CHAPTER XLI.
"Come into the vestry," said Dr. Miles, in a low tone to Beauchamp,"you have many things, my lord, to consider; and we have here the eyesof a multitude upon us, the ears of a multitude around us."
"You had better go back to the park," said Sir John Slingsby, who hadoverheard the good old rector's words, "there we can talk the matterover at leisure."
"The register must first be signed," said Dr. Miles, gravely, "forwhatever be the result, the ceremony has been fully performed--come,my lord. The circumstances are, undoubtedly, very painful; but itseems to me they might have been much worse."
With slow steps and sad hearts the whole party followed; Isabella,pale as death, looking down upon the ground, and Beauchamp with hislip quivering and his brow contracted, but his step firm and regular,as if the very intensity of his feelings had, after the first moment,restored him all his energies. As they passed through the vestry-doorIsabella raised her eyes for an instant to his, and saw the deepdejection which was written on his countenance. She touched his armgently to call his attention, and said, as he bent down his head,
"Do not be so sad, you have nothing to reproach yourself with."
"That is some consolation, dear girl," replied Beauchamp, in a lowvoice, "but still I must be sad. How can it be otherwise, when I haveto part with you for a time even at the very moment I call you myown?"
Isabella did not reply, but her cheek varied, first glowing warmly,then becoming deadly pale again.
"Where is Ned Hayward?" exclaimed Sir John Slingsby, looking round,"where the devil have you been, Ned?" he continued, seeing his youngfriend coming in at the vestry-door.
"I have been horsewhipping Wharton," answered Ned Hayward, in anindifferent tone; "but now, Lenham, what are you going to do in thisbusiness?"
"To go to London directly," answered Beauchamp, "and bring this matterto an issue at once."
"Pooh, the woman is not married to you at all!" cried Sir JohnSlingsby, "the whole thing is a farce; still I think you are right."
"I am quite sure you are," said Ned Hayward, "and I will go with you,if you will let me, Lenham. But first we must talk with good WidowLamb; examine these papers of hers accurately; ascertain exactly allthe circumstances and be prepared with every sort of evidence andinformation. Cheer up, cheer up, my dear lord. Honour andstraightforward dealing always set these things right at last. Shall Icall in the old woman? she is standing out there by the vestry-door."
"By all means," said Dr. Miles, "it may be as well to make all theseinquiries here, and determine at once what is to be done. The crowd ofgaping idlers from Tarningham will disperse in the meantime--sit downhere, Isabella, and be firm, my child, God does not desert those whotrust and serve him."
While he was speaking, Ned Hayward had beckoned Widow Lamb and StephenGimlet into the vestry, and Dr. Miles, taking the papers from the oldwoman's hands, examined them carefully.
"The very appearance of these documents," he said, at length, "putsthe idea of forgery, or at least, recent forgery, quite out of thequestion. No art could give all the marks of age which they present.But we can have another and a better assurance, I believe, than themere look of the papers--"
"But what are they, what are they, doctor?" asked Sir John Slingsby,"I have not yet heard the exact import of either."
Isabella moved nearer to the clergyman while he explained, and allother eyes were fixed eagerly upon him.
"This first and most important document," he said, "purports to bewhat is called in Scotland the marriage lines of Archibald Graham,student in divinity, and Charlotte Hay, the daughter of Thomas Hay, ofGreen-bank, deceased, within the precincts of Holyrood--which means, Isuppose, that he died in debt. The paper--I have seen such before--istantamount to a marriage-certificate in England. The marriage appearsto have been celebrated in one of the parishes of Edinburgh, and Ihave lately had cause to know that very accurate registers are kept inthat city, so that the authenticity of the document can be ascertainedbeyond all doubt."
"But the date, the date?" cried Beauchamp.
"The date is the 4th February, 18--," said Dr. Miles, "just thirteenyears ago last February."
"Nearly two years before the execution of their villanous schemeagainst me," said the young nobleman; "so far, at least, all issatisfactory, but what is the other paper?"
"Hardly less important," replied Dr. Miles, whose eye had been runningover the contents while he conversed, "but it will require someexplanation. I would read it aloud, but that some of the terms aremore plain and straightforward than ladies' ears are accustomed tohear. It is signed Archibald Graham, however, dated five years ago,and addressed to David Lamb, who died in Tarningham some two yearsback. He speaks of his wife Charlotte, and tells his cousin that hehears she is still living in adultery with Captain Moreton. He saysthat as her seducer's property is somewhere in this neighbourhood sheis most likely not far distant, and begs David Lamb to seek her out,and beseech her, upon Christian principles, to quit her abandonedcourse of life. The good man--and he seems a really good man--saysfurther, that although he can never receive or see her again, he isready to share his small stipend with her in order that she may not bedriven by poverty to a continuance in vice; but he seems to have beenignorant of her pretended marriage with Lord Lenham--at least, hemakes no allusion to it."
"That was because he never knew it, Sir," said Widow Lamb; "I begpardon for speaking, but the way it all happened was this. Old Mr. Hayhad spent all he had and had taken to Holyrood to avoid his creditors.Archy Graham, who was then studying divinity in Edinburgh, had beenborn not far from Green-bank, and finding out Mr. Hay, was very kindto him and his daughter. Though he was not very rich himself--for hewas only the son of a farmer well to do--he often gave the old lairdand the young lady a dinner when they could have got one nowhere else,and when Mr. Hay was taken ill and dying, he was with him every daycomforting him. He paid the doctors, and found them food and everything. When the old man died the young lady was left without any meansof support. At first she thought of teaching, for she had learned allkinds of things in other times, but people were not very fond of her,for she had always been too gay for the Scotch folks, and there wassomething flighty in her way that was not liked. It was need, not loveor gratitude either, I believe, that made her marry poor Archy Graham.Soon after he got the parish of Blackford, and went there to have themanse ready, leaving his wife in Edinburgh. He was only gone sixweeks, but he never saw her again, for when he came back to take herto her new home, he found that she had been receiving the visits of avery gay gentleman for some time, and had, in the end, gone away withhim in a ph?ton about a week before he arrived. Eight or nine monthsafter that a gay young lady came to stay on a visit at old MissMoreton's, with whom my poor husband David Lamb was greeve, or whatyou call steward in England. I had gone down with her as her maid, andhad married the steward about eight years before, for my poor girlMary was then about seven years old. We saw this Miss Hay, as shecalled herself, very often, but never thought she was the runaway wifeof my husband's cousin. Indeed, we knew little of the story till longafter. Captain Moreton was generally at his aunt's house, though heoften went away to England, and we all said he was going to marry thepretty young lady, if they were not married already, as some thought.But then he brought down his cousin Mr. St. Leger with him, and soonafter we heard of the marriage by consent when Mr. St. Leger had dranktoo much, and about his going away in haste to England, and we allsaid that it was a great shame, though we did not know it was as badas it was. About four months after old Miss Moreton died, and one daythe captain came down in great haste to my husband and told him a longstory about his being on the point of selling the property; but thathe would take good care, he said, that David Lamb should not be out ofemployment, for his father, the Honourable Mr. Moreton, would take himas steward if he would go up to Turningham directly. My husband saidit would be better for him to stay on the ground till Miss Moreton'sestate was sold, but the captain seemed in a great hurry
to get usoff, for he said that his father was very anxious to have a Scotchbailiff as they farmed so well, and he promised all kinds of things,so that what with one persuasion or another we were away in a week toEdinburgh, to take ship there for England. There we met with ArchyGraham, who afterwards came to visit us, and he and my husband had along talk about his unfortunate marriage, all of which I heardafterwards; but David Lamb was a man of very few words, and he did notmention to his cousin any thing about our having seen his wife at oldMiss Moreton's, though it seems the minister was even then going downthere to try and separate her from Captain Moreton, for he had foundby that time who it was that took her away, and it was because he hadwritten, several letters to the gentleman, and threatened to comehimself directly, that the captain was in such a hurry to get us awayto England."
"I do not understand why your husband did not tell the whole truth,"said Dr. Miles, gravely, "it might have saved great mischief, Mrs.Lamb."
"I know that, Sir," replied the widow, "but there are greatdifferences in the way men think of such things. I asked my husbandafterwards why he did not mention all about the marriage with Mr. St.Leger, but he said he wanted to hear more about it before he openedhis mouth to any one; that he was not sure they had set up this lawmarriage as a real marriage at all; and that it might be only a sortof joke, so that if he spoke he might do more mischief than wasalready done. I knew him to be a very prudent, thoughtful man, verysparing, too, of his words, and it was not for me to blame or opposehim."
"Very true, Mrs. Lamb, very true," said Dr. Miles.
"Well, your reverence," continued the widow, "he did try to hear moreof the business as soon as he had time to think of any thing buthimself and his own affairs; for, poor man, when he came here he foundthat old Mr. Moreton had no occasion for a bailiff at all; and knewnothing at all about him. We were going back to Scotland, again, afterhaving spent a mint of money in coming up to London and then downhere; but my husband fell ill of rheumatic fever, and for six monthswas confined nearly to his bed. All--or almost all that we had savedwas gone, and we had to try for a livelihood here as we best could. Wedid better than might have been expected for some time, and David mademany inquiries in regard to his cousin's wife and her second marriagewith Mr. St. Leger; but he only heard that the young gentleman wastravelling, and that they had certainly never lived together. Thencame the letter from Archy Graham; and my husband, whose health wasfailing, consulted me about it, and I said, that at all events, it wasa pity Mr. St. Leger or Lord Lenham, as he was by that time, shouldnot know all the truth, for no one could tell how needful it might befor him to prove that he was never really married to Charlotte Hay,and David wrote back to his cousin, asking him to send him up proofsof his marriage with the lady. So that brought up the marriage lines,and I have kept them and the first letter ever since my husband'sdeath."
"And is Archibald Graham still living?" asked Beauchamp, who had beenlistening with painful attention.
"He was living not two years ago," answered Widow Lamb; "for he wroteto me at the time of my husband's death, and sent me up ten pounds tohelp me. Poor David had not neglected what he thought of doing, whenhe asked for the proofs; but we could hear nothing of you, my lord.You had been very kind to my poor boy, and I always put my husband inmind of the business, so that he wrote to you once, I know, sayingthat he had important information for you if you could come toTarningham."
"I recollect," said Lord Lenham, "such a letter followed me intoItaly; but I did not recollect the name, and thought it but a trick ofthat unhappy woman."
"Well, my lord, the case seems very clear," said Doctor Miles; "butyour immediate conduct in this business may require someconsideration. Perhaps we had better all go up to the park and talkthe matter over with Sir John at leisure."
"No, my dear Sir," answered Beauchamp in a firm tone, "my conduct isalready decided. If you please, we will just walk to your house for afew minutes, I dare say all the people are gone by this time. Come,Isabella, there will be peace for us yet, dear one;" and he gave hisarm to his bride, who drew down her veil to hide the tears that werein her eyes.
All the party moved forward but Sir John Slingsby, who lingered for amoment, and laid his hand kindly upon the widow's arm. "You are a goodwoman, Mrs. Lamb," said the old baronet, "a very good woman; and I ammuch obliged to you. Go up to the park, Mrs. Lamb, and take the littleboy with you. I'll come up and talk to you by-and-by; but mind youtell the housekeeper to take good care of the little man, and give hima hunch of bride-cake. I don't think there will be much eaten in thehouse by any one else. You go up too, Ste, and wait till I come."
When Sir John followed to the rectory, which was somewhat slowly, hefound the rest of the party in the rector's drawing-room. Now thehouse was built upon a plan not uncommon, and very convenient forstudious bachelors like Dr. Miles. The drawing-room on the right sideof the entrance hall opened by folding doors into a library, whichformed a right angle with it running along the back front of thehouse--for houses have contradictions as well as human beings, and Imay add many a man has a back front to his character as well as many ahouse. The library occupied one-half of that side, the dining-room theother half; the offices all the left of the entrance hall and thestaircase the centre.
Beauchamp, at the moment of the baronet's entrance, was speaking toDr. Miles and Ned Hayward in the bay window, Isabella was seated atsome distance, with her hand in her aunt's, and Mary Clifford wasleaning tenderly over her. But the position of all parties was soonchanged.
"The sooner the better, then," said Dr. Miles, in answer to somethingBeauchamp had said, and turning away, the young nobleman approachedIsabella, and took her hand, saying, "Speak with me one moment, love."
Isabella rose, and her husband led her into the library, and thence tothe dinning-room, leaving the doors open behind him. "DearestIsabella," he said, "forgive me for all the terrible pain I havecaused you--but you know it was that I was deceived, and that for theworld I would not have inflicted such distress upon youintentionally."
"Oh, I know it, I know it," said the poor girl, her tears flowingfast.
"But out of evil springs good, dear Isabel," continued Beauchamp, "bythis day's misery and anxiety, I trust we have purchased peace andhappiness for the future. Yet for me, my beloved, remains one morepainful effort. Till the decision of the law is pronounced upon allthe circumstances of this case, I must leave you, dear girl. Nohappiness that your society can give me must induce me to place you ina doubtful position. I must leave you, then, my dear Isabella, mybride, my wife, even here almost at the steps of the altar; but I goto remove every obstacle to our permanent reunion, and I trust in avery few weeks to clasp you to my heart again, mine beyond alldoubt--mine for ever. I knew not, dear girl--I hardly knew till now,how dearly, how passionately, I loved you, but I find from thedifficulty of parting with you, from the agony of this moment, what itis to love with the whole heart. That very love, however, requires meto go. Therefore, for a short, a very short, time, farewell, my love;"and he threw his arms around her, and pressed one kiss upon her lips.
"Oh, do not go, do not go yet," said Isabella, clinging to him. "Oh, Iwas so happy this morning, Henry, I felt quite oppressed with it. I amsure there is a dizziness of the heart as well as of the brain--butnow I shall go home and weep all day!"
"Nay, do not do that, dear girl," said Beauchamp, "for our parting isbut for a short time, beloved. Every one judges that I am right ingoing. Do not let me think my Isabella thinks otherwise, do not rendermore bitter what is bitter enough already, by a knowledge that you aresuffering more than is needful. Cheer thee, my Isabella, cheer thee,and do not give way to grief and apprehension, when our fate islightened of half of its weight, by the certainty, the positivecertainty, that there is no serious barrier between us."
"I will try," said Isabella, "I will try; and I believe you are right,but still this is all very sad," and the tears poured down her faceafresh.
When Beauchamp came forth, however, Isabella came
with him, and wascalmer; but she would not trust herself to speak till he was gone. Theparting was then soon over. Ned Hayward, called up the carriage, gavesome directions regarding his own baggage to Sir John Slingsby'sservants, and bade farewell to Mary Clifford and the rest. Beauchamponce more pressed Isabella's hand in his, and hurrying out sprang intohis carriage, Ned Hayward followed, and one of the post-boys,approaching the side after a servant had shut the door, touched hishat, and asked, "Will you go by Winterton or Buxton's inn, my lord?"
"By Winterton," answered Beauchamp, mechanically, and in anotherminute the carriage was rolling on.
For about twenty minutes Sir John Slingsby remained talking with Dr.Miles, and then the party which had set out from Tarningham Park, sohappy and so gay, not two hours before, returned sad and desolate.Even the old baronet's good spirits failed him, but his good humourdid not; and while Isabella retired with Mary to her own room, hecalled Widow Lamb and Stephen Gimlet into his library, after havingassured himself that the little boy was taken good care of by thehousekeeper, he repeated his sage commendation of the old woman'sconduct, 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 Iam not so rich as I could wish to be just now; but I can tell you whatI can do, and what I will do, Widow Lamb. Stephen, here, has hiscottage as keeper. It is a part of his wages at present; but I mightdie, you know, or the property might be sold, Widow Lamb, and thenthose who came in might turn him out. Now I'll give you a lease of thecottage and the little garden, and the small field at the side--theycall it the six acres field, though there are but five acres and tworoods, and the lease shall run for your two lives. You may put in thelittle man's life too, if you like; and the rent shall be crown ayear, Widow Lamb. I'll have it done directly. I'll write to Bacon todraw the lease this minute," and down sat Sir John Slingsby to hislibrary table.
"I beg your pardon, Sir," said Stephen Gimlet, approaching with arespectful bow, "but I think it would be better not to give the leasejust yet, though I am sure both I and Goody Lamb are very muchobliged; but you recollect what that bad fellow, attorney Wharton,said about the papers being forged, and if you were to give us anything just now, he would declare we were bribed; for he is a greatrascal, Sir, as I heard this morning."
"You are right, yon are quite right, Stephen," replied Sir JohnSlingsby; "and Wharton is a great rascal. I am glad that Ned Haywardhorsewhipped him; I dare say he did it well, for he is a capitalfellow, Ned Hayward, and always liked horsewhipping a scoundrel from aboy. But what was it you overheard this morning, Stephen? I hope youwere not eavesdropping, Ste. That is not right, you know."
"Not I, Sir John," answered the gamekeeper, "but I could not helphearing. I'll tell you how it all was in a minute. Yesterday morning Iwas coming over here with the papers which Goody Lamb gave me for LordLenham; but I took a bit of a stroll first, and just when I was closeupon Chandleigh Heath, Captain Moreton jumped out of a hedge upon mein front, and young Harry Wittingham pinioned my arms behind, andbefore I could do any thing for myself, they had a rope tight round myelbows, and got me away to the lone cottage, where they shut me up ina room with bars to the windows, and kept me there all day and alllast night. I did not sleep much, and I did not eat much, though thecaptain 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 neveruntied my arms. However, I heard a good deal of going about, and acarriage-wheels, and some time after--it must have been twelve or oneo'clock at night--there was a great ringing at the bell, and peopletalking, and I heard young Wittingham's voice, and then some onegalloped away on horseback. But nobody came to let me out, and I satand looked at the day dawning, wondering when all this would come toan end. I looked long enough, however, before I saw a living soul,though about six I heard people moving in the house. About an hourafter I saw poor Billy Lamb out of the window, creeping about in thegarden as if he was on the look out for something, and I put my footto one of the panes of glass, and started it in a minute. That wassignal enough for the good lad, and he ran up and put his face to thewindow, whispering to me to make no noise, for Captain Moreton hadjust come in in a gig, and had met Mr. Wharton at the door, and theywere 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 soonas I found that Bill had his knife in his pocket, I made him put hisarm through the broken pane, and cut the cords round my elbows. I thengot his knife to open the door, but the one I came in by was bolted aswell as locked, so I couldn't get out that way. But there was anotherdoor at the side, and I forced the lock back there soon enough. Thatlet me into the dining-room which had two doors too. Through one ofthem I could hear people talking loud, and the other was locked. Icould not manage to open it, and though I had a great longing to go inand 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, andstayed quiet where I was. Then I heard them talking, and Wharton saidhe could hang the captain; and I thought it very likely. But thecaptain said to do that would put nothing in Wharton's pocket, and hehad better take his _post obit_, as he called it, for five thousandpounds, which would give him a chance of something, and come over withhim to Winterton, and keep the lady quiet if she would go to thechurch. There was a good deal of dirty haggling about it, but I madeout that the woman whom he called Charlotte was going to be at thewedding, and that she had a great spite at his lordship, and I guessedall about the rest from what Goody Lamb had told me. So as soon asthey had gone off in the gig together, which was not more than two orthree minutes after, I walked out through the drawing-room,half-scared the servant girl into fits, and came away to littleTarningham church, sending Billy Lamb up to my cottage. That is thewhole story, Sir."
The old baronet commended his keeper highly, and vaticinated thatattorney Wharton would be hanged some day, in which, however, he wasmistaken, for that gentleman lived and prospered; and his tombstoneassures the passer by that he died universally regretted andrespected!
The day passed heavily at Tarningham Park, and Isabella remained allthe morning in her own room. It was a very bitter cup that she had todrink; for to apprehension and disappointment was added anotherpainful sensation. To her it was inexpressibly distressing to be madethe talk of the common public, She had felt that the very announcementof her marriage in the public newspapers, the gazing crowd in thechurch, 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, perhapstriumphed over--be even slandered, added deeply to all she sufferedboth on Beauchamp's account and her own. However, she made a greateffort to conquer at least the natural expression of her feelings. Sheknew 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 thesight of her own. She washed away all traces of tears, she calmed herlook, she strove not to think of her mortification, and at thedinner-hour she went down with a tranquil air. Her room was on theside 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 shedid so, she saw a carriage and post-horses at the door, and as sheapproached the drawing-room she heard a voice loved and well-known.She darted forward and entered the room. Beauchamp and Captain Haywardwere both there, as well as her father and Mary Clifford. The veryeffort to conquer her own feelings had exhausted her strength, and joydid what sorrow had not been able to do. Ere she had taken two stepsforward she wavered, and ere Beauchamp could reach her, had fallenfainting to the ground.
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