry to hear thatCaptain Hayward is not so well. But I have got good news for him, andyou too. No more need of playing at bo-peep. I found Mr. Wittingham somuch better this morning, that I have ventured publicly to pronouncehim out of danger."

  "Thank God for that!" said Beauchamp; "but we had better go up and seeHayward, who seems to me somewhat feverish."

  "I am afraid there is a bit of the wadding, or the coat, or somethingstill in the wound," said Mr. Slattery, following upstairs, "but thereis no cause for alarm. It may produce inconvenience and someinflammation; but nature, my dear Sir, by the very same process whichproduces pain and irritation to the patient, often expels anyextraneous substance, which, if it remained, might cause more seriousresults."

  Mr. Slattery remained at least an hour and a half; and to say thetruth, during that time he put our good friend Ned Hayward to sometorture, but in the end, he succeeded in extracting from the woundwhich that gentleman had received, a portion of his waistcoat, whichhad been carried in by the ball in its passage. Some hemorrhagefollowed, which was stopped with difficulty; but at length the goodsurgeon took his leave, and descended with Beauchamp to the lowerroom.

  Widow Lamb, however, met them at the foot of the stairs, saying, in alow tone,

  "There is a servant on horseback, from the Park, Sir, just now beforethe door. He has got a note, which he will give to no one but you; andI did not know what to do."

  "There is no necessity for any further concealment," said Beauchamp,advancing to the door; "you have got a note for me," he continued,speaking to the servant, who touched his hat, and delivered a smallbillet.

  Beauchamp tore it open, and read, while good Mr. Slattery pausedbeside him, in the hope of hearing some news; for, as we have shown,he was not without a laudable portion of curiosity.

  "I must go over directly," said Beauchamp, for that note placed beforehis eyes a very unpleasant state of affairs at Tarningham Park--amortgage foreclosed, an execution placed in the house, and Sir JohnSlingsby himself arrested on a heavy bond debt, for long arrears ofinterest, and interest upon interest, and lawyers' costs. Isabellawrote in a tone of despair; and yet there was a something shiningthrough all her gloomy words--a trust, a confidence in him to whomthose words were written, which were very pleasing to him.

  "Can I drive you over in my gig, Mr. Beauchamp?" said Mr. Slattery.

  "No, I thank you," replied the other; "I dare say, my good fellow, youwill not object to let me mount your horse?" he continued, addressingthe servant, "I must get over to the Park as speedily as possible."

  Under ordinary circumstances, perhaps, the man might have objected;but the events which had just happened at his master's house, were, bythe time he set out, known from the housekeeper's room to the pigsty,and had excited amongst the servants too strong a feeling of dismayand distress, for him to hesitate when there was a chance of affordingaid, or even consolation, to Sir John Slingsby and his daughter. Heinstantly acceded, then, and lengthened the stirrups. Beauchamp onlystayed to get his hat and speak a few words to Ned Hayward, thensprang into the saddle, and the next moment was going straight acrossthe country towards Tarningham Park.